The Clockwork Century: Fiddlehead Part 11

"For a woman?"

Her eyebrows tensed into something very close to a frown. "For me. It's not my fault you fellows are so reluctant to let us play. Worried you'll be beaten by a lady, I expect."

"That's got nothing to do with it." The protest sounded a bit weak, even in his own head. "I'm not remotely concerned about being bested by you, or anyone else."

"You ought to be. You won't be president much longer, Mr. Grant. What power you have, you've squandered. You've pa.s.sed it off to men who are weaker than you, but quicker and cleverer. And you're reaping the rewards already. Their crimes are your responsibility." She shrugged prettily, wickedly. "Perhaps you're comfortable with that. For all I know, it's the most useful truth you learned in the army-how the man on top is the one who takes the blame. Tell me, do you think that's why you were allowed to become president?"

"I wasn't *allowed' the office. I was granted it by the voters."

"Whatever you prefer to tell yourself, sir. But if you think for a moment that the rest of us had nothing to do with your appointment, then you know less about how the world works than I thought."

Gruffly, he laughed. "The world is a battlefield, Miss Haymes. And I clawed my way to commander in chief because I am the best at what I do."

"You were shoved into the role by people who wished to manipulate you, and take advantage of your political ignorance."

"You don't know anything about me. Or why I took the nomination, or why I've stayed as long as I have."

She sighed, as if this whole conversation had gone beyond the tedious and he was missing her every point. "Very well. Then we know nothing about one another, and this is all one great mystery-like how we ended up in this room, together."

"Don't say that like you planned it, because we both know you didn't." He almost added that she was wrong, that he could guess or infer a great number of things about her; he knew her kind. But he didn't want to tip that hand, or give her anything else to refute.

"Of course I did. You sent your secretary after Desmond on that ridiculous Sunday errand. I laughed, but he's too greedy, too excited that you were offering him what he'd demanded. It didn't occur to him that you might be up to something."

He still didn't believe her. "But it occurred to you."

"It's a simple trick, which is why it worked, I suppose. An oldie but goodie, as they say. Magicians do it all the time: Distract the audience with one hand, so they miss what the other is doing."

"You like magic tricks, do you?"

"Very much." She nodded. "I wanted to be a magician when I was a child. My father told me there was no such thing as a woman magician. That was the first time I hated him."

"Because he was right?"

"Oh, no. He was entirely wrong. I hated him because I was too weak to prove it at the time. I think if he were still alive now, he might grant that I have indeed become a Mistress of Illusion, after a fas.h.i.+on."

Grant didn't like where this was going. "And what audience have you spellbound lately? What illusions did you perform while they were distracted?"

She pursed her shapely lips in a smile, showing no teeth, but something else instead ... some unkind, happy trait that made his skin crawl. "All the world's a stage, Mr. President, not a battlefield. I believe the Bard would have my back on that one. And if I told you how the trick worked, I'd be a terrible magician, wouldn't I?"

"It's also a terrible magician who performs a trick that no one notices."

"Oh, all right then," she said crossly-but lightly, as if her irritation was feigned. She wanted to be asked. She wanted to answer. "By way of throwing you a bone ... you agreed to my amnesty because you believed I needed it. Poppyc.o.c.k! Utter illusion, from start to finish."

"Is that so? Then what do you really need?"

"You'll find out soon enough," she said. Her promise was every bit as unsettling as her smile.

"That sounds rather like a threat."

"Oh, no. If I wanted to threaten you, I'd pull out the gun that's sitting in my lap. I'm reasonably certain it overrules your ... hammer."

"And you think that's all I brought?" he asked.

"Whatever gun you're carrying, you can't reach it more quickly than I can reach mine. And since I win that particular little gambit, let's move on to the next one. I'll start: Tell me, what did you hope to find here, in Desmond's office?"

"Brandy."

"Oh, droll, sir. Very droll. Particularly since I offered you a drink, and you declined. So what else were you looking for? I'm game to play along."

"Nothing that's any concern of yours."

"I doubt that very much," she said. "At present, almost any affair of Desmond's is an affair of mine."

Grant found that prospect alarming, but unsurprising. He only let the latter sentiment show. "I'm certain that const.i.tutes some breach of national security."

"Then arrest me."

"Apparently I can't."

"So why don't you ask me whatever burning questions you hoped to have answered? We both know you can't touch me, so I have no reason to lie. You never know-it might be easier than rifling through Desmond's drawers."

It would be easier, if he could believe anything she'd willingly tell him. Still, he might learn something from her falsehoods, if he asked for the right ones, in the right way. "All right," he tried. "What's the true nature of Desmond's project? The one I've signed off on, but know so precious little about."

"How much do you know already?" she replied-which wasn't an answer, but the basis for another trick. It was one Grant had used himself in the past, usually while trying to manage someone who outranked him.

"I know it's based on the technology you deployed against Union prisoners in Tennessee. Some kind of gas, wasn't it?"

She didn't rise to the bait. Maybe it wasn't bait. "Some kind of gas, yes. One hundred percent effective, both as a killing agent and as a psychological weapon."

"One hundred percent?" he exclaimed, knowing he'd picked the less interesting of the two things to ask about. But he'd get to the other one shortly.

"Yes. Better than that, really."

"How so?"

"One hundred percent of the soldiers were neutralized, and some of the neutralized soldiers killed those who had avoided the test weapon altogether. It was awful," she said, so flatly that Grant thought maybe she meant "awful" in the Biblical sense rather than any humane one. "Best of all, word traveled fast, through the survivors-and the guards, the administrators, nearby neighbors, and pa.s.sers-through. The incident went from a scientific experiment to a legend in less than a week."

"Experiment?" He choked out the word, wondering how many helpless men had died at this woman's hand, only to be dismissed by such a clinical term.

"A tactic, then, if you prefer. You've killed more men in a casual afternoon strategy when you still manned the front. Though not so brutal as your cohort Sherman, I believe; I'll give you that much credit," she said, but her voice darkened, and Grant had a feeling he'd received no credit whatsoever. "You never scorched the earth. You never burned the homes of women and children who were already dest.i.tute and left them with less than nothing. And that, sir, is why I've left my gun in my lap and tolerated this conversation."

Privately, Grant had similar sentiments about his fellow general; but it wouldn't do to share them, and he refused to give her the idea that they might hold any feelings in common. It would only give her power, and he'd lost enough of that already.

"I suppose I should thank you for your patience," he said, not believing for a moment that it was patience that prompted her to give him an audience. It was something else, crueler and more calculating. She wasn't there to answer questions; she was there to ask them. So it was up to him to ask them first. "Now, let's see how long I can persuade you to indulge me. Tell me about the weapon. Tell me about the project. I don't even know its name, if Desmond ever gave it one."

"Project Maynard," she graciously supplied.

"Maynard? A rather ... uninspiring t.i.tle. Not very evocative of a plan to wipe out a nation."

"Of course not. That's the point of a code name, isn't it? It's fitting, though. Named for the first man to die of the gas."

Grant filed that bit of information away, suspecting it was minor enough to be true. "How does it work?" he pressed, wringing the conversation out, even if it only told him things he already knew, or half-truths to wonder about later. He wouldn't have her attention for too much longer-he could sense it-so his questions became more direct.

"The gas kills anyone who inhales it. But a significant portion of those who breathe it don't stop moving. Instead, it takes over their nervous system and makes them into mindless cannibals. They turn on their fellow men, spreading the contagion while seeding terror."

"I should think so," murmured Grant. "If I heard that dead men were coming to eat me, I'd be quite terrified."

She leaned forward, her th.o.r.n.y smile brightening. "Oh, but that's not even the worst of it. Everyone's afraid to die, yes, but everyone dies eventually-we all know it, even if we'd rather not think about it. But imagine all the horrors of dying, without the reward of resting. Imagine no longer being in control of your own faculties, at the mercy of a chemical flood, a brainless compulsion that turns you against the people you once knew and loved. That, Mr. President, is truly a fate worse than death. And our studies have shown that, indeed, men fear becoming one of the shambling plague-walkers more than they fear a bullet to the head."

It was such a precise comparison that Grant knew it must be based in experience, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. He couldn't bring himself to say anything, for a moment.

"So this is what it's come to."

She reclined, somewhat crossly. Apparently that wasn't what she'd wanted to hear. "Yes, this is what it's come to. You want the war to end? This is how you end it."

"It sounds ... unethical. Unfair. It doesn't sound like war; it sounds like cheating."

"Call it what you like. But for all your talk of preserving and restoring the Union, I'm the only one doing anything about it. You've been sending boys to do the jobs of men. It hasn't worked out. Now it's time to give a woman a crack at it. And let me a.s.sure you: I will do what needs to be done. I'll do what none of you have been able to do so far, or what you haven't had the stomach for."

Grant shook his head, then sat forward to tap one finger on the edge of the desk for emphasis. "Now, Miss Haymes, it is my understanding that this weapon is only effective for a mile or so-that's one of the only things I know about it for certain-and that it's too big and heavy to be deployed from a cannon, or even hurtled down a hill. That was my complaint to Desmond, when he brought it up: Your magnificent war-ending weapon needs a team of, what-two dozen men? At least?-to deploy it, and those men will almost certainly die in the delivery. Even if we could find men willing to sacrifice their lives on account of this stunt, it's highly unlikely that one of these gas bombs would be enough to end the war. I'm not certain it could even turn the tide, except to galvanize the South. Deploying a weapon of such ... terror, that was the word you used? Deploying such a thing will frighten them more than it will harm them."

"And fear does no harm?"

"Sometimes fear is a source of strength. You're talking about a nation that has been at war for an entire generation-and, like what's left of the United States, their population has become almost complacent about it. Warfare has become the standard of existence, a miserable constant, but a predictable one, given this long-running stalemate."

"But it's not a stalemate," she argued. "The South is in decline."

He launched the tapping finger of emphasis once more. "Precisely. We have held on long enough that they're finally bending under the weight of this conflict. To change the rules now is to risk a resurgence in effort and planning on their part. Your weapon will give them something new to rally against-it will give them back the focus they've begun to lose."

"You're wrong," she told him. "And if a few dozen men are required to safely transport the Maynard, then a few dozen men are an acceptable sacrifice. Military men know the danger of a.s.suming the uniform. They'll likely die with or without any treachery on their government's behalf."

Exasperated, he gave up on the finger and threw his hands in the air. "Precious few of the men who serve us now signed up to do so of their own accord!"

"Fine. So it's murder either way you look at it. The government conscripts them and sends them to war, and they die. The result is the same. I don't understand why you're taking such issue with the particulars."

"I don't understand how you write them off so easily," he complained. "And I do not believe that wasting good Union men on a square mile of devastation could possibly turn the tide of the war, except to turn it against us."

"You've made your case. We must agree to disagree."

A clattering outside in the hall made them both stop talking.

A maid appeared with her cart. She gasped at the gla.s.s and swore at the cleanup required ... then spied two people chatting-amiably by all appearances-within the breached and broken office. She opened her mouth to say something-likely an admonition, or a reminder that these offices were closed.

Then she recognized Grant, and her expression s.h.i.+fted from irritation to surprise, then to concern that she'd interrupted something she shouldn't have. "Mr.... Mr. President," she stammered. "I ... I didn't realize it was you."

He forced himself to smile at her. "Mr. Grant will work just fine, my dear. And I do apologize about the mess. It's my fault entirely."

Katharine rose from her spot behind Desmond Fowler's desk and smiled as well. Grant hated it when she did that. It was as if every upturn of her lips lowered the temperature in the room by a few degrees. But she was kind to the girl, saying only, "I hope you'll pardon us. Mr. Fowler sent me to retrieve some important doc.u.ments, and Mr. Grant was kind enough to see me inside, but he must have closed the door too hard, and ... Well, these things happen. I'll leave an extra tip on the desk for your trouble."

"Oh ... thank you, ma'am. Miss. Ma'am." The girl finally settled on an address. "That'd be very kind of you. And if you'll just lock up behind yourselves.... Or ... don't bother with that, I guess. I'll come back in a little bit."

Katharine shook her head. "No dear, that won't be necessary. The room's all yours. The president and I were just leaving."

Ten.

"The war will end, and no one will be the victor. This is the a.s.sured outcome, provided that the menace that threatens both North and South is not addressed, and addressed immediately-with the full attention, commitment, and vigilance of the governments and people on both sides. This menace has many names, some regional, some colloquial.

"I am speaking, of course, with regards to that peculiar affliction that ruins men-and sometimes women-throughout the continent. You've seen the symptoms, or heard of them at least: A yellow tinge to the skin, particularly around the eyes and joints; difficulty breathing; a running nose with b.l.o.o.d.y mucus; receding gums and protruding teeth; an emaciated, cadaverous appearance; and, eventually, a mindless pursuit of human flesh. And although those who carry the affliction cannot spread it, their bites spread a gangrenous rot that is very often fatal. Among doctors and scientists it's commonly described as *necrotic leprosy'-but this term is not well known outside those circles.

"This-not the war-is the crisis of our time.

"For quite some time, this plague progressed quietly, taking primarily soldiers in its grip, because soldiers were the primary consumers of the substance which is believed to cause the disease: a common, inexpensive drug sometimes called saffron, which is smoked or otherwise inhaled. But increasingly, unaccountably, the situation has worsened to such an extent that thousands are dying by the day-either by drug use and subsequent sickness, or through the cannibalistic a.s.saults that follow. Our troops are being decimated, and the Confederate troops are similarly burdened.

"But this must not be considered a purely military matter. The walking plague is now escaping the uniformed ranks and spilling into civilian society, taking not merely those soldiers who contaminate their bodies with the drug, but also those who struggle to live in the midst of this never-ending war.

"The war must end, and it must end immediately. If it does not, this creeping horror will consume the continent beyond salvation by 1886. Figures in the rest of the world are more uncertain, but rest a.s.sured this is not merely a problem of North and South. This is a problem of which the planet must be made aware, and the U.S. must lead by example. The threat is a scientific fact, measurable by advanced calculating engines created by the nation's top scientists."

Gideon paused there, and looked up at Nelson Wellers. "I don't understand why I can't just name myself. I'm the top scientist. It's my machine." He fondly, almost wistfully imagined the Fiddlehead as it'd been before the sabotage-all bright keys and jaunty levers, chewing up numbers and possibilities, offering its direct, complex answers on a roll of paper. Cryptic only to others. Never to him.

"That you are, and that it is. But most people don't know your name, and those who do might be ... disinclined to take your warnings as seriously as you'd like them to be received."

The wistfulness melted, and he glared across Lincoln's library in the doctor's direction. "Because I'm a negro."

The physician shrugged and shook his head. "It doesn't help, but that's not the whole of it. Don't look at me that way. You've taken great pains to remain more or less anonymous. Well, congratulations. No one knows who you are. Your campaign has been a roaring success."

Gideon glared some more, but didn't argue. He returned his attention to the handwritten draft before him, and continued reading aloud, his last review before heading off to the papers. "The Union is aware of these scientists and their devices, and President Grant has been advised on the matter." He looked up again. "Bit of an exaggeration, isn't it?"

Wellers shrugged again. "Lincoln said he talked to him. Even if he didn't, or even if their conversation skirted around the issue ... the president will surely want an audience with you when your letter goes public. You can brief him then."

"To explain myself, yes. I expect you're right-and perhaps it's an underhanded means of gaining an audience, but it will almost certainly work. Very well. That part stays."

He picked up where he'd left off. "President Stephens has been informed of the dire situation as well. Though details are not available to the author of this letter, this devastation allegedly affects Southern troops at a rate twice that of Northern ones."

Wellers held up a finger to interrupt. "You made that part up, yes?"

"More or less. There's always a chance that the problem isn't any worse down South, but since virtually all problems are, it's a safe enough guess. I can't offer up the Fiddlehead's figures because the incoming stream was incomplete. The results are speculative, by the machine's own admission, but within a calculated margin of error."

Wellers chuckled softly. "You talk about that thing like it has a mind of its own."

"It does," Gideon a.s.sured him. "It has mine, only better. And besides, I see no good reason to tell the South that their problems aren't as bad as ours. Let them think they're taking the brunt of it, a.s.suming we can get this message to go public down there." He set his papers atop his knee. With more earnestness than he usually felt or showed, he asked, "Do you really think this sounds all right? It feels odd. It doesn't sound like me at all."

His companion smiled. "I thought that was the point."