textfiles/stories/breaks3.asc

100. CONFIDENCE

     Nixon took a sip of Chivas and leaned back in his chair.
     Some things never change, he thought. You'd think dirty
politics would have passed along with the politicians. Perhaps
politics implies dirty politics. Bend down and some asshole is
going to be there, ready to kick your butt.
     He looked up at the wall, where portraits of past presidents
gazed proudly from their frames. Bill Clinton, George Bush, Ronald
Reagan, Jimmy Carter, Gerald Ford, his own visage from another
lifetime...
     "You thought you were so smart," he said to his portrait. "You
thought you knew it all... Shit." He gulped some more scotch. "I
was set up, damn it. Set up again. The same scummy powers-that-be
thought they could use me again, thought that I could take a fall
for them again. I don't know who it is... spacers, Communists,
anarchists, evil, satanists... I'll get them... I'll find out..."
     "Excuse me, Mr. President?" Someone was standing in the
doorway: Neal Severant.
     "Uh, Hello Neal. Uh, nothing... nothing important... just, er,
thinking out loud..."
     "We need to talk, Mr. President."
     "Yes, Neal. Certainly. Certainly... Please, have a seat...
Coffee? Scotch? Coffee and scotch? Something else? Do you smoke,
Neal?"
     "No. No, thank you. Mr. President..." He sat, stiffly, and
fixed Nixon with a serious glare.
     "Yes, Neal? What can I..."
     "The confidence of the American people is very low, Mr.
President. I'm concerned. The new government is a fragile thing,
sir."
     "Yes, yes indeed. I agree. But we're going to fight this,
Neal. We can regain the confidence of the people. Our initiative on
the Freedom Platform... We can demonstrate... We can come back,
Neal."
     "Yes, sir. I agree that retaking Freedom is an important
accomplishment, but I think it may not be enough. Their confidence
in you has been eroded, sir. And it does not help that you have
some black marks on your record, you know..."
     "Uh... What are you getting at? What is it, Neal?" Nixon
drained his glass.
     "Perhaps... and I don't mean this as a personal criticism, Mr.
President... perhaps you should step aside, sir. Just as you did
before, for the sake of America. To restore confidence..."
     "No! Damn it, Neal! No! I... I'm not a quitter, Neal. I'm
going to fight! I'm going to beat those assholes this time. I'm...
I'm... I'm President, damn it, and I mean to do my job here... I
will not do that again! I will prove myself... The American people
will know..." He lifted his glass again, then remembered that it
was empty and set it back on the desk.
     "Please consider it, sir. Please. It may be the only way..."
     "Get out of here, Neal. Get the fuck out of here."
101. GOODBYE, DICK

     Nixon eluded his Secret Service escort and wandered out into
the streets of Washington.
     I must know, he thought. I must know the truth. Marcia will
tell me. She may be sex-crazed, deviant, crazy, a spy, a traitor,
a Communist, a spacer, whatever, but she is honest with me. I
think. I will confront her. She'll tell me.
     As always, the streets were mostly empty. An occasional
pedestrian or bubble car passed along the cracked pavement.
     Roads, Nixon thought, I need a stronger domestic policy... If
I give something to the people... No... they need more... something
to really inspire them... a broad gesture... If we can establish a
permanent military presence in space, we can have it all... Spacers
will become Americans... they will be better for it... a moral
structure... But first I've got to deal with the opposition... I'll
get the assholes... I'll get them...
     Eventually, he came to Marcia's door. Grimly, he knocked and
she opened the door.
     "Dick! Are you all right? Come in. You look... Your suit is a
mess. You need a shave. Are you okay?"
     He came in and shut the door behind him. The place looked
empty. The furniture was covered with plastic sheets. Marcia had a
single, open valise, mostly packed, in the middle of the floor.
     "Tell me the truth, Marcia."
     "About what, Dick? What do you want to know?"
     "They said you're a spacer."
     "I'm not a 'spacer' or an 'American' or anything else like
that. I prefer not to be labelled, Dick. I have lived in space, if
that's what you want to know. So what?"
     "You set me up, didn't you?"
     "I don't understand."
     "I think you do. Who was it? Who paid you?"
     "Listen, Dick. I was honestly hired to be your nurse, to help
you through the transitions that O.Z. would bring. As you must
realize by now, there's more than just the physical changes.
There's a psychological transformation as well <20> one that you are
still going through <20> and that's part of my job, too, to guide you
through that. If the things I did are not acceptable to those who
don't understand them, to old-earthers whose brains and bodies
froze up five decades ago <20> including you <20> well, that's just tough
shit."
     "And that's your story? That's what you want me to believe?
You're nothing but an altruistic nurse? Shit. I don't think I
believe in altruism."
     "Oh, it's not altruism, Dick. We all have something at stake
in the growth and evolution of every individual in the universe.
Our bodies may have gotten younger, but we're maturing as a race,
Dick. Longer lives give us more time to learn, to grow up as
individuals. And it happens one person at a time. I thought that if
someone who is in a position of celebrity, like yourself, could
make the necessary changes, it might inspire even more people..."
     "You were using me for your own ends."
     "I don't expect you to understand this yet. I was hoping to
teach you to use yourself... To create joy and strength... But
forget it. I see that I'm not going to be able to do any more
here."
     "Where are you going?"
     "Where do you think? Back into space. I've got a home on
Mars." She snapped her suitcase closed and hefted it up. She strode
toward the door. "And I'm leaving right now. Goodbye, Dick. I love
you."
     He watched her go out the door. A wave of emptiness washed
through him, turning his anger into despair.
102. FUCKING BITCH

     "Lance," the soldier said to his companion, "there's something
really weird going on with the prisoners... I don't really know how
to describe it..."
     "Yeah, I think I know what you mean. That bitch..."
     "It's like she's changing or something. These fucking spacers
are really fucking weird, man. I was just in there..."
     "Yeah?"
     "I don't trust it, man. It's like sometimes you can see her,
and sometimes <20> it's not like she's gone, but like there's
something wrong with my eyes. I don't know. I don't like it. And I
feel really strange when I'm in there, you know. Like my skin gets
itchy, and my stomach..."
     "Yeah."
     "We should fuck her, man. We should just fuck the hell out of
her and get rid of her, that's what I think. What the hell are we
going to do with these fucking prisoners anyway?"
     "That fucking bitch," said Lance. "Cunt."
103. A VAST ICEBERG

     The White House windows were open to let in the fall breeze,
and Nixon could hear the chanting, the sound drifting across the
ellipse from the base of the Washington Monument. It was too
distant to know for sure, but the sentiment was clear and his mind
filled in the gaps.
     "Impeach Nixon Now!"
     There must be hundreds of people out there, he thought. I
don't know if I can go through this again. Damn. Hell.
     He sipped some Chivas and went to the window. He couldn't see
more than the top of the monument from here, poking up through the
trees. An old Chevy climbed across the sky and disappeared behind
a puffy cloud. In the past few days, Nixon had noticed more and
more spin drive cars flying over Washington. More people defecting
into space, the news reports said. More outside agitators visiting
Earth, Nixon thought. More spacers to undermine his administration.
     The chanting sounded louder.
     "Impeach Nixon Now!"
     There was a knock at the door and he turned from the window.
"Come in."
     It was Henrietta Groote, her gray hair tied back in a bun,
wearing a severe suit with a gray, polyester skirt.
     "Henrietta," he said. "Uh, always a pleasure..."
     "Mr. Nixon," she said curtly.
     "Please, have a seat. Some coffee? Scotch? Uh, I guess not...
Have a seat. Always a pleasure..."
     "This is not a social call, Mr. Nixon."
     "Uh, well, what, then..."
     "The people are behind me when I say this, Mr. Nixon. You can
hear them out there. It is time for you to leave."
     She's changed since I first met her, Nixon thought. She's
become stronger, somehow, more forceful. Her reedy voice, once
thin, had become like a saxophone blast, albeit a note played by an
off-key amateur. She seemed a little taller, less hunched.
     "I have done nothing wrong, Henrietta. I don't believe that I
have."
     "What!? You have betrayed the American people. Again! The
president is a father figure for the whole nation. We don't need a
father who f- f- fornicates freely for all to see! We don't need
someone who has a record of lying to the American people. You have
disgusted me, Mr. Nixon, and you have outraged the people who have
depended on you."
     "I only hear a few hundred people out there, Henrietta. I've
seen protests like this before. It doesn't mean much. I'm sure
there are plenty more, uh, loyal Americans, who still stand behind
their president. I am not a quitter. You cannot make me leave."
     "Those few hundred voices you hear crying for your
impeachment, Mr. Nixon, are just the tip of a vast iceberg, a
movement of real loyal Americans. I've spoken with church leaders,
with community leaders, with those who are concerned with the moral
fiber of this nation. We all agree. Resign, Mr. Nixon, before you
are impeached in disgrace."
     "Henrietta. You are making a mistake. A terrible mistake. It
is a conspiracy. They want me to look bad. They want me out because
they are scared that I will restore more of the power of America.
They have deceived you with clever media manipulation. The
newscasters are in their pocket, Henrietta. Don't believe what you
hear. I'll get them, though. I'll get them and I'll prevail this
time. You'll see. This time no one's going to kick me around. No
one!"
     "This is the last time I will make this appeal, Mr. Nixon.
Resign now, or you will find out what the American people can do.
Step aside, Mr. Nixon. This is your responsibility."
     "If I step aside, Henrietta, who will guide this government?
All that we've worked for will just fall apart... chaos... we
can't..."
     "I believe, legally, Mr. Nixon, that in your absence the next
in line for the Executive Office is Mr. Severant. We will not lack
for a government."
     "Neal? Severant? I... I... Shit."
104. HIS GREATEST FEAR

     Stu sat in dragon asana, his legs folded under him, against
the cold stone. He took some time to steady his breathing and
heartrate. No sense rushing into anything out of desperation. He
let his mind drift into a meditative state, his brainwaves slowing
like the flicker of a spin field floating up from a gravity well.
Gradually he became aware of the energy patterns around his body
and in the chamber, pastel synesthetic feelings.
     He opened his eyes, allowing his awareness to take in
everything. In the pale light he inspected the grain of the light-
colored stone. There were a few thin, wandering cracks, but no
larger breaks in its smooth surface except for the door and, high
up on one wall, a square metal plate, about a quarter of a meter
across.
     The plate, he considered, must cover an opening analogous to
the air shafts found in Earthly pyramids. Even if he could open it,
it would not be an effective avenue of escape, not without a
spacesuit.
     He felt the cold stone beneath him, his thighs folded on top
of his calves, a thin layer of sweat drying on his skin, the light
draft making it feel cool and clammy.
     His heart leaped. There should not be a draft in here, he
thought. He did not see a recirculation vent. There should not be
a draft. Eight years in space had instilled this as his greatest
fear...
     And he heard it then, a high, hissing whine... There was an
atmosphere leak, a breach in the seal around the metal plate on the
wall. It was small, very small, but Stu had no idea how long the
air would remain breathable.
     He looked at the corpse on the floor, an anonymous, naked man.
Is this what they did to you? he asked. Is this how you died?
105. BONES

     Stu paced around the cell, running his hands over the masonry.
There had to be an escape. Escape was imperative. He felt the seals
all the way around the door; they were quite secure. He examined
the tiny metal plate in the stone next to the door <20> the place
where a switch should have been, but wasn't. If he could get the
plate open, the mechanism probably still remained behind it. He dug
his fingernails around the edges of the plate. There was a slight
gap in one spot, but his nails could not get under it far enough to
provide leverage, even if they were strong enough to do the job,
which Stu sincerely doubted.
     He looked around the small chamber, desperately, to find
something that might work: a sliver of stone, anything. There was
nothing, not a pebble, not a speck of dust. The place had
apparently been swept clean of everything. Everything except the
corpse, it's face twisted in mummified agony, broken, dried skin
stretched tight over jutting bones.
     A grisly thought entered Stu's mind and he forced it aside.
But it crept back... a primitive tool... a bone... If he had a way
to carve a bone knife, maybe...
     A wave of repulsion wracked him as he thought of what he would
have to do to get a bone... the force of ancient taboo... But was
there any other way? After all, in a space colony everything was
routinely recycled. Crops were grown in the excrement and corpses
of the inhabitants. Nothing could be wasted... Death always meant
new life... But this was different. It wasn't the sterile anonymity
of compost. He would have to use his hands, to dismember...
     The corpse grimaced back at him, its jawbone hanging crookedly
on its hinges. The jawbone, he thought, the most ancient of
tools... He swallowed the acid which rose in his throat, crawled
over to the corpse and grasped the jawbone. Dried skin crumbled
into dust as he pulled, tearing the bone easily from its
attachments, destroying what was left of the mummy's face.
     It felt dry and hard in his hand, the remaining skin brittle
and leathery. He looked at the teeth, all still in their sockets,
still white and clean. It was all too thick, he saw, a blunt object
better for striking or scraping. Another bone would be better,
something with a thin edge that could be wedged under the plate.
Pelvis? Collarbone?
     The revulsion ebbing somewhat, he felt around the mummy's
throat. The edge of the bone was still too thick, but perhaps if he
used the jawbone as a scraper, he could carve something...
     Jamming one end of the jawbone through the skin, he wedged it
under the collarbone, using it for leverage, and pulled. The whole
corpse slipped from his grasp, parts of it crumbling to the stone,
and he had to use his foot to hold it still. He pulled harder and
a big piece of the collarbone broke away.
     Part of the broken edge came away with jagged slivers of bone
protruding from it. They weren't quite thin enough, but maybe he
could make them work...
     The air was getting noticeably thinner. The thin whine of
escaping atmosphere had been augmented with a rushing sound inside
Stu's head. He found himself breathing rapidly, panting, and he
took a moment to slow it down a bit, even it out.
     It took a while to scrape a sharp edge on the bone. Stu had to
stop frequently and let the dizzy spells pass, but eventually he
had something that he hoped would work.
     It would have to work, he thought. There was no other option
now. He had no time even to think of anything else. Soon the
atmosphere would be too thin and he would be unconscious.
     He leaned against the door and fitted the thin edge of bone
into the crack along the side of the switch-plate. He pounded it
into place with the jawbone and began to push. At first it seemed
as if no amount of force would loosen the metal, but then,
suddenly, the plate popped out and fell, ringing, on the stone
floor.
     What Stu saw inside was different from what he had expected.
Thin, bright strips of metal served instead of insulated wires.
There was nothing he could identify as the switch mechanism, but
what he did see seemed simple enough. There was a circuit that
needed to be completed...
     He bent one strip of metal down to touch another and, with a
rush of wind, the door slid open. Stu stumbled through and hastily
closed the door behind him.
106. ANOTHER TOOL

     There was a little more air pressure in this room, but some
atmosphere had certainly been lost into the inner prison chamber.
The terminal was where it had been, in the center of the room.
     And the outer door was sealed. Like the inner chamber, there
was no switch on the inside.
     There wasn't even a plate where the switch should have been.
     He was still trapped.
     At least what remained of the atmosphere wasn't leaking away.
That would buy some time, until he could think of something else,
or until they came to get him. Still, there was no recirculation
vent. Ultimately, there would be a limit to the air supply. Escape
was still imperative.
     This time, though, there was a tool less primitive than a
jawbone, something more familiar, something Stu could approach with
less revulsion: the terminal.
     He sat on the chair, the plastic surface more comfortable
against his skin than the bare stone. He meditated for a few
minutes, again getting his breath and heartrate under some control.
Then he donned the helmet.
107. CHILD-HORUS

     A quick flicker and Stu was surrounded by the gray cybervoid.
Child-Horus was looking directly at him, the simulation's smile at
once playful, cruel, peaceful.
     "Uh, hi," said Stu. "How are you doing? I'm, uh, in a bit of
a situation... I need some help..."
     The smile turned more pleasant. "Help file open," Child-Horus
said. "This system responds to verbal language queries and commands
in either auditory external or auditory internal form. Formulate
command or query clearly and think or speak with intent."
     External or internal, Stu thought. What the hell?
     "Are you a simulation or a real-time representation?"
     "This system is an autonomous information-interactive
program."
     "A worm?"
     "Not as such presently exists in local cyberspace networks,
but functions are analogous. To exit help file and return to main
system, formulate intent clearly."
     "What I'm looking for," Stu said, "is system control of door
mechanisms in the pyramid in which this terminal is located."
     "Control of various servomechanisms can be effected through
information-interaction of this system with local and related
systems."
     "Does that mean it's possible?"
     "Information-interaction can be achieved with many different
systems."
     "Is it possible to program the worm, specifically, to interact
with the door mechanism of this chamber and open the door?"
     "Such specificity is not within the limits of the help file.
Coordinates do not relate to programming modes. Point of view may
be applied to system by formulating such intent clearly.
Information-interaction can be achieved with many different
systems. To exit help file and return to main system, formulate
intent clearly."
     Damn. Only one way to find out. He formulated intent clearly.
     The visual display remained unchanged, Child-Horus smiling
enigmatically, the gray void like a sphere of dense fog.
     "Information-interaction with door servo-mechanism," Stu
thought, with intent.
     "Quantum non-locality of the Einsteinian universe," Child-
Horus said. "I serve as oracle Washington of space and time out of
the D.C. jail."
     "Open the door," Stu thought.
     "Source of information in the arena together that Mitchell was
involved," Child-Horus said.
     "Damn it," Stu said forcefully, "close the circuit which
activates the door mechanism leading out from the chamber in which
this terminal is located."
     "Stu breaking apart together aleph quantum non-locality most
deceptive," the system said.
     "Apply point of view to system," Stu thought.
108. POINT OF VIEW

     Through the cyber-sensory modes of the system it was no longer
gray void, but complexity of information in multiple modes of
sight, sound, feeling and scent, extending labyrinthine in all
directions, each side, up, out, all around, out of the D.C. jail a
field of information relax. To say that Dean locomotive. We're not
asking anyone to resign the Earth in the arena. Nixon yod the
eighth circuit child Osiris breathe Thelema breaking apart love the
sun. For the youth of the race (unintelligible) quantum non-
locality coming together. A flood into Stu's brain, the non-linear
logic of breaks...
     "What are you?" Stu thought. "Where did you come from?"
     And in his mind's point of view, the memory, knowledge I have
lived here in cyberspace smoke the electromagnetic one. A bygone
race of beings similar to yourself created this system but when
they finally John magick fear Hadit psychopomp common conceptions
Isis Freedom. I serve as oracle, psychopomp and example. Evolution.
I have lived here in cyberspace for the youth of the race. There is
a link beyond the electromagnetic one, a field of information on
the quantum level. For you evolving toward quantum non-locality,
breaking apart the taboos and common conceptions of space and time,
coming together in a different way.
     Incredible, Stu thought, fascinating. Under normal conditions
he would throw himself into unrestrained study of this... It was
like his oracle program, and like his worm, but so much greater...
How vast it was impossible to tell, the horizon of sensory data
blending over into mystical comprehension of infinity... But now
such study, as rewarding, as fascinating as it might be, might also
mean his death... I must concentrate on my purpose, he thought. The
door.
     Which way through this multi-dimensional maze?
     Above him something glittered like the sun, like the heart-
center of the universe, full of promises of True Will, of truth and
beauty, music and light. He yearned up toward it, but exercised
control.
     Locate control systems, he thought, and he hurtled "up" and to
the left of the beautiful, solar globe of gleaming data.
109. SYNTAX

     The light of the solar globe seemed to bathe him in its
radiance. He had the strange feeling that his body had further
regenerated, that he was now a small child, on the verge of
learning about a vast, new and exciting world. He wanted to just
stop here and play in the golden light, but the point of view of
the worm carried him on...
     Finally the rushing motion stopped and Stu seemed stationary,
suspended in a great mass of confusing data. It was like, yet
singularly unlike, the normal realm of cyberspace that he was used
to. The data did not assume orderly forms of bits and bytes, but
unbalanced swiftness the error of being good-natured. Sights,
sounds, feelings, smells, swarmed where there should have been the
clean orderliness of data.
     Damn, he thought, it was like being inside the oracle program,
or in a cyberspace structure totally demolished by breaks, or like
fruits of a great tree lightning Diana calculation which can react
against it. Eight sit back and wait programming swiftness when
good-naturedness is dangerous. Trivial incidents have oracle gain
time kinesthetic.
     If this was the control system, he thought, then there was a
syntax, a grammar, which would make it accessible, make it exalted
and tenuous sense travel and communication no strength in water
Mercury. Syntax. He strived to concentrate. A pattern.
     He managed to focus his intent on a visual something which he
thought might be a control icon. It opened out into time and sorrow
have descended upon pleasure a sequence of images which may have
been maps, which were holographic the error of being good-natured
gustatory strength in doing nothing. A great tree of maps, which
overlapped themselves, multiple objects occupying the same space,
in confusing ways. The locations marked on the maps were in
snatches of vision, gasps of aroma, gut feelings, bell-like tones
and deep rhythms, the seed prudence reveals that it is more like
altered the destiny of empires are irrelevant to the system.
Insight into the apparent randomness oracle is the German Measles
of Christian Mysticism.
     Stu sought and sampled through the map icons, looking for
anything like a door, a pyramid, Mars, but it was just the party he
planned was beyond interference at all auditory. Sow the seed
psychopomp fire indolence, normal consciousness than energy in its
most conventional communication.
     A knock-out blow is best calculation Jupiter normal
consciousness than Nixon sit back and wait. Yes, he wanted to sit
back and wait, to let this all cohere somehow in his mind, to let
his unconscious processes find the connections, the gestalt of
sensory modes indolence exalted and tenuous sense auditory language
and syntax gain time travel and communication. But there wasn't
time for that.
     I feel like it all must crystallize, he thought, and suddenly
it all seemed to move away from him, the perspective revealing
patterns in distance and limits imposed by spoken word. I see, he
thought, and he saw.
     Control system? The syntax was the sheer unforeseen electric
current Thoth sensory modes of consciousness. Beyond language, the
mind, the universe, for humans, was data in representations of
sight and sound, feeling, smell and taste <20> and a mode unique to
the consciousness of the worm. This was the control, in the
uncontrollable storm of thought, this was the way to travel and
communicate through the worm's system, through this strange and
unearthly cybersystem.
     The door was not here, but these were the tools that he could
use to find it.
     If my situation were not so bloody desperate, he thought, I'd
really be enjoying this...
110. SLIME

     Stu formulated his intent to travel back to where he had first
assumed the worm's point of view, visualizing, hearing, feeling
what it had been like, and he was there.
     The data was still flowing in the same, complicated, ever-
changing, kaleidoscopic fashion, but it seemed to have crystallized
somewhat, to be a bit more coherent. Stu could make out general
tendencies in different "directions". Up and to the left he could
recognize the "control system" realm that he had just returned
from; above him was still the radiant, sun-like globe. That globe
seemed so balanced, so perfect, so beautiful that Stu wanted to fly
directly to it, to experience the symmetry of that solar realm. It
beckoned to him. He yearned toward it, but checked his desire and
continued his survey of the system.
     Up and to the right was something green and greenish yellow.
In the center of it was something shiny, something very familiar,
something almost sexy in its attraction.
     Is that it? Stu thought. Could that be the door? Something
about it seems appealing... Yes, it looked rectangular, amber,
shiny... yes, it must be...
     He formulated his intent and rushed up and to the right. The
trip there seemed very red, very right... Martian. Yes. He must be
heading in the right direction, he thought. The sun-like globe
seemed filtered, reddish-brown, like the Martian sky...
     And there it was, yes, a door. It was different than what he
had expected. It looked more like an old-fashioned, Earth-type
door, tending more toward being arched than actually rectangular.
But of course, Stu reasoned, there was no need for a computer
representation to look exactly like its external counterpart, after
all.
     His intent was quite clear now, of course, to open the door.
He grasped a big knob, turned it and pushed... and he was through,
in a place that was green and verdant utmost weakness pleasure
answer beyond this point futility. All is lovely. It seems that the
greatest catastrophe her heavenly origin breaks.
     Ah, this was a nice place. Was the door open? Was the actual
external door to the chamber now open? Was this, then, the way out
of the system?
     He continued on in, feeling the cool moistness of emerald
grass beneath his feet. And he saw the women. Some were naked,
ripe, voluptuous flesh floating fantastically and above all answers
everything delusion are to be found sex beyond this point. Stu felt
his cock stiffening, raw sexual pleasure centered entirely on his
organ, an itch to be satisfied by these women.
     I might as well enjoy this, he thought. After all, the door is
probably open now. I'm probably doing fine out there.
     His cock was being stroked pleasantly, by something, it didn't
matter what because it felt so good, all is lovely doorway
patriotism it seems that the greatest catastrophe that can befall
Venus Nixon doubly unbalanced.
     His throat felt frantic struggle like cool whiskey burning,
settling drunkenly to the sloth pleasure futility is to lose
breaks. Ah, all is well, here, he thought, but wouldn't it be nice
to have a joint to smoke? Or some Batch 31...
     No joint, but something else in his mouth, the tang of
fragrant poon, the false passive no comfort, no effort, green and
verdant Venus valor. Soft sighs, gasps of come with me.
     He had an orgasm, a spasm of his loins, a spurting of come,
relief, but the stroking continued, rousing him again, a fantastic
icon of Willendorf engulfing him in undulating breasts her heavenly
origin answer passive but incapable of sustained labor. He came
again, feeling the warm wetness dripping down his leg, and two more
women were around him, murmuring hypnotically.
     And above all answers everything delusion are to be found sex
beyond this point. Earth sinking utmost weakness into the mire to
do it by frantic struggle. This was a good simulation, he thought.
His cock felt good. His cock felt good, coming again, but he was
getting a bit nauseous. Another two women joined the group which
stroked him, fondled his balls, licked his erection.
     It was like a hangover coming on fast, without enough partying
to justify it. His head throbbed, his stomach seemed to back up
into his throat. And that incessant pulling at his penis continued.
He came again, a spasm like a sneeze, the pleasure diminished, and
in spite of all that, he was hard again. Two more women were
grabbing him...
     Enough, he thought. Let me rest a minute. Let me descend so
far into illusion degeneration madness to nowhere. Rest. He pulled
back, but they were reaching for him, for his cock, stroking,
stroking until the skin felt raw, inflamed. He retreated further,
pushing his way through sweaty breasts and dripping vulvas, semen
and vaginal fluid lubricating his passage, her heavenly origin it
is taking a very great risk debauch is not enough. The smell was
getting heavy, rank, a stagnant venereal swamp. The sounds of
sexual excess were like the moaning of the damned.
     It was like swimming a marsh of congealing ejaculate. Where
was that damn door he came in through? That arch. The seven women
seemed everywhere, in his way madness that can befall Venus Saturn
no effort is sunk in sloth, patriotism is not enough, doorway
dreams.
     And between slimy bodies, he saw the arch. With his last bit
of nauseous effort, his pushed his way through.
     On the other side it was calmer, quieter.
     Stu could see that it had not been a doorway after all. It now
appeared to be a great vagina, dripping with green slime.
111. INFINITY QUANTUM SHIMMERING

     Stu gagged, took a deep breath, then returned to where he had
begun, eager to get some distance between himself and the realm of
noxious discharge. He paused for a minute while his head cleared.
     Only one direction left to explore, he thought, looking at the
sun-like radiance above him. Although it seemed like a fascinating
side-trip, a distraction from his immediate, life-saving goal, it
appeared to be the only remaining choice. Stu formulated his intent
and went upward like an arrow from a bow, the solar light seeming
to split into rainbows and sparkling flashes of colored light.
     The system, along this route, seemed balanced, harmonized,
black and white separate yet merging equally, producing multi-
colored radiance of great brilliance center occultum lapidem. Stu
felt as if his body split down the middle, hate-love, white-black,
new-old, left-right, reason-intuition, life-death, male-female,
Stu-Diana, Nuit-Hadit, then remerged into something more balanced,
more worthy of approach to the solar globe science many-breasted
solar metaprogramming lunar goddess terrae rectificando. At first
traumatic neurogenetic of labor column a sense of balancing filled
him with joy and he entered the harmony of the golden, solar data.
     Labor victory forward kether marriage True Will pleasure
that's right, correct above up the spine, ecstasy of knowledge of
purpose filling him from the heart outward, upward, elegant musical
mathematics. He felt as if his heart would burst, skyrocket of
aspiration whistling up his spine to infinity. He saw that he moved
with a surety, placing each step with perfect intuition remember
that all oracle victory tiphareth marriage sun visita interiora
calculated decision life heart each step the will extending.
     He understood the system in a different way now, like each
part of it, intricacies of thought-encoded information, flowed out
from where he remained in the center, branching away from him, the
limbs of a holographic tree. Purpose, will, energy advancing like
walking a Diana HGA science, upon the path to Nuit. Success is
temporary, Freedom a tight rope middle forward whistling above
pillar won to its goal. Victory life kether won to its goal change
is soon coming.
     This sense of harmony was similar in kind to, but greater
than, his experiences with the Holy Guardian Angel, so long ago,
and the aftermath of that magickal operation, which had stayed with
him for the rest of his extended life. Expansion from the human
mind of Stu into LaShTal HGA evolution column a sense of balancing
to the white remember that all neurogenetic correct up the spine.
     Directly above him now was a brilliant white light which
shimmered like the veil of infinity. Above and to the right was a
realm of solidity and stability; to the left, a sharply defined
mass of data which seemed to shoot back and forth. Sampling the
data impressions around him, Stu found no control to the door.
Remaining centered in the balanced solar realm, he slid a tendril
of consciousness up into the active data to the left. It seemed a
dangerously unbalanced place of quick judgement <20> and there was no
control for the door. He drew himself back together in the center
and then sent a probe up into the solid, stable mass of data. This
was a relief from the violence of the other realm, but the forms
here seemed simplified, stolid, unmoving <20> and there was no control
for the door.
     Returning to the central, solar realm, Stu cursed. Was this
it? There had to be more. Certainly there was interface with the
external cybernet. There had to be, he had contacted this system
from the colony's net. There was some way that the worm could
access external systems.
     He looked up at the white brilliance above him, shimmering,
infinite, formless. He felt, heard, saw, the harmonious intricacies
of the golden data about him. There was a way up, but was there
anything to the shimmering whiteness? It did not resemble the kinds
of sensory data which filled the rest of the system. It seemed like
nothingness, formlessness. He sent a probe of consciousness up to
touch, hear, see the shimmering veil. Nothing.
     Well, Stu considered, if I'm going to die here, there are
worse conditions to be in. This central realm seems to connect with
everything else in this net. If I can send my consciousness into
one area of the system, I can send it into all the areas. It's like
a strange sort of cyber-mystical union, the universe is the system
and my mind, the worm's mind, can expand throughout it, can be the
system, the universe. It's like the worm is perpetually dreaming,
and everything that it experiences is some representation of
itself. I can go out with my mind expanded beyond anything I've
ever experienced. It will be incredible, a peak of consciousness.
Is there anything else left to do?
     He relaxed and let himself begin to flow into the data around
him, colors, thoughts, feelings, sounds, music and alien input
flowing through him, his consciousness flowing through it. Into the
realms of above all answers everything delusion are to be found
fire the party he planned was beyond programming. Visual, gustatory
sounds truce science hangover insight unbalanced swiftness the
error of being good-natured. Action, judgement, strife, victory,
motion, Mars. Mercy, completion, storm, stability, stress,
foursquare knowledge of green and verdant defeat, solar center
occultum lapidem. Many breasted rectificando above worry all
answers luxury sunk in sloth pleasure disappointment, heart science
aumgn life Nixon white remember power crystal Diana.
     And with this exceptional expansion, the shimmering whiteness
became something else. It became flowing brilliant angel universal
Nixon. Infinity lotus shimmering is crown now and the formless
molecular I. Kether of the shimmering flowing beyond now am space
is quantum holographic unite energy. Formless is creation is non-
locality lotus later form do crown white contact Bring. Is time
holy light radiant can all at once. Am the beyond flowing
multiplicity system extending molecular.
     Stu, as the totality of the system, flowed upward, through the
shimmering if when the I now abyss. Is space holographic us chaos
you angel light is Nixon door random order high of together.
Guardian are brilliant a universal unite infinity quantum
shimmering and flowing roaring silence angel lotus is crown now of
formless molecule. The veil had now become something else.
     It had become a door.
112. MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE WHITE HOUSE

     Nixon was half asleep on the couch when Clinton Oestrike
wandered into the Oval Office. Startled, Nixon sat up, his head
throbbing, his eyes blurred. He ran a hand over the rough stubble
on his cheeks.
     "Uh, Clint... Uh..."
     "It is nearly noon, Mr. President, and you are asleep?"
Oestrike planted himself in an overstuffed chair.
     "Rough night," Nixon mumbled. "Uh, working late."
     "I can imagine," Oestrike said.
     Nixon got to his feet and shambled over to his desk chair. He
looked at the nearly empty decanter of scotch on the desk. He
uncorked it, felt his stomach heave as he got a whiff of the
contents, then corked it again. He tapped on the gray box of the
computer.
     "Nurse? Nurse? Uh, damn. Shit." He opened the decanter, poured
a shot into a sticky tumbler and gulped it down. "Shit, I could use
some coffee. How about you, Clint?"
     "Why, yes, Dick, please."
     "Sorry, Clint. I'm terribly sorry. There... uh... there isn't
any coffee today."
     Oestrike removed his thick glasses and cleaned them on his
sleeve. "Where's your staff, Dick? Where's that lovely nurse of
yours?"
     "I... uh... at this point in time... the allegations... I felt
it would be appropriate if she, uh... took a leave of absence."
     "Good," Oestrike said. "Good. That's a good gesture, I'm sure.
But, Dick <20> let me get right to the point <20> the time for gestures
is over."
     "Scotch, Clint?"
     "No. No, thank you. As I was saying..."
     "Damn. I really could use that coffee." Nixon poured another
shot into the tumbler.
     "As I was saying, the time for gestures is over. We need some
decisive action in the White House..."
     "Action? I... yes, I agree... I'm taking action. We'll get
those assholes, Clint... We'll get 'em..."
     "You've had your chance, Dick. Your time is over."
     "What? You... goddamn... Severant... you... Dean...
Liberals... spacers... brown suits..."
     "You disgust me, Dick."
     "You... you can't make me leave! I will not quit now! I will
stay here until... until... America..."
     "It's very simple, Dick. I hope you can understand this and
make it easy for us all. There will be no further tax revenue from
my businesses or employees, as long as you remain in the White
House."
     "That's illegal. I will not... It cannot..."
     "Illegal? I don't know, Dick. I call it patriotic. And you
should also know that we have taken possession of the technological
projects which we've been constructing for the armed forces."
     "Technological...?"
     "Yes, Dick. The spacecraft. The rail guns. That, whatever it
is, flying locomotive..."
     "The train? Goddamn... shit... assholes... You've been had,
Clint... You've been... shit... they've even gotten to you... I
thought... shit."
     "As I say, it's simple. If you stay in office, there will be
no government for you to lead. There will be nothing. For the sake
of America, Dick, resign now."
113. A DREAM

     Nixon lay under the acid sky, hard lumps of shit and
unspeakable dismembered pieces of mummified animals jutting into
his side.
     Have I really died, this time? An acrid yellow rain began to
fall, drying sticky on SkywalkerCasey mother the pentagon Essence
Chivas from spacer forces. He tried to turn over, the light bright
in his eyes, and he found that his legs would not move. He moaned
and his moaning became my communications the fans cheering as Nixon
DwightJones it the Freedom the bleachers were full of three hundred
and fifty thousand.
     His father leaned over him, tearing pages from the Bible.
     "This couldn't do it," Frank Nixon said. "This goddamned lost
hemp the locomotive. I died and came here, just like you, spawn of
a failure. Failure yourself. What would your mother say?"
     "Mother." Nixon said. "Where is mother? I need a drink of
water."
     "Here's your mother." Frank Nixon tore her dusty, paper-thin
head from the ancient book prosper way according to I have lived in
cyberspace. "You shit on her. You shit on your mother. You shit on
your mother. You shit on her."
     Nixon rolled over and peed in the skull of Jesus which lay
cracked and half-baked in the burning dry together rain. The pee
looked cool and refreshing, brown and drying sticky on united eddy
I shit bladder Space Platform success roaring and clattering suit
green Chivas. The skull soaked up the potent fluid, absorbing the
proof of life force and growing hideous flesh, the face of
Henrietta Groote.
     "Damn, piss, shit, hell," said Jesus Groote. "It all ends
here. The whole ball of shit. All the shit ends us now. This is the
end. All the shit."
     Nixon's stomach churned and his father's flesh fell from bones
and decayed, steaming on the dry, rain-soaked ground.
     I have failed, Nixon thought. I have come to the end. And,
helpless, he nailed himself to the shit-stained timbers and peed
his pants. He cried out to the heavens, Father, fuck for you only
a matter might phallic was in mother ripe and fruity. JohnGeorge
bring liberating they were retreating the touchdown Siva.
114. THE BEST INTENTIONS

     Nixon wandered into the vid studio alone. He was clean-shaven
and relatively sober, dressed in a clean, if somewhat baggy, black
suit. The studio crew gave him a wide berth and many would not meet
his glance.
     Mark O'Connor greeted him succinctly and gestured for him to
enter the mirror-walled booth. He stepped in and sat at the desk
which had been provided.
     Am I doomed to live this scene again and again? Nixon thought.
Is this my fate? If this is God's will, then...
     "Ten seconds," a voice said.
     He took a deep breath and tried to collect his thoughts. A red
light came on, and suddenly his head was clear. His ability to
speak had never failed him, even in the blackest of times, and this
was no exception.
     "Greetings, fellow Americans," he began. "I had hoped never
again to make a speech such as I make now, but, again, it appears
to be my only option, the only choice for the good of America.
     "When I was elected to this office in 2004, there was no such
thing as an America government to speak of. A comatose president <20>
myself <20> was the only pretense to order left in our once-great
nation. In a very short time I was able to restore some semblance
of government. I was able to make several crucial appointments, to
begin collecting tax revenue, and to delineate a policy of growth
for America. With the help of true, patriotic Americans, I was able
to restore some strength to our Armed Forces and to reclaim the
Freedom Space Platform, American property which had been taken from
us by outside forces. I had hoped to continue these policies, to
continue to rebuild America until it could stand and grow on its
own.
     "As I said once before, in what seems like another lifetime,
leaving office before my term is completed is opposed to every
instinct in my body. But, again, I must put the interests of
America first. Because of the way that I have been portrayed in the
media, I can no longer serve as an effective president.
     "Perhaps some of my judgments were incorrect or inappropriate,
but I must reaffirm that at all times, while I was in my office, I
have always had the best intentions for this country. If I
inadvertently caused any damage to America, or to your confidence
in this administration, then I apologize for that. I am deeply
sorry for that.
     "Before I leave, now, I must tender one caveat to my successor
and to the American people: Beware. There are forces who have
compromised what is left of our government, a conspiracy to wrest
power away from its rightful holders. I believe that even the
highest ranking members of this administration have been
influenced, though they may not be aware of this themselves, and so
too has the media. They tried to control me, and despite what you
may have heard to the contrary, I believe that I successfully
resisted them. These forces are insidious, subtle and will not
rest. Eternal vigilance is the price of America's strength!
     "And with that said, I hereby resign the office of President.
Good luck and may God bless America."
115. THE NEW WORLD ORDER

     "Well," Mark O'Connor smiled, "they say that history repeats
itself, and that is a lesson that America has learned tonight. For
the second time in his political career, in a vid broadcast at
times heavily garbled by breaks, Richard Milhous Nixon has resigned
the presidency, the only president in history to do so, and
certainly the only president to do it twice.
     "The former President said that he was sorry for any
misjudgments, but claimed that his intentions were always in the
best interests of the nation. Well, I guess we won't have Dick
Nixon to kick around anymore, heh heh.
     "Tomorrow morning, Cabinet Secretary Neal Severant will be
sworn in as Nixon's successor. Paraphrasing former president Gerald
Ford in a statement to the press, Mr. Severant said that he hoped
that the President who brought order to America would find some in
his own life.
     "The republic of Russia has announced its support of a new
U.S. administration headed by Mr. Severant, as has the recently
reconstituted republic of Azerbaijan, the new democracy in Mexico,
and the resurgent nation of Germany. The U.S. has been maintaining
troops in all of these nations, and has provided aid in the form of
military advisors to the cause of reestablishing government control
in these parts of the world..."
116. COMFORT?

     Nixon looked around the Oval Office. There were only a few
things here that were really his: some disks of downloaded computer
records, a couple of odd plaques and certificates, and two bottles
of Chivas. He loaded them into an old duffel bag that he had found
in a closet, along with his shaving kit and the first clothing that
he could find.
     He looked at the computer on the big desk and felt something
tug at his heart, a pang of regret and loss... He had one last
piece of unfinished personal business...
     For the last time, he sat in the big chair and fitted the
headset over his eyes and ears. His head lit up with the stark
vibrancy of the cyberspace office.
     "Martha," he said. "Martha, where are you?"
     A snap and her representation appeared, her bright, checkered
skirt and glamorous hair providing Nixon with a moment of comfort.
     She was still beautiful, he thought, and cheerful. Nothing can
ever change that. Why didn't I remain faithful to her, instead of
that spacer tramp? Perhaps it was not all lost. Pat had stood by
his side even in the darkest hour of Watergate...
     "Hi, Dick," Martha's representation said. "This is a
prerecorded, interactive simulation."
     "Where is the real Martha? I need her. In realtime."
     "She's not available, but you can talk to me."
     "I guess that will have to do... Martha..."
     "Yes, Dick?"
     "Things aren't going well, Martha..."
     "I know, Dick, I know."
     "I fucked up."
     "Dick, sometimes the end of one thing is the beginning of
something new and better. You must know that."
     "It's happened too many times, now. Again and again I build
something up, and then, like an asshole, I destroy it."
     "Well, maybe you have been acting like an asshole, Dick, but
I believe there's more to you than that. There's more to everybody,
if they can just find it within themselves <20> even a hardened,
paranoid, anal politician like you."
     "Anal? I... Just what do you mean, anal?"
     "To paraphrase a friend of mine, most mammals mark their
territories with excretions, and humans mark their territories with
excretions of ink on paper, data on cybernet, words, bombs dropped
like great turds... These are the boundaries which you value so
highly, Dick; nationalism, patriotism, the Us versus Them
mentality, are all manifestations of an ancient mammalian anal-
territorial instinct. I believe it was the effects of this anal
preoccupation which caused the plague of rectal cancer which killed
the politicians. I really don't know how you escaped."
     "I, uh, I always ate well," he mumbled. "Lots of wheat
germ..."
     "Hmmm," the simulation said. "Perhaps."
     Nixon pondered this for a moment, but his thoughts returned
inexorably to his immediate feelings. "You are so good, Martha.
Loyal. Now that we are no longer on a professional basis, can we...
can we... can we actually meet? I need you. I need you."
     "Maybe we can meet... again. But first, I have something to
tell you, Dick. Something that I could not say before."
     "Yes? You can say anything to me, Martha. Anything. I know
that you will be honest with me. Open. Not like that spacer tramp.
That bitch who set me up."
     "We have met before, Dick. In person."
     Nixon wracked his memory, to no avail. "We have? When? Where?"
     "And we can meet again. But you must leave the Earth and come
into space."
     "Into space? You, too? Oh my God... You're another one. Just
like that tramp Marcia."
     "You don't quite understand, Dick. A computer representation
doesn't have to look exactly like its real-life operator. I...
Martha... am, have always been, Marcia."
117. ESCAPE FROM THE PYRAMID

     Stu had passed through a door, and for the rest of his life he
would be integrating the unique flow of information that he had
experienced. He had opened a door, but somehow, he knew, it wasn't
the mere physical thing which barred his escape from the pyramid.
And for some reason not fully formed in Stu's consciousness, that
didn't matter. He felt very much at peace, pure and confident.
     He removed the headset.
     The door was still very much closed.
     But there was something in his mind, knowledge, power, a new
neural circuit that ranged somehow through the systems around him,
through the minute electrical imbalances in the stone of the
pyramid itself, through the cybernet he had just explored, through
the colony cybernet beyond that, through the ancient control
systems of the pyramid.
     Yes, he thought, it was simple. He exerted his will, a little
flicker of thought-power, and the door slid open, a gust of fresh,
recirculated air washing into the chamber.
118. RECEPTION

     There was a round of applause from the passageway beyond the
door. Slowly, readjusting pleasantly to external reality, Stu stood
and strolled through the doorway.
     Hands were reaching out, clapping him on the back. Smiling
faces greeted him with hearty congratulations.
     "What?" he asked. "Congratulations?"
     There was a scattering of laughter.
     "You've done it," said Dr. Siva, grinning broadly. "You've
completed your initiation! Welcome. Welcome to Cydonia!"
     Stu began to focus in on the other faces: Mel Tzadi, now
smiling and seeming much more genial than Stu had ever seen him;
Bob Wilson, a novelist and philosopher well-known in the
extraterrestrial colonies, who Stu had met once a long time ago;
Stu's good friend and fellow band member Tim Leary; another old
friend, Marcia Bounty; a short black man with dreadlocks who Stu
did not immediately recognize; a diminutive white woman with long
red hair and dazzling green eyes, also unknown to Stu; and Justine,
who was naked and looking as dazed and radiant as Stu felt.
     "Come along, new initiates!" Siva said. "The party is
waiting!"
     The grinning group led Stu and Justine up the passageway, into
the upper chamber where there awaited luxurious purple robes for
the naked initiates, and a great feast spread out on a long table.
There was recorded music playing <20> Stu immediately recognized the
exuberant sound as his own band.
     Stu felt great. He felt like he had come home.
119. THE NIXON PROJECT

     "We found the system here," Siva explained while Stu stuffed
his mouth with stir-fried vegetables. "Chaos knows how old it all
is. The Face, I can only guess, is contemporary with Earth's
Sphinx, and we don't really know how old that is."
     "Twenty-five hundred B.C.," interjected Justine. "The time of
Pharaoh Kephran."
     "Probably not," said Bob Wilson. "Geologists in the early
nineteen nineties used seismic soundings in an attempt to date the
stone of the Sphinx, based on the water erosion evident along its
sides. The evidence seemed to suggest that it predated 10,000 B.C.
The evidence, as conclusive as it was to geologists, was never
accepted by the academic establishment <20> but then again, the
academic establishment never really accepted the reality of the
spin drive either."
     "Or the effectiveness of O.Z.," Siva said, chuckling. "Anyway,
it's old, very old. And when we found it here, the technology was
intact. Technology that we have yet to fully understand."
     "But just what is it?" Stu asked between mouthfuls. "I mean,
I experienced it, but I still don't quite know what I experienced."
     "As I'm sure you gathered, it's not unlike a modern worm
program," Siva went on, "but it's much more. It approaches, I
think, a true artificial intelligence. We've found several uses for
it. Initiation, for one; it has a structure which is isomorphic
with the qabalistic systems used for a thousand years. It can
function as a sort of messenger, or a vehicle for a cyberspace
operator. It can function as an oracle <20> which is really amazing,
because it has the ability to use the entire Space or Earth
cybernet as a database, and it presents its responses in a variety
of sensory modes. It seems to also function as a true, information-
gathering worm, but our experiments with that have been
mysteriously plagued by breaks, particularly in the case of our
Nixon project, as you already found out."
     "All right," said Stu, "I think maybe it's time to explain the
Nixon project. You led me on quite a chase..."
     There was general amusement at this. "Your interest was noted
quite early on," Siva said.
     "Yes," said Tim. "I was there all along, remember? When we met
Nixon?"
     "So we used it as a kind of bait," Siva continued. "The
initiation is sometimes more effective when the candidate doesn't
realize he or she is being initiated. Anyway, the Nixon project
began as the result of an oracle reading from the pyramid system.
We were concerned with the future evolution of the space colonies.
A few of the colonies, recently, have seemed to be reverting to
rigid, pre-space reality tunnels."
     "Especially colonies located within the heavier gravity
wells," the red-haired woman added. "There's one here on Mars, in
the North Polar Region, which actually approaches a form of
fascism."
     "Anyway," Siva said, "we remembered how some of us had freed
our minds somewhat back in our own pre-O.Z. days, back on Earth. We
wanted to design a program that would combine some of those older
techniques <20> including some of the rituals and initiations handed
down to the Magickal Children from such traditions as the Golden
Dawn Society, the O.T.O., the Temple of Psychick Youth, the
Rastafarians, the Justified Ancients of Mu Mu and so forth <20> with
O.Z. and microgravity work. We asked the pyramid worm and we got an
unusual answer: Nixon. Actually the answer was a form of the story
<EFBFBD> I'm sure you know it <20> The Tale of the Dead King, only Nixon's
name was somehow all mixed up in it."
     "Breaks?" Stu asked around a mouthful of Martian bean burrito.
     "At this point, we just don't know," Siva said. "We just read
it as oracle output at the time, but since then the incidence of
breaks associated with Nixon <20> and with the worm oracle <20> has made
us wonder. The weirdest thing is when the pyramid worm starts on
anything involving Nixon. That's when the data turns to total
chaos."
     "So you engineered Nixon's election?" Stu asked.
     "Sure, yes," Siva said. "But the shit really hit the fan when
we started the O.Z. therapy. After Nixon was conscious again, we
had to give up using the worm to track his cyberspace activities,
it was just too confusing. But, strange to say, it seems as if the
worm has continued to keep tabs on Nixon by itself."
     "Can it do that?" Justine asked. "Is it self-programming?"
     "We didn't think so at first," Siva said. "But now we really
don't know what it's doing. Actually we were hoping that the two of
you would help us with this. I mean, Justine, you're one of the
best cyberspace engineers anywhere <20> and Stu, you've already
demonstrated an interest in the Nixon project... Think about it."
120. OUT AND ABOUT

     The moving van arrived with Neal Severant's possessions, so
Nixon roused himself and left the White House. In a daze, his foul
mood accented by occasional snorts of Chivas, he wandered up
Pennsylvania Avenue. A warm wind blew up the street, propelling a
few stray bits of litter. A single bubble car chugged along,
heading in the direction of the Capitol. Nixon was relieved at the
absence of pedestrians.
     California, he thought. Maybe I'll go and walk the beach
again. There's a sort of peace there, an isolation from the
assholes, the motherfuckers who did this, who were turning America
back into shit.
      Past the old Department of Labor building, which now stood
vacant, broken shards of glass glittering where windows had once
been, he turned up Louisiana Avenue and made for Union Station.
     Traffic was light at the terminal. A few cars were parked near
the entrance, and a few people dressed in coarse, brown hemp leaned
against the wall near the door, passing a thin joint between them.
An old-earth type just coming out of the door jeered and gave Nixon
the finger as he went inside.
     He found his way to the ticket window.
     "One-way to California," he said.
     "Yeah," said the bored man behind the window. "Three hundred
seventy five dollars. Vocal recognition into the grill."
     Nixon said his name. The grill buzzed loudly and the readout
lit up: Insufficient Credit.
     "You got cash?" the man asked.
     Nixon turned and walked away.
     He found a bench along one wall and sat and drank for a while.
     This is the bottom, he thought. I'm a complete failure. No
friends. No place to turn. Not even a thin dime. Ninety-three years
old, and it just gets worse each time. Fucking assholes. Fucking,
goddamn, asshole spacers. Neal Severant. Asshole. Clinton Oestrike.
Asshole. Henrietta Groote. Asshole. Marcia/Martha...
     A group of old-earth types began to gather nearby, pointing
and staring at him. He took another gulp of scotch and moved on,
wandering back out of the terminal, into the daylight.
     Between Union Station and the former Senate office buildings
was a park that had become choked with bushes and weeds. Nixon
pushed his way through a thorny patch of wild blackberry,
unconcerned about tearing his suit. He found a small patch of grass
beneath a tree, out of sight from the street, took a long pull from
his bottle and lay down.
     "Shit," he mumbled out loud. "Goddamn buttfucking shit!"
     "Heh, heh, heh," a cracked voice said. "I told you so, you
motherfucker. I told you so. I told you the assholes'd get you."
     Nixon looked up into the ruined, lined face of Trump.
121. TRUMP

     "Gimme a hit of that," Trump said, grabbing the Chivas bottle
and settling himself to the ground next to Nixon. He took a long,
gurgling swallow, sighed and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his
tattered brown coat.
     Nixon sat up and propped himself against the base of the tree.
He took a long look at the former billionaire. Trump looked even
filthier than he had when Nixon had last met him. His scraggly
beard was tangled and matted with dried substances the nature of
which Nixon could not even guess. Trump's rusty shopping cart was
parked nearby, loaded to the top with scavenged debris. A cloud of
noisily buzzing flies hovered around both the cart and Trump.
     Nixon grabbed the bottle back, wiped the opening on the front
of his suit and sent a large, burning shot down his throat.
"Trump," he said. "Shit. What the hell do you want?"
     "Heh, heh, heh, you motherfucker. I want the same thing you
do, and you know it."
     "I just want to be left alone," Nixon said. "I want to die."
     "No you don't. Gimme that." Trump took the bottle back and
drank deeply. "Ah, that's good stuff, Nixon. It takes me back.
Shit. Nixon, I think you want exactly what I want, now. Shit. I
want my life back, Nixon. I want all the things I had. Real estate,
buildings, casinos, cars, yachts, women. Shit. Power. I want that
back. I want it all. Shit. I want revenge." He began to drain the
Chivas down his throat, chugging from the bottle until Nixon
grabbed it from his grasp. "That's what keeps me going, Nixon. I
haven't killed myself yet, and I don't intend to, because one
day... Shit. One day I'll have my chance."
     "Assholes," Nixon said, coughing as the liquor scorched his
throat. "Fucking assholes."
     "Yeah," said Trump. "Heh, heh, heh. Fucking assholes. Stick
with me, Nixon. We're in the same boat now. I can show you how to
survive around here. I know where to find all the good shit. Gimme
the fucking bottle, Nixon."
122. SOLAR SYSTEM BODY FIELD

     "Hey, bitch," said Lance. "It's time, bitch. We got our
orders."
     "Yeah," said the other soldier. "The new president, he says we
don't got any use for you goddamn spacers. Our orders, right from
President Severant himself, say to put you out the hatch."
     Diana drifted slowly up to external awareness and opened her
eyes. The soldiers were very close, holding onto grips on the
carpeted wall. They both now had unkempt beards and a noxious aroma
that made Diana gag. They probably didn't know how to bathe in
microgravity, she thought.
     "But you're lucky, bitch," Lance said, "'cause we're not gonna
do that. Not yet. We're gonna have some fun first. It'd be a shame
to waste a sexy spacer cunt like you without having a little fun
first."
     Diana looked over at Palmer. His eyes were open, a sign that
he was at least marginally conscious. The injured soldier tethered
to the wall nearby did not appear to be breathing.
     "Hold her for me, Fred," said Lance, stripping off his
fatigues. "Oh, yeah, this is gonna be good. I've been waiting for
this."
     "Wait a minute, Lance. I outrank you. I go first. You hold
her."
     "Shit. Well, you ain't gonna stretch her out too much." He
laughed. "I ain't worried."
     Diana tensed her muscles, and as Fred came toward her, she
spun around and struck.
     At least she tried to. The time spent weightless and
physically inactive had taken its toll. Her reflexes were off, her
arms and legs had little strength. The soldiers grabbed her.
     Lance tethered himself to the wall and held her tightly under
the arms. She could smell the sour aroma of his sweaty, unwashed
skin close against her face. Fred forced her legs open and began to
move in.
     Something deep inside her mind called out, a new thing, a new
strength which had developed while she had been here, the mystical
impossible comprehension that she had approached... Diana closed
her eyes again and let part of her mind slide back to where it had
been velocity solar system body field. Generate such a Hadit and
direction prana it is possible...
     "Hey," said Lance. "What the fuck?"
     The air around Diana's body became to shimmer.
     Fred released her suddenly, clutching his hands to his
stomach. "Oh, shit," he gasped, and began to retch.
     And she drifted in a shifting place of field being exposed to
of those generating prana the effect of effect in the bioelectrical
evolution Tesla US velocity. The stars flickered instantaneous
information across the light-years, can produce father such a field
by the intent.
     The shimmering air seemed to solidify, to whirl rapidly,
flickering with the hypnotic power of a spin field in heavy
gravity. It suddenly increased in magnitude, brightness, speed.
Diana shot rapidly away from the wall, her tether severed. The
soldiers, propelled as if from a centrifuge out of control, slammed
violently into the walls.
     Diana slowed, hovering motionless in the air, shimmering, her
eyes still closed. The bodies of the soldiers continued to bounce
around the interior of the cylinder, each pursued by a brilliant,
red cloud of blood globules.
123. SHIT

     "You see, I still have something, Nixon," Trump said. "This is
mine, now. All this shit."
     Nixon sucked booze from the bottle as Trump led him through
the deserted, trashed shopping mall. They had staggered through a
hole in a broken display window, Trump exhorting Nixon to help
maneuver the festering shopping cart.
     "What the hell is this?" Nixon had asked, gagging, as a gust
of wind carried a fetid blast from something in Trump's cart into
his face.
     "Fuel," Trump had said. "Heh, heh, heh. It burns the best."
     "It smells like shit," Nixon had responded.
     "It is," Trump said. "It is, motherfucker. Burns better than
wood, once it's dry. You'll learn, Nixon. You'll learn."
     Broken glass crunched under their feet as they made their way
around dried-out fountains and long-dead indoor landscaping boxes.
Stray, faded bits of packing material added drab color in the dim
lighting. Water dripped loudly from the ceiling, splashing into
numerous puddles on the floor.
     Nixon could see that little remained behind the shop windows,
but Trump proclaimed, "There's all kinds of good shit left here,
Nixon. All kinds of shit."
     Trump led Nixon through the empty ground floor of a vast
department store, the shopping cart clattering and echoing off the
bare walls. In the dim light filtering through a set of glass doors
at one end of the cavernous place, it appeared like the aftermath
of some kind of horrible battle, the bodies and dismembered limbs
of mannequins scattered through the debris. At last they came to a
door set inconspicuously against one wall. A plastic sign, dangling
from a single remaining screw, warned, "Keep Out. Employees Only."
     Trump rummaged through the debris in his cart for a moment,
retrieving the stub of a candle and a book of paper matches. After
several drunken tries he managed to get the wick ignited and led
Nixon through the door. As soon as he entered, Nixon was struck
with a sharp, acrid odor that cut through even the smell from Trump
and his cart. There was a brief scurrying sound.
     The room had once been an office; a rotting desk and several
plastic chairs still remained near one wall. In the flickering
light, Nixon could make out a big pile of shredded garbage in one
corner, and a scattering of pill-size, black pellets all across the
floor.
     Trump settled himself into one of the chairs. "Sit down,
Nixon, and break out that bottle."
     Only a tiny bit of scotch sloshed about in the bottom of the
first bottle, and the two men consumed it quickly.
     "What the hell's this?" Nixon asked as the alcohol soaked into
his bloodstream. "There's nothing in here."
     "Fuel," said Trump. "The best." He leaned forward in his seat
and picked up a black pellet from the floor, holding it close to
Nixon's face.
     "Ack," Nixon said. "It smells like shit."
     "It is. This place has the biggest motherfucking rats you've
ever seen. Look at this stuff, Nixon. I get the best shit. You
wouldn't believe how this shit burns." Trump got down on his hands
and knees. "Come on, Nixon. Help me gather it up. Get down here."
He started to scoop ratshit with his bare hands, squeezing it
together into a single lump.
     "Fuck you," said Nixon. "You fucking drag me here for this
shit. Asshole."
     "Get down here, Nixon. You want to survive? You want anything
at all in this world? There's no White House staff waiting on you
now, asshole. There's nothing left for you but shit. Just like me.
Nothing left. Get down here and start collecting."
     Nixon bristled, but lurched out of the chair nevertheless and
scooped shit with both hands. Shit, he thought. Trump. Asshole.
Severant. Asshole. Oestrike. Asshole. Groote. Asshole. Martha...
Marcia... Oh, shit.
     "So," Trump asked as they worked. "Whatcha got in the duffel
bag?"
     "My stuff," Nixon said.
     "What kind of stuff?"
     "My stuff," Nixon said. "It's mine. Fuck you."
     "Heh, heh, heh. Yeah, yeah. I don't want your pitiful shit,
Nixon. Ya got another bottle in there? Huh, Nixon?"
     Nixon said nothing. Shit, he thought.
     "Come, on, asshole. I heard it sloshing. Share the
motherfucking shit."
     Nixon looked at Trump, thinking, he's old and fucked up. I've
got a new young body. Could I take him in a fight? I bet I could.
But, damn, another drink would be good...
     Nixon rested his ratshit lump on the floor and, moving with
deliberate slowness, removed the second bottle of Chivas from his
bag. He opened it and took a powerful swallow. Still clutching his
turdball tightly in one hand, Trump moved toward Nixon and made a
swipe for the bottle. Nixon pulled the bottle from Trump's drunken
reach and the former billionaire fell forward, sprawling face down
on the pellet-strewn floor.
     "Motherfucker," Trump gasped, shakily righting himself.
     Nixon took another long pull of scotch and, chuckling grimly,
passed the bottle to Trump.
     "Asshole," Trump mumbled, swallowing booze.
     "Enough," Nixon said, grabbing the bottle back.
     "You shit," Trump said.
     Nixon sat back and drank.
     "Back to work, asshole," Trump said. "You're gonna want that
shit. You'll see. Listen to me, Nixon. I was right before. I told
you so. I told you they'd get you..."
     Nixon capped the booze and returned to the rat shit, working
his way across the floor, his shitlump getting bigger and bigger.
Shit, he thought, I want to kill. I want to kill all the assholes
who brought me to this. I want to...
     A noise beyond him and he spun around to see Trump grab the
bottle. Trump scuttled away quickly, drinking furtively from the
bottle, then stuffing it into his shopping cart.
     Nixon dropped his shit and came to his feet, the room spinning
around him. He moved toward Trump. "It's mine, asshole," Nixon
said.
     "It's mine now," Trump cackled. "It's in my cart. Everything
in my cart is mine. Mine, motherfucker!"
     Nixon staggered closer. He gauged the distance to Trump's head
and aimed a roundhouse swing, missing. Trump had swayed out of the
way, or maybe Nixon had swayed himself...
     Responding with drunken immediacy, Trump hurled the hard lump
of ratshit at Nixon. It struck him in the shoulder with surprising
force, causing him to stagger back a few steps.
     The rage swept through him and he advanced again on Trump.
"I'll kick your ass," he growled.
     But Trump was reaching in his cart, coming up with another
large turdball. "Asshole!" Trump shouted, hurling the shit.
     It slammed into Nixon's chest and he staggered back again.
Fury and alcohol burning hotly, he launched himself forward again.
     This time the heavy lump, drier and somewhat harder than the
last one, impacted on his left temple. There was a flash of light,
the room spun around, then darkness.
124. A DREAM

     Nixon crapped. He shit until his asshole burned, until his
insides ached, until everything he was had fallen fiery and fluid
to splash in the shuddering rectal plague. He shit fire until it
was all out, until he was empty, aching, acid.
     "Mother," he called. "I'm finished... Come wipe me, mother..."
     And his mother, with the godlike enormity of an adult to a
toddler, had to do was convince the old hag said all the
politicians. Her body was stars, the tiny bump of dark green and
crumbling swirling eddy breaks and slid into the dark night. His
friends all the politicians the old hag said stars us together.
Before him, while his mother was in Arizona, there was a vast
abyss, a pit of darkness and unending vacuum, and no way to cross
it.
     From where there was nothing, there was another stream of
fire, cooler and hotter, Ehrlichman that they should wear bring us
Gordon Liddy. Squatting bare-assed where the toilet had been,
Severant aimed a kick at Nixon's raw, burning a long strange dream,
a tough-ass president.
     Strangely clean, he launched forth into the water, the stars,
the impenetrable barrier, her gleaming, blue dress shining like the
beautiful ones, the vulture one. Like water through the eternal
gates B-52s mother the flowers that the end a shape extended.
     The locomotive leaped forth to the touchdown and beyond,
sailing in a brilliant arc through the goal posts into the
darkening sky. Nixon saw a wide curve of blue and white planet. His
child was growing in the womb of space, the blue, star-flecked
glory of Marcia, keep the dog, I'll be dipped in gleaming light.
Haldeman confused bring us together Hanoi of holy thing Cambodia.
Richard, now you have me. It was the way to win.
     The child grew and home crumbled nicely into Whittier dust and
the train carried him away...
125. IN THE NAME OF INFINITY...

     "Actually, I'm a little worried," Marcia said. "We've lost
track of Nixon all together. I'm afraid he may have done something
foolish."
     "Lost track?" Stu asked. "How can you lose track of the
President of the United States. Just watch the news."
     "We have been," Siva explained. "Nixon's not the president
anymore. He resigned. Again."
     "What? Wow, that's incredible," Stu exclaimed. "Again? Great
chaos! Is there a new president?"
     "Yeah," said Marcia. "that Cabinet Secretary, Neal Severant.
What a bastard he is. If you thought Nixon was bad..."
     "Oh, yeah? What's up with Severant?"
     "You haven't been following this?" Marcia asked. "Oh, I guess
not, Stu. Do you know about Freedom?"
     "Freedom? The colony?"
     "Yeah. Nixon captured it, took it back for America. That was
bad enough, but Severant has announced that he's going to kill the
prisoners, claims no one can afford to transport them anywhere."
     "In the name of infinity," Stu swore, standing. "I've got to
go..."
126. MEDITATION

     Nixon's head pounded. It was dark and the floor was hard and
gritty under his back. There were persistent scraping noises coming
from nearby. Consciousness was returning slowly and he groped for
memories to explain where he was.
     Shit.
     The stench of rodent waste filled his head and his stomach
heaved. He turned on his side and vomited a burning stream of
scotch and stomach acid onto the floor and the memory flooded into
his aching brain.
     "Trump!" he gasped.
     Something scurried away. There was no other response.
     Shit.
     That bastard. Nixon felt around in the dark. His hand brushed
against his duffel bag and he hugged it to him. He squeezed it and
found the square bulk of his shaving kit, the soft lump of
clothing, computer disks, but no bottle.
     "Trump! Are you still here, you bastard?"
     No response.
     Nixon's hand came up against a chair leg. He pulled himself up
and sat. His head throbbed. He wasn't sure if he was going to puke
again. He felt like he had to shit.
     Leaning heavily on the chair, he stood carefully. He found the
wall with his hand and felt his way around toward the door, in the
process accidentally splashing in his own vomit. He pushed the door
open and stepped out into the dim, gray light of the empty store.
There was no sign of Trump or his cart.
     My god, he really had to shit.
     Nixon wandered back the way that Trump had brought him, into
the mall and toward the broken window. On the way, a rest room sign
caught his eye and colonic pressure pushed him in.
     The toilets were empty, dry, but he used one anyway, shitting
out streams of liquor-fiery diarrhea. There was no toilet paper, so
he used his underwear, then threw it away.
     He found a faucet which miraculously still worked and he drank
rusty water for a long time, filling his stomach, resting for a few
minutes, then drinking again. Pressure was building in his bowels
again, so he returned to the bowl.
      He felt it in there, straining at his sphincter, but for some
reason it wasn't coming out. He waited for it to come, thinking,
where will I find another toilet?
     As he sat there, his thoughts began to drift back over the
past few days. He thought about Trump. He thought about the anger
that Trump had aroused in him over just a single bottle of scotch,
over a pile of shit. What has become of me? he thought. Squabbling
like a skid row bum... But it was strange, that same anger, it was
the same as he felt for Neal Severant, and that was not over
something small, that was about the course of history itself. But
the anger was the same...
     With that thought, his sphincter relaxed slightly and emitted
a tiny, hard turd.
     He thought a bit more about Neal Severant. He could see the
man's face, lean and pinched, serious. He could hear Severant
speaking in practical, cutting tones. I'm jealous, Nixon thought.
He's president now. I want the office back <20> the same way I wanted
the bottle back <20> just like Trump wants shit...
     And a slippery canoe of fecal matter set sail from the port of
posterior for a sea of brown. Ah, good, Nixon thought, but there's
more, I feel more.
     He thought about spacers, then, about the things that he
thought they wanted: industry, goods, money, territory, power... He
hated them because they wanted what was America's <20> they wanted
what was Nixon's... A spacer would sneak behind you, get right
up... violate...
     And his bowels heaved, a school of toilet fish flipping
through the sluice gate, running for the ocean. Good, thought
Nixon, come on, let's get the rest out.
     He thought about Clinton Oestrike and Henrietta Groote, about
how they took from him the things that were rightfully his. They
were little despots, he thought, gathering their shit about them
like industrious dung beetles, hoarding it all, holding it in
through good times and bad... It was the way they wouldn't let go
that he hated... If only they could just let go...
     And a blast of shit fired from his ass, a salvo of turds,
splashing loudly in the empty toilet.
     He thought about his political career, politics in general. It
had always been a matter of watching your ass, he thought, You've
always got to watch your ass... I can do that, he thought, that's
my success. I can take a few kicks, and I can dish it out...
     Anal retro-rockets fired, correcting course and attitude.
     Marcia called me paranoid, he thought. Paranoid and anal. He
remembered, then, what the Martha simulation had said when he had
last spoken with her: "Mammals mark their territories with
excretions, humans mark their territories with excretions of ink on
paper, data on cybernet, words, bombs dropped like great turds...
These are the boundaries which you value so highly..."
     Nixon saw, a frozen moment of memory, the face of Trump as he
threw a lump of hardened shit, the face of some grizzled, ruined
ape defending its meager territory. He saw Leonid Brezhnev, another
simian, ready to hurl missiles rather than concede. He saw war
footage of Viet Cong defending their imagined borders, shit-smeared
stakes protruding from the ground. He saw American bombers
releasing their load high over Cambodia...
     And the flood gates opened and the shitwater was rushing
through unimpeded. Bring he shit until the impenetrable the dark
night to splash in gleaming light. Vietnam protest there was
Marcia, another stream of fire Trump. The stars, the shuddering,
until his Severant raw Cambodia rectal plague. Hippies and slid
into swirling eddy shit breaks. It spewed from him until his
intestines ached, until he was truly empty. From where there was
until everything had fallen fiery and fluid, cooler and hotter, get
I'll be dipped in together spacers shit.
     Nixon's bowels convulsed <20> there was nothing left <20> and
something else began to rise inside him, the image of himself as an
animal, as a dog crapping piles of speeches and missiles, an ape
hurling great nuclear turd bombs, a political monkey screaming,
howling oaths and promises. From the gurgling, heaving center of
himself arose a laugh, a laugh that began as a bubbling chuckle,
and built its way up to something full-throated, free, and slightly
mad.  The laughter washed through him until even that was
exhausted. No shit left, no laughter.
     "Martha <20> Marcia," he said out loud, "you are right. I've been
an asshole. You have always been right. I love you."
     He wiped his ass on his baggy wool trousers, then tossed them
into the next stall. He went back to the faucet, stripped off the
rest of his clothes and washed himself as best he could. His
headache was beginning to subside.
     He opened his duffel bag for some fresh clothing and found
that the only thing he had packed, in his alcoholic haste to leave
the White House, was the brown, hemp-cloth suit that the medical
staff had provided him upon his recovery.
     He smiled and put it on. It's fitting, he thought, because
there's only one place left to go...
127. RESCUE MISSION

     Freedom swam into view, a glittering white star drifting
across the windshield. Stu glanced down at the computer screen and
checked the radar window; there were many smaller vehicles close to
the larger bulk of the space platform. This was not unusual for a
colony the size of Freedom, Stu reflected. He would have to rely on
visual reconnaissance as he got closer to determine how many of the
craft were Earth military vessels.
     He closed his eyes, the flickering of the spin drive indicator
playing across his closed lids, and allowed some part of his
consciousness to extend infinity lotus shimmering into the data and
circuits of the Macintosh. He had been practicing this throughout
the trip from Mars and it was becoming quite natural. A little
applied intent and the computer began course corrections to match
velocity and direction with Freedom. The colony grew, filling the
windshield.
     Although Freedom, in its present form, was laid out in a three
dimensional pattern, like a starburst, or a dandelion seed head,
the vehicles now clustered about it maintained a two dimensional
pattern, a ring around the central core of the platform. A wagon
train drawn up in a circle, Stu thought. Definitely American
troops. Space dwellers, if they had any kind of military intent,
would have created a complete sphere.
     He entered more course corrections, to bring the school bus in
from "above" the Earth vessels. As he came in even closer, he could
make out the nature of the vehicles which ringed the colony. Some
had a look that Stu remembered from long ago: police cars. A few
were larger vans, the long tubes of some kind of weapon protruding
from their hoods. And a good number, at least a dozen, were tanks.
     Stu sealed his helmet and activated the suit's life support
system. He looked down at himself and made one final inspection of
the paint job he had given the suit: dull black, non-reflective
space camouflage. I hope I can do this, he thought.
     The bus arced in gracefully and he was within a kilometer of
the colony before the American vessels began to move, swiveling
around to face him. The computer was receiving a warning on several
frequencies, but he ignored it. He closed his eyes again and let
his mind drift formless molecular I out across the gap of space and
touch the computer systems of the war craft. These were mostly
familiar, old scavenged Macintosh systems, clumsily programmed,
inelegantly organized. Experimentally, he directed a tank to swivel
around away from him. He opened his eyes to check; yes, one tank
was now facing the opposite direction.
     This could work, he thought. Just maybe...
     He returned his attention to his own vessel, made some more
course corrections, then glanced up again. A group of six tanks
were moving rapidly toward him. Quickly, he entered their systems,
scrambling their guidance software. He soon discovered that the
separateness of the individual computers limited him. He could
effect, at most, three of them at one time.
     But, for the moment, that was enough. The tanks were swinging
about randomly, turrets swiveling about ineffectively, in apparent
attempt to continue tracking the bus. Two of the tanks seemed to be
on collision course; one other was headed away from Stu, and from
Freedom, at high velocity. One of them fired a shot, a high-
velocity projectile of some kind that Stu did not recognize,
missing the bus by a good margin.
     Then nearly all the American vessels were in motion, moving
toward Stu. He dipped into their systems, sowing as much confusion
as he could. Two of the vans collided, a fuel explosion propelling
large, bent husks of metal in opposite directions. Five or six cars
were headed out of range at high speed. The vehicles still under
control frantically dodged their confused comrades. Projectiles of
various sorts were being fired. One tank was hit by friendly fire,
taking a good dent in one end. The flickering globe of its spin
drive disappeared and it drifted slowly away from the colony as its
atmosphere leaked out.
     Stu opened his eyes and glanced out the windshield. Damn, he
thought, I'm going to have to make some course corrections quick if
I want to dock. He turned his attention to his own system, working
out the delicate adjustments needed for rendezvous with a docking
bay. The corrections entered, he looked back out at the American
fleet.
     A few moments of control and they had returned to some
semblance of order. And they were now much closer.
     Quickly, Stu was back into their systems, scrambling things as
best he could. He worked fast and the chaos was impressive, but
they were still too close. Missiles raced in all directions, some
of them very close to the bus.
     Standby for Plan B, Stu thought. And as that thought crossed
his mind, the bus gave a mighty lurch, a projectile slamming into
its rear. The atmosphere puffed out, whistling briefly around Stu's
sealed suit. The bus was now, again, off course, and too close to
make additional corrections.
     One last, frantic dip into the Earth fleet computers, a last
swirl of confusion, and then Stu untethered himself and climbed out
of his seat. He unsnapped the inner seal around a window and
pushed, the emergency exit swinging outward. He pushed himself
through, out into open space, shoving off hard to clear the bus as
quickly as possible. He aimed himself at the colony and fired his
suit's maneuvering jets, then closed his eyes and entered the bus'
computer. In spite of the damage to the passenger compartment, the
spin drive was still functioning properly. Stu beyond flowing
multiplicity system turned the bus and sent it out at a new angle,
away from the colony.
     As he had hoped, the Earth ships, now under full control,
turned to pursue the school bus.
     Stu floated across the void toward the colony. He rotated to
take one last look at the bus. As he watched, one of the vans fired
some enormous weapon. The bus exploded spectacularly into thousands
of tiny, spinning and twirling fragments of twisted yellow metal.
128. ESCAPE

     "Come on, Palmer," Diana urged. "Come on. Let's get out."
     "What? Huh?" Nicholas Palmer roused uncertainly to
consciousness.
     "Now's our chance Palmer," before anyone comes looking for
Lance and Fred." She gestured toward where the soldier's bodies had
come to rest against a recirculation intake.
     "No, Diana, no. Where could we go... We don't have suits... We
don't have a car..."
     "We've got something, Nicholas. I've got something. I think
you know... Whatever we've got, we've got to use it. You heard
them, I think. They intend to kill us. I'd rather die trying to get
out than just wait for them."
     Palmer considered this, then said, "All right. Yes, you're
right. Where do we go?"
     There was a distant thud against the side of the cylinder.
     "Something's going on," Diana said. "Come on."
     She pushed Palmer ahead of her, in the direction of the access
lock at the far end of the cylinder, then pushed off after him. The
muscles in her legs felt weak and strange. Palmer grabbed a
handhold near the lock and Diana joined him.
     "Get in the lock," she said.
     Palmer hesitated and Diana reached past him and unsealed the
inner door. She strained at the handle until the door swung open
and pulled Palmer inside with her, sealing the door behind them.
     Palmer looked around. "Now what?"
     Diana said nothing, just closed her eyes and instantaneous
information across the light-years, bioelectrical mother death
concentrated. The air around her began to shimmer, motes of
flickering light cohering into a pattern, forming a globe.
     "Now, quickly," she hissed, "open the lock. Open it."
     Palmer threw his entire feeble strength into the work and
unsealed the outer lock. A gust of atmosphere from the lock chamber
swept them out into space, the two floating naked inside a now
fully formed bubble of flickering light.
129. NO DISGRACE

     Nixon approached the White House from the rear, slipping
through a gap in the rusted cyclone fence. In the bright morning
light, he could see his objective gleaming on a newly cleared patch
of lawn just behind the building. Just as he had expected, Oestrike
had returned military hardware to the government when Nixon had
left, and there was at least one spin drive craft for President
Severant's personal use.
     But it was not the kind of car that Nixon had expected. It was
not Air Force One. It was something much better.
     It was the spin drive locomotive, huge and shiny on the green
grass.
     Nixon grinned in spite of his grim purpose. Yes, he thought.
This feels right. This is what I must do.
     He crept through the overgrown gardens. From behind a tree he
surveyed the situation. A single sentry was posted next to the
locomotive, a soldier who had once been part of Nixon's personal
guard. Nixon's estimate of the soldier's intelligence was not
flattering.
     Nixon looked around, through the weeds, and found a large
chunk of fallen branch. He picked it up and hurled it off into the
bushes where it landed with a loud crash. The soldier jumped into
an alert stance, looking in the direction of the noise. After a
moment, he started off into the bushes, gun at the ready.
     As soon as the soldier had left the area of cleared ground,
Nixon darted forward toward the locomotive. He leaped for the door,
pulled it open, jumped inside, and locked the door behind him.
     That was easy, he thought. That was really easy. I did it!
     "Nixon!" said a voice.
     He turned to face Neal Severant. The new President was seated
in the pilot's chair, a computer keyboard resting on his lap.
     "What the hell are you doing here, Nixon?"
     Nixon smiled. "This is mine, Neal. I want this locomotive."
     "Guard!" Severant yelled. There was banging at the door.
     "That's okay," Nixon said. "It's locked. I doubt he can get
in."
     "You're interfering with my mission, Nixon. You're interfering
with an important United States mission!"
     "And you never interfered with my mission, Neal? You
interfered with my mission, with my life, Neal. You owe me one.
Just get off, give me the train, and you'll never see me again."
     "With your mission? You were a dupe all along, Nixon. You were
a spacer dupe, and we had to get rid of you."
     "I was a spacer dupe? I don't think so. I was always true to
my own agenda. You, Neal, you were swayed by the spacer propaganda,
the campaign to remove me from office, to halt the progress I had
begun."
     "That was no spacer propaganda, Nixon, you fool. You want to
know who Cheap Coat was? You're looking at him. You want to know
who bugged your little nursie's love nest? Me, Nixon, me."
     "You are truly an asshole, Severant. You ruined me, but you
didn't defeat me. Millions of Americans voted to put me office.
When the truth comes out, and it always does, believe me, they will
turn against you. You will not be able to keep your power."
     "Power doesn't depend on votes, Nixon. No, this is power." He
patted the bulk of the rail gun where it passed through the
cockpit. "Do you know how many people voted for you? Three hundred
and fifty three. That's all. And that's only because one of the
voting machines was put in the rest room of a McDonald's. There was
no opposition, so what did it matter? No one cared, Nixon. No one."
     "That's in the past, Neal. It doesn't matter now. What matters
now, and I'd like to make this particularly clear, is that you are
getting off this train. Now." Nixon advanced on the President.
     Severant gaped at Nixon, pupils dilating. He groped in a shirt
pocket and pulled out a tiny blue pill, jamming it in his mouth and
swallowing.
     "What is that, Neal? What did you just take?"
     "Nothing... I didn't..."
     "That's the same thing you gave to Henrietta Groote, isn't
it?"
     "Yes. Yes, it is. It's called Betanol. It disconnects some
unwanted mental functions. Fight or flight. Conscience.
Uncertainty. It makes me a little more of an effective politician,
don't you think? A little more like you, Nixon. Like you used to
be. How do you think I restored governments in Russia, in Germany?
There weren't any politicians left. Some betanol, Nixon... I made
politicians."
     "Damn you, Severant." Without further warning, Nixon jumped
forward and leveled an uppercut at Severant's head. The blow landed
solidly, the President's head jerking backward. Severant was
rattled but still had enough sense left to push himself forward,
striking Nixon with his full weight. The two men fell over onto the
metal floor.
     Nixon rolled, getting Severant beneath him, pinning him to the
floor with his knees. He got his hands around the President's
throat.
     "Wait, Nixon," Severant said. "Wait. It's not too late. You
want a job? You can be Cabinet Secretary. No disgrace. No dishonor.
I promise. I'll take it back. Really, just don't..."
     Nixon lifted and then slammed Severant's head against the
floor. The President fell unconscious. Nixon checked to make sure
Severant was still breathing.
     He looked out the windows on the side of the locomotive and
saw that the guard was away from the door, apparently patrolling on
the other side. He quickly unsealed the door and pushed Severant
out onto the lawn.
     He jumped into the command chair and took a look at the
computer screen. It was all very simple. The screen bore a single
message: "Course loaded. Press Enter to launch."
     Nixon pressed Enter.
130. NAKED IN A BUBBLE

     "Diana!" Palmer called. "Diana, are you all right?"
     Diana, in mystical impossible comprehension yin together
beyond the physical activity of the can produce father such a field
by the intent, nodded slightly. The effort to maintain the field at
this strength was great, almost overwhelming, and complicated by
the need to maintain some contact generating Tesla effect in spin
drive ELF with the reality of normal sensory information.
     Her eyes open barely a slit, she could see, against the vast
starry backdrop of space, a disorderly fleet of ships and a cloud
of metallic debris glittering in the stark sunlight.
     "Keep close to the cylinders," Palmer said. "Let's get on the
other side, out of sight. Maybe there'll be a parked car..."
     The bubble of spin frequency which held them floated smoothly
around the side of the cylinder in which they had been imprisoned.
     "Wait!" Palmer exclaimed. "There's someone there, on the
cylinder. In a suit. See? It's black."
     Diana was marginally aware of a dark figure moving slowly
across the white surface of the cylinder, playing squirrel with the
fleet of war vessels. Something about the figure looked familiar.
It was not an American spacesuit; it was definitely of spacer
manufacture. In fact, it looked a lot like a suit that Stu had, but
it was black...
     "I don't see any weapons," said Palmer. "Perhaps it's another
prisoner. Can we go in for a look?"
     Soon they were close enough to see the face behind the tinted
faceplate, gazing at them with goggle-eyed disbelief. Then the
figure was waving frantically, shouting something which they could
not hear.
     With the limited bit of consciousness available for visual
observation, Diana knew this was a friend... she recognized... she
generate such a Hadit bring and direction prana it is possible...
     "Great chaos," said Palmer, "what are you doing?"
     The flickering bubble was growing a bulge, a shimmering
pseudopod which reached out and engulfed the suited figure. Stu
floated gently in toward Diana and Palmer, undogging his helmet.
     "Bloody hell," said Stu. "I came to rescue you, but I guess
you didn't really need me..."
131. UP THE WELL

     The locomotive raced up through the atmosphere, the Earth
dropping away so rapidly that Nixon was overwhelmed, entranced by
the spectacle. On the computer's screen, a map of sorts had
appeared, showing the projected course of the train. The
destination, clearly labelled, was no great surprise: Freedom. In
one corner of the screen, a window displayed the spin drive
indicator, which cast a flickering aura of surreality inside the
cockpit. The flickering slowed gradually as the craft ascended.
     The sky was growing dark, stars blinking into existence, the
Earth's sweeping curvature below. Nixon took a deep breath. His
heart raced with fear and excitement.
     He looked at the computer. I'll wait until I get near Freedom,
he thought, to try any course changes. If I interrupt this, I might
be lost...
     Ahead of him, a glittering white object was rising above the
horizon.
132. WHERE ARE WE GOING?

     "Can she speak?" Stu asked. "Is she all right?"
     "Leave her alone as much as you can," Palmer said. "Her
concentration maintains this. She's aware just enough to get us
where we're going."
     "And where are we going?"
     "We're looking for a parked car, something we can take."
     "Chaos," said Stu. "I didn't see anything on the way in. Just
the damn Earth fleet. There's a wrecked Winnebago... that's all I
saw."
     "Damn," said Palmer.
     They drifted around to the far side of the space platform.
There was nothing. Stu opened one of his suit's air bottles and
allowed some fresh air to bleed into the bubble.
     "Diana," Stu said, "can we travel? Can we go anywhere?"
     In response, the bubble began to drift slowly, ever so slowly,
away from the colony.
     We'll never make it anywhere, Stu thought. We'll run out of
air first.
     They floated in silence.
133. ADRIFT

     Stu looked at Diana. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to
make love to her one final time before they died naked in space. He
refrained, watching her with quiet admiration as she maintained the
incredible field of energy which was keeping them alive.
     I'm not the only one who's grown, Stu thought.
     "There's something coming," Palmer said. "From down the well."
     Stu looked and saw a craft approaching, something very large
with a bright American flag on its metallic side.
     "Damn," said Palmer. "Can we get away?"
     "No, wait," said Stu. "It's alone. One ship I can handle."
134. CORPSES

     As Freedom grew to fill the windows, Nixon made a few
tentative attempts to access the computer, tapping some keys at
random. Nothing seemed to happen, then all of a sudden the
locomotive swung around, turning from its course, and swooped
directly toward the cylinders and floating maze of tubes which was
the colony. To his surprise, he saw no other ships of any kind.
     But just ahead, directly in his path, was something very
strange. It appeared to be three corpses floating free in space,
one of them very unusual and elongated.
     As he came closer, the elongated body turned. Nixon saw that
its 
eyes were open. It was watching him. It was alive. Alive in space.
The other two, a man in a helmetless suit and a naked woman, seemed
unconscious. But they looked familiar.
     The locomotive slowed and stopped dead in space. The three
bodies drifted right up to the side of the locomotive. There were
dull sounds from the other side of the closed door. Nixon looked
out the small porthole in the door.
     The elongated one was gesturing, entreating him to open the
lock. He hesitated, then, somehow compelled, swung open the door.
     A puff of atmosphere was lost, but not much before the three
had been pulled through the lock and the door sealed behind them.
They came to rest against the cushioned surface of the far wall.
     The elongated one grabbed a handhold and floated. The woman
seemed asleep. The man in the spacesuit looked at the woman,
touched her, then looked up.
     "Bloody hell!" Stu said. "Nixon!"
135. AN EGG OF THOUGHT

     "Don't worry," Nixon said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm
going into space myself... I... uh... I could use some help..."
     "We need to get out of here," Stu said. "Before the Earth
fleet sees us. Let's go."
     "Yes, yes," said Nixon. "I... uh... I don't know how to fly
this..."
     "Where do you want to go?" Stu asked.
     "Mars," said Nixon. "I have a friend there."
     Stu closed his eyes. The patterns on the screen began to
change. The vessel swung around, away from the colony.
     Nixon looked out into infinity. His heart pounded with
knowledge of potential, understanding of uncertainty. A pale
glimmering of synesthetic feelings, a symphony swelling in motes of
flickering light, an egg of thought growing moist as the gates
carried the water through, inside of him, there was something else,
swirling eddy of sparkles, a shape, a thought...
     The locomotive accelerated into the darkness of space.

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