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them and campaigning for Kennedy and getting sent to every damn third world dustup more than you're gigging with us?" The Voice's scorn was flint on steel, sparking anger. "DB," The Voice continued, "KA and the rest of the suits are fucking screaming. They expected us to get this CD wrapped up a month ago. And our fans are screaming, too - all those dates we canceled in the last year because of your 'work' with the Committee. That's great for you, but we gotta make a living, too."

"I know. I know. Look, I gotta do this, then I'll be back, man. As soon as this is over. As soon as I possibly can. Things are gonna break now. They are. I'll be back soon. I promise."

Chapter 9

He heard the sigh and an under-the-breath curse. "Yeah. You promise. I have the great DB's word and everything. There's something we can take to the goddamn bank." He heard the click a moment later.

The brick of undigested pizza slammed hard against his rib cage.

"Ya think soon, huh?" he heard Rusty say sleepily.

"I don't know. It was what he wanted to hear." That was only the truth. Michael didn't know; Rusty didn't know; Lohengrin or Tinker or Kate or even Babs didn't know. No one in this damned flotilla circling the Gulf for too many tedious, hot, and numbing weeks knew. Only Jayewardene and Fortune had the answer.

Michael understood the arguments, or thought he did: industries were shutting their doors throughout the industrialized countries; rapid inflation threatened the world economy; in the U.S. and other countries, cars were being abandoned in the streets; hundred of thousands couldn't get to their jobs and thousands more were being laid off or fired every day; the entire transportation system was under immense stress; there was talk of a burgeoning worldwide depression. UN forces were being staged all around the Caliphate as a threat, because without oil's economic lubrication, people were going to die. He'd heard the arguments.

He wanted to believe them.

"Who the hell can tell," Michael said into the dimness of the room. His fingertips pattered on his torso and drumbeats answered. "I mean, Jayewardene's talks with Baghdad didn't go anywhere, and Babs is back here on the Tomlin. Everything's all 'we're not bluffing; this is fucking serious' but nothing's happening." Michael shrugged even though he knew Rusty couldn't see the gesture. "I've lost count of the number of fucking card games I've played, the bad movies I've seen, and those new episodes of American Hero they keep sending us are about as exciting as watching grass grow."

"Kate's here."

Two words, uttered in that flat, quiet voice; they stopped Michael's tirade. He chuckled into the semidarkness. "You're not as dumb as people think. You know that, Rusty?"

"Cripes, get some sleep," came the response.

Can't stay the same, can't stand still

Go on, try it, it might work

And if not what have we lost

Only something that was never ours

Around, around, around we go

Where we start, nobody knows

Inward, outward, up we go

Or is it down and out to close?

The words were from "Staying Still," one of the cuts on Joker Plague's second release. The guy singing - a shaven-headed ensign named Bob - didn't have The Voice's range or power, but he was doing a decent job. None of the four guys with Michael on the makeshift stage - all of them Navy personnel - were a match for S'Live or Bottom or Shivers, but it was good just to be playing, to banish some of the pent-up energy and tension with a barrage of furious, driving rhythms. While he was playing, while he was onstage, the rest of the world went away. That's the way it always was, always had been. Onstage, there was only the moment and the energy and the applause. The drug of music was terribly addictive, and he'd long been in its thrall.

Three-quarters of the crew were gathered around the stage placed against the flight deck island: standing in the warm Arabian evening, listening and bobbing their heads, some of them dancing up front. Michael could see the aces there, too, standing in a group off to the side: Rusty, his arms folded and his head nodding in half-time to the beat; Lohengrin - in jeans, a blue USS Tomlin T-shirt and ball cap - looking more like a pudgy graduate student than a formidable ace; Barbara Baden, the Translator, back on the Tomlin since the collapse of the talks in Baghdad; Tinker, one of