Schismatrix plus - Bruce Sterling [17]
"Be careful, Mr. President," the second pirate warned. "Remember the confirmation hearings."
"Let me handle the legal implications," the President said impatiently.
"I'll introduce us. I'm the President of the Fortuna Miners' Democracy, and this is my wife, the Speaker of the House."
"Lin Dze, with Kabuki Intrasolar," Lindsay said. "I'm a theatrical impresario."
"That some kind of diplomat?"
"Sometimes, your excellency."
The President nodded. The Speaker of the House warned, "Don't trust him, Mr. President."
"The executive branch handles foreign relations, so shut the fuck up," the President snarled. "Listen, citizen, it's been a hard day. Right now, we oughta be in the Bank, having a scrub, maybe getting juiced, but instead these fascists cut in on us with their surface-to-air stuff, a preemptive strike, you follow me? So now our airship's burned and we've lost our fuckin' rock."
"That's a shame," Lindsay said.
The President scratched his neck. "You just can't make plans in this business. You learn to take it as it comes." He hesitated. "Let's get out of this stink, anyway. Maybe there's loot inside."
The Speaker of the House took a hand-held power saw out of a holster on her red webbing belt and began to saw through the wall of the sundog dome. The caulk between the plastic panels powdered easily. "You got to go in unexpected if you want to live," the President explained. "Don't ever, never go in an enemy airlock. You never know what's in 'em." Then he spoke into a wrist attachment. He used a covert operational jargon; Lindsay couldn't follow the words.
Together the two pirates kicked out the wall and stepped inside. Lindsay followed them, holding his camera. They replaced the burst-out panel, and the woman sprayed it with sealant from a tiny propellant can.
The President pulled off his skull mask and sniffed the air. He had a blunt, pug-nosed, freckled face; his short ginger-colored hair was sparse, and the skin of his scalp gleamed oddly. They had emerged into the communal kitchen of the Eighth Orbital Army: there were cushions and low tables, a microwave, a crate of plastic-wrapped protein, and half a dozen tall fermenting units, bubbling loudly. A dead woman whose face looked sunburned sprawled on the floor by the doorway.
"Good," the President said. "We eat." The Speaker of the House unmasked herself; her face was bony, with slitted, suspicious eyes. A painful-looking skin rash dotted her jaw and neck.
The two pirates stalked into the next room. It was a combination bunkroom and command center, with a bank of harsh, flickering videos in a central cluster. One of the screens was tracking by telephoto: it showed a group of nine red-clad pirates approaching on foot down the Zaibatsu's northern slope, picking their way through the ruins.
"Here come the rest of us," the Speaker said.
The President glanced about him. "Not so bad. We stay here, then. At least we'll have a place to keep the air in."
Something rustled under one of the bunks. The Speaker of the House flung herself headlong under the bed. Lindsay swung his camera around. There was a high-pitched scream and a brief struggle; then she emerged, dragging out a small child. The Speaker had pinned the child in a complicated one-handed armlock. She got it to its feet.
It was a dark-haired, glowering, filthy little creature of indeterminate sex. It wore an Eighth Orbital Army uniform, cut to size. It was missing some teeth. It looked about five years old.
"So they're not all dead!" the President said. He crouched and looked the child in the eye. "Where are the rest of you?" He showed it a knife. The blade flickered into his hand from nowhere.
"Talk, citizen! Otherwise I show you your guts!"
"Come on!" said Lindsay. "That's no way to talk to a child."
"Who are you kidding, citizen? Listen, this little squealer might be eighty years old. There are endocrine treatments—"
Lindsay knelt by the child and tried to approach it gently. "How old