“The gas kills anyone who inhales it. But a significant portion of those who breathe it don’t stop moving. Instead, it takes over their nervous system and makes them into mindless cannibals. They turn on their fellow men, spreading the contagion while seeding terror.”
“I should think so,” murmured Grant. “If I heard that dead men were coming to eat me, I’d be quite terrified.”
She leaned forward, her thorny smile brightening. “Oh, but that’s not even the worst of it. Everyone’s afraid to die, yes, but everyone dies eventually—we all know it, even if we’d rather not think about it. But imagine all the horrors of dying, without the reward of resting. Imagine no longer being in control of your own faculties, at the mercy of a chemical flood, a brainless compulsion that turns you against the people you once knew and loved. That, Mr. President, is truly a fate worse than death. And our studies have shown that, indeed, men fear becoming one of the shambling plague-walkers more than they fear a bullet to the head.”
It was such a precise comparison that Grant knew it must be based in experience, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, for a moment.
“So this is what it’s come to.”
She reclined, somewhat crossly. Apparently that wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. “Yes, this is what it’s come to. You want the war to end? This is how you end it.”
“It sounds … unethical. Unfair. It doesn’t sound like war; it sounds like cheating.”
“Call it what you like. But for all your talk of preserving and restoring the Union, I’m the only one doing anything about it. You’ve been sending boys to do the jobs of men. It hasn’t worked out. Now it’s time to give a woman a crack at it. And let me assure you: I will do what needs to be done. I’ll do what none of you have been able to do so far, or what you haven’t had the stomach for.”
Grant shook his head, then sat forward to tap one finger on the edge of the desk for emphasis. “Now, Miss Haymes, it is my understanding that this weapon is only effective for a mile or so—that’s one of the only things I know about it for certain—and that it’s too big and heavy to be deployed from a cannon, or even hurtled down a hill. That was my complaint to Desmond, when he brought it up: Your magnificent war-ending weapon needs a team of, what—two dozen men? At least?—to deploy it, and those men will almost certainly die in the delivery. Even if we could find men willing to sacrifice their lives on account of this stunt, it’s highly unlikely that one of these gas bombs would be enough to end the war. I’m not certain it could even turn the tide, except to galvanize the South. Deploying a weapon of such … terror, that was the word you used? Deploying such a thing will frighten them more than it will harm them.”
“And fear does no harm?”
“Sometimes fear is a source of strength. You’re talking about a nation that has been at war for an entire generation—and, like what’s left of the United States, their population has become almost complacent about it. Warfare has become the standard of existence, a miserable constant, but a predictable one, given this long-running stalemate.”
“But it’s not a stalemate,” she argued. “The South is in decline.”
He launched the tapping finger of emphasis once more. “Precisely. We have held on long enough that they’re finally bending under the weight of this conflict. To change the rules now is to risk a resurgence in effort and planning on their part. Your weapon will give them something new to rally against—it will give them back the focus they’ve begun to lose.”
“You’re wrong,” she told him. “And if a few dozen men are required to safely transport the Maynard, then a few dozen men are an acceptable sacrifice. Military men know the danger of assuming the uniform. They’ll likely die with or without any treachery on their government’s behalf.”
Exasperated, he gave up on the finger and threw his hands in the air. “Precious few of the men who serve us now signed up to do so of their own accord!”
“Fine. So it’s murder either way you look at it. The government conscripts them and sends them to war, and they die. The result is the same. I don’t understand why you’re taking such issue with the particulars.”
“I don’t understand how you write them off so easily,” he complained. “And I do not believe that wasting good Union men on a square mile of devastation could possibly turn the tide of the war, except to turn it against us.”
“You’ve made your case. We must agree to disagree.”
A clattering outside in the hall made them both stop talking.
A maid appeared with her cart. She gasped at the glass and swore at the cleanup required … then spied two people chatting—amiably by all appearances—within the breached and broken office. She opened her mouth to say something—likely an admonition, or a reminder that these offices were closed.
Then she recognized Grant, and her expression shifted from irritation to surprise, then to concern that she’d interrupted something she shouldn’t have. “Mr.… Mr. President,” she stammered. “I … I didn’t realize it was you.”
He forced himself to smile at her. “Mr. Grant will work just fine, my dear. And I do apologize about the mess. It’s my fault entirely.”
Katharine rose from her spot behind Desmond Fowler’s desk and smiled as well. Grant hated it when she did that. It was as if every upturn of her lips lowered the temperature in the room by a few degrees. But she was kind to the girl, saying only, “I hope you’ll pardon us. Mr. Fowler sent me to retrieve some important documents, and Mr. Grant was kind enough to see me inside, but he must have closed the door too hard, and … Well, these things happen. I’ll leave an extra tip on the desk for your trouble.”
“Oh … thank you, ma’am. Miss. Ma’am.” The girl finally settled on an address. “That’d be very kind of you. And if you’ll just lock up behind yourselves.… Or … don’t bother with that, I guess. I’ll come back in a little bit.”
Katharine shook her head. “No dear, that won’t be necessary. The room’s all yours. The president and I were just leaving.”
Ten
“The war will end, and no one will be the victor. This is the assured outcome, provided that the menace that threatens both North and South is not addressed, and addressed immediately—with the full attention, commitment, and vigilance of the governments and people on both sides. This menace has many names, some regional, some colloquial.
“I am speaking, of course, with regards to that peculiar affliction that ruins men—and sometimes women—throughout the continent. You’ve seen the symptoms, or heard of them at least: A yellow tinge to the skin, particularly around the eyes and joints; difficulty breathing; a running nose with bloody mucus; receding gums and protruding teeth; an emaciated, cadaverous appearance; and, eventually, a mindless pursuit of human flesh. And although those who carry the affliction cannot spread it, their bites spread a gangrenous rot that is very often fatal. Among doctors and scientists it’s commonly described as ‘necrotic leprosy’—but this term is not well known outside those circles.
“This—not the war—is the crisis of our time.
“For quite some time, this plague progressed quietly, taking primarily soldiers in its grip, because soldiers were the primary consumers of the substance which is believed to cause the disease: a common, inexpensive drug sometimes called saffron, which is smoked or otherwise inhaled. But increasingly, unaccountably, the situation has worsened to such an extent that thousands are dying by the day—either by drug use and subsequent sickness, or through the cannibalistic assaults that follow. Our troops are being decimated, and the Confederate troops are similarly burdened.
“But this must not be considered a purely military matter. The walking plague is now escaping the uniformed ranks and spilling into civilian society, taking not merely those soldiers who contaminate their bodies with the drug, but also those who struggle to live in the midst of this never-ending war.
“The war must end, and it must end immediately. If it does not, this creeping horror will consume the continent beyond salvation by 1886. Figures in the rest of the world are more uncertain, but rest assured this is not merely a problem of North and South. This is a problem of which the planet must be made aware, and the U.S. must lead by example. The threat is a scientific fact, measurable by advanced calculating engines created by the nation’s top scientists.”
Gideon paused there, and looked up at Nelson Wellers. “I don’t understand why I can’t just name myself. I’m the top scientist. It’s my machine.” He fondly, almost wistfully imagined the Fiddlehead as it’d been before the sabotage—all bright keys and jaunty levers, chewing up numbers and possibilities, offering its direct, complex answers on a roll of paper. Cryptic only to others. Never to him.
“That you are, and that it is. But most people don’t know your name, and those who do might be … disinclined to take your warnings as seriously as you’d like them to be received.”
The wistfulness melted, and he glared across Lincoln’s library in the doctor’s direction. “Because I’m a negro.”
The physician shrugged and shook his head. “It doesn’t help, but that’s not the whole of it. Don’t look at me that way. You’ve taken great pains to remain more or less anonymous. Well, congratulations. No one knows who you are. Your campaign has been a roaring success.”
Gideon glared some more, but didn’t argue. He returned his attention to the handwritten draft before him, and continued reading aloud, his last review before heading off to the papers. “The Union is aware of these scientists and their devices, and President Grant has been advised on the matter.” He looked up again. “Bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?”