The City of Mirrors
Page 26
“It’s all right.”
“And it gives you the chance to raise your boy. To be around for him.”
Peter sensed a strategy unfolding. He nodded.
“I never had children,” Sanchez said, somewhat regretfully. “One of the costs of the office. But I understand your feelings. So let me say right off that I’m sensitive to your priorities, and nothing about what I’m proposing would get in the way of that. You’ll be there for him, just as you are now.”
Peter knew a half-truth when he heard one. On the other hand, Sanchez’s approach was so carefully laid he couldn’t help but admire it.
“I’m listening.”
“What would you say, Peter, to joining my staff?”
The notion was so ludicrous he almost laughed. “Forgive me, Madam President—”
“Please,” the woman cut in with a smile, “it’s Vicky.”
He had to admit it, the woman was masterful. “There’s so much wrong with the idea I don’t even know where to begin. Just for starters, I’m not a politician.”
“And I’m not asking you to be one. But you are a leader, and the people know it. You’re too valuable a resource to sit on the sidelines. Opening the gate isn’t just about making more room, though we absolutely need it. This represents a fundamental change in how we do just about everything. A lot of details have to be hammered out, but within the next ninety days I’m planning to suspend martial law. The Expeditionary is going to be recalled from the territories to assist with resettlement, and we’ll be transitioning to a full civilian government. It’s a big adjustment, giving everybody a place at the table, and it’s going to be messy. But it absolutely has to happen, and this is the right moment.”
“With all due respect, I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you, actually. Or at least I hope so. Your position is unique. The military respects you. The people love you, especially the Iowans. But those are only two legs of the tripod. The third is the trade. They’re going to have a field day with this. Tifty Lamont may be dead, but your previous relationship with him gives you access to their chain of command. There’s no question of shutting them down, we couldn’t if we tried. Vice is a fact of life—an ugly fact, but a fact nonetheless. You know Dunk Withers, yes?”
Peter nodded. “We’ve met.”
“More than met, if what my sources tell me is correct. I’ve heard about the cage. That was quite a stunt.”
She was referring to Peter’s first encounter with Tifty at his underground compound north of San Antonio. As a cathartic entertainment, members of the trade leadership would face off against virals in hand-to-hand combat, the others betting on the outcome. Dunk had gone into the cage first, dispatching a dopey with relative ease, followed by Peter, who had taken on a full-blown drac in order to secure Tifty’s agreement to escort them to Iowa.
“It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
Sanchez smiled. “That’s my point. You’re a man who does what needs to be done. As for Dunk, the man’s not half as smart as Lamont was, and I wish he were. Our agreement with Lamont was a simple one. The man was sitting on some of the best-preserved military hardware we’d seen in years. We couldn’t have outfitted the Army without him. Keep the worst stuff in check, we told him, keep the guns and ammo coming, and you can go about your business. He understood the sense of it, but I doubt Dunk will. The man’s a pure opportunist, and he has an ugly streak.”
“So why not just put him in the stockade?”
Sanchez shrugged. “We could, and it may come to that. General Apgar thinks we should round up the lot of them, seize the bunker and the gambling halls, and put an end to it. But somebody else would slide into his spot before the ink was dry, and we’d be back to square one. It’s a case of supply and demand. The demand is there—who will supply the goods? The card tables, the lick, the prostitutes? I don’t like it, but I’d rather deal with a known quantity, and for now that’s Dunk.”
“So you want me to talk to him.”
“Yes, in time. Corralling the trade is important. So is keeping the military and the civilian population fully on board during the transition. You’re the one man who has stock with all three. Hell, you could probably have my job if you asked for it, not that I’d wish it on my worst enemy.”
Peter had the unsettling feeling that he had already agreed to something. He looked at Apgar, whose face said, Believe me, I’ve been down this road.
“What exactly are you asking?”
“For now, I’d like to name you as a special adviser. A go-between, if you like, between the stakeholders. We can come up with a more specific title later. But I want you out in front, where everyone can see you. Your voice should be the first one people hear. And I promise you that you’ll be home for supper every day with your boy.”
The temptation was real: no more sweltering days swinging a hammer. But he was also tired. Some essential energy had left him. He’d done enough, and what he wanted now was a quiet, simple life. To take his boy to school and do a day of honest labor, and put his boy to bed at night and spend eight sweet hours someplace else entirely—the only place where he had ever been truly happy.
“No.”
Sanchez startled; she wasn’t used to being denied so succinctly. “No?”
“And it gives you the chance to raise your boy. To be around for him.”
Peter sensed a strategy unfolding. He nodded.
“I never had children,” Sanchez said, somewhat regretfully. “One of the costs of the office. But I understand your feelings. So let me say right off that I’m sensitive to your priorities, and nothing about what I’m proposing would get in the way of that. You’ll be there for him, just as you are now.”
Peter knew a half-truth when he heard one. On the other hand, Sanchez’s approach was so carefully laid he couldn’t help but admire it.
“I’m listening.”
“What would you say, Peter, to joining my staff?”
The notion was so ludicrous he almost laughed. “Forgive me, Madam President—”
“Please,” the woman cut in with a smile, “it’s Vicky.”
He had to admit it, the woman was masterful. “There’s so much wrong with the idea I don’t even know where to begin. Just for starters, I’m not a politician.”
“And I’m not asking you to be one. But you are a leader, and the people know it. You’re too valuable a resource to sit on the sidelines. Opening the gate isn’t just about making more room, though we absolutely need it. This represents a fundamental change in how we do just about everything. A lot of details have to be hammered out, but within the next ninety days I’m planning to suspend martial law. The Expeditionary is going to be recalled from the territories to assist with resettlement, and we’ll be transitioning to a full civilian government. It’s a big adjustment, giving everybody a place at the table, and it’s going to be messy. But it absolutely has to happen, and this is the right moment.”
“With all due respect, I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you, actually. Or at least I hope so. Your position is unique. The military respects you. The people love you, especially the Iowans. But those are only two legs of the tripod. The third is the trade. They’re going to have a field day with this. Tifty Lamont may be dead, but your previous relationship with him gives you access to their chain of command. There’s no question of shutting them down, we couldn’t if we tried. Vice is a fact of life—an ugly fact, but a fact nonetheless. You know Dunk Withers, yes?”
Peter nodded. “We’ve met.”
“More than met, if what my sources tell me is correct. I’ve heard about the cage. That was quite a stunt.”
She was referring to Peter’s first encounter with Tifty at his underground compound north of San Antonio. As a cathartic entertainment, members of the trade leadership would face off against virals in hand-to-hand combat, the others betting on the outcome. Dunk had gone into the cage first, dispatching a dopey with relative ease, followed by Peter, who had taken on a full-blown drac in order to secure Tifty’s agreement to escort them to Iowa.
“It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
Sanchez smiled. “That’s my point. You’re a man who does what needs to be done. As for Dunk, the man’s not half as smart as Lamont was, and I wish he were. Our agreement with Lamont was a simple one. The man was sitting on some of the best-preserved military hardware we’d seen in years. We couldn’t have outfitted the Army without him. Keep the worst stuff in check, we told him, keep the guns and ammo coming, and you can go about your business. He understood the sense of it, but I doubt Dunk will. The man’s a pure opportunist, and he has an ugly streak.”
“So why not just put him in the stockade?”
Sanchez shrugged. “We could, and it may come to that. General Apgar thinks we should round up the lot of them, seize the bunker and the gambling halls, and put an end to it. But somebody else would slide into his spot before the ink was dry, and we’d be back to square one. It’s a case of supply and demand. The demand is there—who will supply the goods? The card tables, the lick, the prostitutes? I don’t like it, but I’d rather deal with a known quantity, and for now that’s Dunk.”
“So you want me to talk to him.”
“Yes, in time. Corralling the trade is important. So is keeping the military and the civilian population fully on board during the transition. You’re the one man who has stock with all three. Hell, you could probably have my job if you asked for it, not that I’d wish it on my worst enemy.”
Peter had the unsettling feeling that he had already agreed to something. He looked at Apgar, whose face said, Believe me, I’ve been down this road.
“What exactly are you asking?”
“For now, I’d like to name you as a special adviser. A go-between, if you like, between the stakeholders. We can come up with a more specific title later. But I want you out in front, where everyone can see you. Your voice should be the first one people hear. And I promise you that you’ll be home for supper every day with your boy.”
The temptation was real: no more sweltering days swinging a hammer. But he was also tired. Some essential energy had left him. He’d done enough, and what he wanted now was a quiet, simple life. To take his boy to school and do a day of honest labor, and put his boy to bed at night and spend eight sweet hours someplace else entirely—the only place where he had ever been truly happy.
“No.”
Sanchez startled; she wasn’t used to being denied so succinctly. “No?”
