Empire

weaselhood is self-demonstrating.”

They all laughed. Only partly because he was President.

“There are better people than me to conduct this investigation,” said Cecily. “I have children to take care of.”

“I’m not asking you for a career decision, Cecily,” said Nielson. “Or a lifestyle choice. The people I can trust who are also capable don’t really make up that big a list.” He leaned across the desk. “For your country, Cecily Grmek.”

“Malich,” she corrected him.

“I’m asking the idealist who used to think she could turn me into a liberal if she found just the right piece of data to pass along to me.”

“The kids aren’t that far away,” said Reuben. “After things settle down a little, maybe we can bring them here.”

“Besides,” said President Nielson, “Major Malich will be reporting directly to me. On this and all his future assignments. If you’re here, you’ll see a lot more of him.”

Cecily nodded, but Cole could see she was still torn. We all make sacrifices in wartime, he said to himself silently. But he wasn’t married; he wasn’t a father. It was easier for him. His mother would miss him if he was gone. His father was already dead. His siblings—they got along fine. It wouldn’t disrupt their lives if he died. But for Cecily and Rube, it wasn’t like that. With both of them gone, their children would be parentless for a while. Temporary orphans. Never easy on kids.

Like it wasn’t easy on Cole when his father died. And they had plenty of warning on that. Cancer. Months of chemo. And then the news that it hadn’t done the job, it was just a matter of time. They were able to say good- bye. Able to see how the disease wasted his body and tore him apart inside until he was ready to go, and death came as a relief. That was hard enough on Cole, knowing his father loved him, hearing him say, several times, I’m proud of you, Barty, keep making me proud.

Dad couldn’t help going. Reuben is under orders. But Cecily feels like she has a choice. So… if she abandons her children for a while, does that make her worse or nobler?

Glad I have my life, thought Cole, as he did so often. Rather my life than anyone else’s that I know of.

“As for you, Captain Coleman,” said the President.

“Oh, I’m going with Reuben,” said Cole, without thinking who he was talking to.

“You are?” asked Nielson.

“I’m in his team,” said Cole. “I’m his number two. Whether he likes it or not. I was assigned.”

“I was thinking of reassigning you. We need a military spokesman with your—”

“Mr. President, you wouldn’t take a fighting machine like me and waste me in front of cameras, would you? You need to watch First Blood again and think of me as being about as articulate as Stallone.”

“Rambo couldn’t have said the sentence you just said,” Cecily said.

“You said Major Malich could choose his own squad,” said Cole. He looked to Reuben for support, half expecting him to say, Obey your commander-in-chief.

“He’s right, Mr. President. I need him more than you do.”

“Then he’s yours. This meeting is adjourned.”

As they came out of the President’s office, there were several people waiting to get in. Sitting on a wooden bench, not looking eager to enter, was a slender man of perhaps thirty-five, who looked like he played tennis a little, and swam a little, but mostly read books through those rimless glasses and wrote brilliant essays with those slender, graceful fingers. The poster child for what every professor wanted to grow up to be, and what every politician wished he could put on his posters. Cole had never seen him before, but couldn’t take his eyes off him.

The tennis-playing professor rose to his feet and held out his hand to Rube. “Soldier Boy,” said the professor.

“Professor Torrent,” said Rube. “I go by Major Malich now.”

So this was Averell Torrent, the young hotshot of the NSA’s office who had just been nominated to be NSA as his boss bumped up. The Torrent whose essays on history had been all the rage a couple of years ago. Since he was a Princeton professor then, Cole had assumed it was History For Liberals, meaning that it would be elaborate explanations of why whatever the Republican administration was doing was wrong, complete with references to global warming and the need for negotiations under all circumstances. Therefore he hadn’t read it. But Reuben knew him, and even if he was a little prickly about the “soldier boy” greeting, Rube was showing him deeper respect than he had shown to President Nielson.

“So the President has brought you aboard,” said Torrent.

“Both of us,” said Rube, including Cecily. Then he indicated Cole as well. “All three of us.”

Torrent looked at Cole somewhat quizzically. “Very powerful sermon on Fox last night,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Cole. But he thought: It sounded to you like a sermon?

“We have some interesting new armaments that are being rushed out of prototype to meet these mechs,” said Torrent. “I know you’re a dirt-and-languages kind of soldier, but you have to love some of the new weaponry, Major Malich.”

“You got something that will trip a two-legged tank?” asked Rube.

“We’ve got a foam that dries in two seconds and then won’t let go. Basically, you glue them to the ground like gum.” Torrent grinned. “Some of these geniuses in weapons development must be thrilled to have a chance to use some of this far-out stuff.”

“As long as some of them didn’t moonlight by coming up with the Progressives’ weapons in the first place,” said Rube.

“And magnets,” said Torrent. “You lay them like mines, and anything big and metallic that passes within twenty feet is pulled toward it and can’t get free. And grenades that are all shockwave, no flame. Hit one of those mechs with it, and everything comes loose inside. Lovely things.”

“I’m glad our troops will have something,” said Rube. “Have they figured out what shot down those F-16s?”

“A hyperpowerful EMP.”

“That would suck up so much power the city’d black out,” said Rube.

“They think it might be laserized, so you get a lot more clout for the kilowatt. Whatever it is, it wipes out the electronics that keep those planes aloft.”

“So we’re going to do what, go back to propeller planes?” asked Rube.

Torrent paused for a moment. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. The jets hang back for air cover, and the little biplanes come on in, machine guns blazing. Like shooting down King Kong.”

“Looks like you’re having fun, Professor,” said Rube.

“War triggers human inventiveness at its most brilliant, because if you don’t win your wars, your civilization disappears.”

“It’s bad form to quote yourself,” said Rube, smiling.

“I said that before?”

“Don’t worry,” said Rube. “Quoting Averell Torrent makes everybody look smarter.”

Torrent clapped him on the shoulder and they moved down the corridor as Torrent disappeared inside the President’s office.

“So you know Torrent,” said Cole.

“Had three seminars from him in grad school.”

“Is he too dashing to be smart and too smart to be so dashing?” asked Cecily.

“He’s got more ego than a movie star,” said Rube, “but unlike most of my former professors, he has the brains to back it up. He never served in the military but he has his own version of history that works better than most others, and he has an eye for strategy. President Nielson isn’t wrong to seek his advice.”

“But he irritates you,” said Cole.

“He works at irritating me,” said Rube. “I don’t know what I did to get under his skin, but he rode me all the way through three seminars and gave me hell during my orals.”