Transmaniacon (20 page)

“Make his feeter kiss earther!”

“Make him dancer on the earther!”

“And now?” Kibo asked Ben, shouting over the noise.

“And now…” He took a deep breath. It was too hot. “I don't know. I can't get
to
him. There're even more people here. What are they going to do!” Ben regretted calling in the terrorists, now. They'd infiltrated, encouraged others to join the melee, circulating and swelling the mob. Currents from every street fed into the square. Suddenly an idea struck him: Since the mob currents came from opposite directions, he might be able to direct them against one another, and that in the new tussle they would forget Regnor.

Even as he decided to try it, he knew the outcome and wished he could stop.

He was swept away in the mob exultation, and already he was tranced and projecting. The exciter was alive in his chest, metallic, immaculate, pulsing.

The riot exploded.

They were not a colorful bunch at first. They dressed mostly alike; the same rough dark weaves in the ancient business-suit style. In the heat and pressure Ben was tormented by his own scratchy pedestrian suit.

Everywhere, the same pasty, round, angry faces. A lake of them boiling up as the word got around: A patriarch fallen from the currents!

Ben applied heat. They steamed, boiled—at first they were dark bodies, swarms of shouting mouths and bobbing heads, all so crowded together they blended into one monochromatic creature. At first. Then, the blood added color. It was patriarch blood, raining from the sky, as they tore Regnor into shreds and tossed those shreds into the air over their heads, anointing themselves with the blood of patriarch pedigree. Breathable air was scarce in the thick of the riot. Many fainted. The crowd pressed still closer, straining for the blood.

Ben had been careless with the dissemination of the mania transfer and some of it had affected Kibo. Infuriated, trained to be lethal, Kibo lashed out at the clawing arms, at the flailing fists, at the wild, flashing eyes that seemed to come at him, not in pairs, but as an endless sea of roiling hatred. Kibo pulped noses, broke bones, gouged eyes until a path opened and, pressing through it, first he then Ben broke free from the crush and stumbled out of the square.

Ben tasted salt and felt a thick wetness on his tongue, and realized his nose was bleeding. But he barely noticed; he was surveying the carnage. He had failed, in one way. But he had to make the best of it. He turned to Kibo and whispered terse instructions. Kibo, calmed now, spoke into his communicator. Soon, the Brothers of Proteus, infiltrating the mob, were shouting and chanting:
“Progressivists! Progressivists! Progressivists!”

The crowd, with nowhere to turn their fury but on each other, picked up the chant as a meaningless but satisfactory slogan: “PROGRESSIVISTPROGRESSIVISTPROGRESSIVIST.”

Kibo and Ben turned away, walking stiffly, their muscles aching, back to the rooftop where waited their nulgrav car. The Progressives' would be blamed for the riot, and that was well. But they had lost Regnor. And something more.

“I lost something more than. Regnor there,” Ben murmured.

Gloria was massaging Ben's back in the sultry midnight darkness on the balcony. Ben lay nude with his chin propped on his crossed arms, gazing out through the marble-like balustrade at the muted lights of the sleeping city. Few lights, tonight, with the new curfew. Security was out in full. It had been the first full-scale riot in a generation.

Humming, Gloria began to knead his neck.

For such bony-looking fingers, Ben reflected, Gloria's touch was remarkably soft.

“Well?” said Gloria, with a mockery more pronounced than usual. “I'm waiting for the big announcement. What else did you lose besides Regnor?”

“Control.” It hurt to admit it aloud. For a Professional Irritant it was the ultimate demeaning admission. “Maybe it was an occasion like at the party in Denver where I lost Ella. When I used disruption for…fun. When I didn't heed it. Only, this time it was on a larger scale. I
wanted
to use the exciter. I knew it would do no good, then, that it would only cause more havoc, that it wouldn't properly apply in that situation. But I wanted to use it. I couldn't help myself.”

The doorbell chimed. Gloria sighed and stood up. Ben stretched and got to his knees, rotating from the waist to get the cricks from his back. He rose and went to the dresser, switched on the house nulgrav currents. He pulled the thin transparent web over his bare chest and was bobbed six inches off the floor. He pressed a button on the dresser, and the small component parts of his head-dress flew from their niche in the wall and arranged themselves over his head in the identity pattern of Delegate Ladd. He went to answer the door.

He hesitated before the oval portal. Needler? He looked over his shoulder. Gloria was covering him, out of sight from the person standing in the hall; she stood just inside the bedroom door, needler at ready. Also, there were the two Brothers' bodyguards in the car above the balcony.

Ben palmed the latch and the door slid open.

Three patriarchs stood there, six inches off the rug. He knew only one of them personally; a young man, tall and spare, with a long nose and binocular spectacles. The others he knew only from his files of their personal activities and voting records. But even so, there were things he knew about them that their spouses did not know.

The eyes of the other two patriarchs were fashionably hidden in cupped opaque lenses; they wore filmy blue togas and fluttering wrist pennants. They were of medium height and regular features, thinning hair, on the middle-aged side. Their expressions were impassive.

The young man nodded cordially. A Security guard stood out of sight by his left elbow. Waiting? Ben saw only his shadow.

“You three are welcome within. Greetings in the action, welcome in the reaction… Unless you keep him on a leash, your pedestrian watchdog must remain outside,” said Ben, bowing.

The young man nodded and spoke in whispers to the guard.

The three delegates entered and Ben closed the door and ushered them into the reception room where they sat cross-legged on lavender clouds. Ben provided wine. These amenities done, he said, “I hope you are comfortable.”

“This is quite an ostentatious household,” remarked the young man. “The rest of us don't live quite so lavishly. It seems most of our money goes to the Fist––”

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure—”

The young man, Bolton, introduced his companions. “Crowler Bunn, fiftieth Delegate. Alster Remm, eighty-sixth Delegate. Delegates Bunn and Remm, I'd like you to meet Mr. Ben Rackey.”

Bolton said it smoothly and calmly.

Ben tried to look politely puzzled and wondered if he succeeded.

At least, when he said, “I beg your pardon—I am titled only Delegate Tozar Ladd, Esteemed Sir…” no one laughed.

Young Bolton's eyes were not visible beneath the tubular glasses. But Ben could see in the creases around his mouth a certain smug humor. He was enjoying this opportunity for undermining a Senior. Obviously, Bolton was convinced he was Rackey. Waste of time to dissemble.

Ben smiled graciously and nodded, acknowledging Bolton's cleverness. He glanced over Bolton's shoulder. Gloria was still hiding in the bedroom, the door slightly ajar behind the three delegates. If he were to signal her she would be glad to kill them.

He could frame the Progressivists…

But there
was
that guard outside the door and, really, a professional should never soil his home with the blood of his enemies. It was sloppy. Enemies should be disposed of like garbage into a dispose-all,
zip
and it's a puff of vapor. Clean and swift. But in Astor, waste was recycled…

Perhaps there was another way. Perhaps he could transmute misfortune into gain.

“How many others know?” he asked, yawning, letting them believe he was admitting defeat.

“At this time, only we three of the delegation,” said Bunn. “We are the Insulation Committee. Such matters are referred to us. When the messenger came and said he had classified information concerning a delegate under a spurious identity, he was directed to our offices.”

“And you are here to extort or to execute or to deport me.”

“We are fully aware that your agents are thick in this city. We would rather not risk reprisals, so we chose deportation over execution.”

“Sensible. But this is a radical measure. Such a charge must be fully documented!”

Bolton chuckled and raised an admonishing hand “Do you want to know how
much
we know? Am I correct? There is no need to conceal the extent of our intelligence from you. We know nearly all. So much that your resistance to prosecution will be futile. But there need be no prosecution. If you leave quietly.”

“Chaldin? Films? Files? Photos? The forever-revel explosion?”

Bolton nodded. “He has shown us all of that. Your ability is truly remarkable. You were seen at the Falcon Square Riot last night. We have concluded that you somehow incited the riot—this is a feat only slightly less than magnificent, since you were not observed delivering an oration of any kind. Yet somehow, the mayhem proceeded from your person.”

Ben relaxed a little. So Chaldin had not told them about the exciter. Ben still had an ace in the hole. Slowly, very slowly, very gently, he focused it now. He exerted its influence gingerly. They must suspect nothing and he must, absolutely
must,
maintain control. A delicate operation.

“Indeed, Gentlemen, I am that Professional Irritant known as The Hidden Spur in Chicago, the Invisible Lash in Fallon, as well as by a dozen aliases. It is, as you point out, useless, even absurd, to deny it. You will have my complete cooperation. I shall surrender and depart immediately, if that is actually what you want. But I think you should know everything. I think you should have a
choice.
For, you see, the matter would have come to your attention shortly, even if Chaldin's messenger hadn't contacted you.
I
would have contacted you. It is time for you to know my plans—the details of the manner in which I hope to salvage civilization in Detroit.” Ben spoke earnestly, leaning forward, his face a mask of humble determination, his eyes lit with the fires of Traditionalism. It wouldn't be easy to convince them of his sincerity, he thought, glancing from face to dubious face. But it could be done. He sensed Gloria chuckling to herself, in the next room.

With the exciter at wide-range subtle emanation, with his charisma pouring out at full intensity, and with twenty-five years of craftsmanship in the art of obfuscation and exhortation behind him, Ben spoke. “Ben Rackey was not my given name, Patriarchs. My name was Oland Tuskey.” He paused dramatically as the three delegates raised eyebrows and exchanged nervous looks. Ben was glad he had done research into the history of Detroit's prior generation of rulers. “I am Oland Tuskey the Second, the boy who vanished from the home of Delegate Tuskey more than thirty years ago. It was assumed I had somehow strayed beyond the city walls and been killed by frags. No. I was kidnapped. But until recently, I had no proof of my heritage. And since my father was an ardent Traditionalist, I did not doubt that my return after his death, to claim his estate and title, would be received unkindly by the Progressivists in power at the time. So I contrived a counterfeit personal history and—after having made my fortune as an Irritant––used my own wealth to buy into a delegacy. I made it my business, as Delegate Patriarch Ladd, to return the grand city-state Detroit to its Ford-Intended Course. The construction of the Fist.

“Do you doubt me? Then ask yourselves: Why should a man like Ben Rackey, retired and wealthy, come back to Detroit to take up an old alias? For money? But who would pay me to do this thing? I have put far more money into it than any three Traditionalists own together. And who outside of Detroit would like to see the Fist built, and to see the inevitable world dominion this will bring to Detroit? No one. But this Rackey must have a motive! No, Patriarchs, Rackey does not have a motive. But Patriarch Tuskey
does.

“I ask again: If what I have told you is not true, why should I subject myself to these perilous environs?” His gaze unflinching, he sat back in his cloud, nodding as if hearing the consoling voice of dead Patriarch Tuskey the First.

He turned suddenly to Bolton and spoke fiercely: “You!”

Bolton jumped back in his seat.

“You are Drenner Bolton, neither Traditionalist nor Progressivist. An Uncommitted. Three years an apprentice of Taphet's Institute of Nulgrav Engineering, a graduate with honors—in spite of that minor debacle with the Dean's son in the X-ray room…”

Bolton's cheeks burned red.

Ben continued. “I know all about you. And this knowledge is the source of my respect! Oh, I know how you arranged for the installation of unauthorized anti-pedestrian electric screens at the fourth level, and how you bribed Magnus Retter for your position on the Insulation Council. But do I chastise you? I exalt you, Delegate Bolton! Only a
genius,
a man devoted to serving the Ford Design, could conceive of these intrigues and skillfully execute them. Your high motives assure us that you are without culpability. I am perfectly aware that you connived to achieve your high post at this
unusually
early age only because you fervently desire to serve and advance Detroit, and you simply could not wait to begin.” Ben noted with satisfaction that Bolton was nodding happily. A crack in the armor. Now, widen the crack, penetrate, control. “And because of those Progressivist interests who intrigued to prevent your instatement in the normal way, you were forced to use subterfuge—fire to fight fire—to obtain a position wherewith you could do your utmost for Detroit. Learning this, I said: ‘Well done! Here is a man worthy of inclusion in my Great Scheme!' I waited for the right moment to contact you. The moment precipitates itself, yet all is for the best…