Distraction - Bruce Sterling [153]
“I understand, sir. If I may say so, that’s a very good situational analysis.” There was no question that he would take the job. It would mean pruning himself away from the Bambakias inner circle; it would also mean abandoning months of painstaking backstage work in the Senate Science Committee. That was like losing two lobes of his brain in an instant. But of course he would drop everything to work for the President. Because it meant an instant leap to a much higher pinnacle of power—a pinnacle where options bloomed all around him like edelweiss. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. President. I’m honored. I accept with pleasure.”
“You have been a cowboy. That was bad. Very bad. However, from now on, you are my cowboy. And just to make sure there are no more of these untoward incidents, I’m sending in a paratroop regiment of crack U.S. Army personnel to secure the lab’s perimeter. You can expect them by seventeen hundred hours, tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“My staff will be sending along a prepared statement for your Director to read to the cameras. That’ll establish who’s who and what’s what, from now on. Now these are your marching orders, direct from your Commander in Chief. You keep that place out of the hands of Governor Huguelet. You will keep the data away from him, you will keep the personnel away from him, you will keep that place sewn up completely, until I understand just why that little man is so desperate to have it. If you succeed, I’ll bring you into the White House. Fail, and we’ll both go down in flames. But you will go down first, and hardest, and hottest, because I will be landing on top of you. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Mr. President.”
“Welcome to the glamorous world of the executive branch.” The President vanished. The amber waves continued on, serenely.
With persistent effort, they pried Oscar’s head out of the virtuality rig. He found himself the center of the transfixed attention of two hundred people.
“Well?” Kevin demanded, brandishing a leftover microphone. “What did he say?”
“He hired me,” Oscar announced. “I’m on the National Security staff.”
Kevin’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Oscar nodded. “The President is backing us! He’s sending troops here to protect us!”
A ragged cheer broke out. The crowd was overjoyed. There was a pronounced hysteric edge to their reaction: farce, tragedy, triumph; they were punch-drunk. It was all they could do to jostle each other and yak into their phones.
Kevin shut off the microphone and tossed it aside. “Did he say anything about me?” Kevin asked anxiously. “I mean, about my waking him up last night, and all that?”
“Yes he did, Kevin. He mentioned you specifically.”
Kevin turned to the person nearest at hand, who happened to be Lana Ramachandran. Lana had been rousted from a shower and had rushed to the media center in her dressing gown and slippers. “The President noticed me!” Kevin told her loudly, rising to his full height with a look of ennobled astonishment. “He talked about me! I really count for something! I matter to the President.”
“God, you are hopeless!” Lana told him, gritting her teeth. “How could you do this to poor Oscar?”
“Do what?”
“Look at him, stupid! He’s covered with hives!”
“Those aren’t hives,” Kevin corrected, staring at Oscar analytically. “It’s more like heat rash or something.”
“What is this huge bloody lump on his head? You’re supposed to be his bodyguard, you dumb bastard! You’re killing him! He’s only flesh and blood!”
“No he’s not,” Kevin said, wounded. His phone rang. He answered it. “Yes?” He listened, and his face fell.
“That big stupid cop-dressing faker,” Lana growled. “Oscar, what’s wrong with you? Say something to me. Let me feel your pulse.” She seized his wrist. “My God! Your skin’s so hot!”
The front of Lana’s dressing gown fell open. Oscar examined a semicircle of puckered brown nipple. The hair stood up on his neck. He suffered a sudden, violent, crazy surge of sexual arousal. He was out