“Why?”
“I tried it once. It stopped the pain.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“That’s why I don’t take it.”
He felt her stir beside him and looked in her direction, imagining her face in the darkness, her wide, inquisitive eyes. “I get it,” she said. “You’re going to be honest.”
“And you’ll forget everything I say. By the way, what’s the last thing you remember?”
“Well, we’re talking… I remember that. I remember being on a boat. Why is it so dark?”
“We’re trapped under a mudslide, but they’re coming to rescue us.”
“Dan’s fine, though. Right?”
“That’s right. You know I’m attracted to you?”
“Whoa… hold it. I’m not looking for a quickie in the rubble.”
“I’ve never met a woman like you. Passionate… intelligent. I can see your mind working as I look into your eyes.” His fingertips came up to brush her face. She pulled away slightly, but only slightly, he noted.
“Right,” she said. “How many times have you trotted that line out?”
“What line?”
“That… you know, whatever you said.”
He smiled. “I’m going to tell you my story. You’re my perfect audience for it. I lived with my mother’s sister, Ruth. My aunt and her husband didn’t have much money, and he didn’t like me. Her own kids came first, so I had to perform to get noticed. I’d read every book ever written on seismology and plate tectonics by the time I was ten. Got my first college degree at age fifteen and went on fast from there.”
“What about your emotional life… friends… girlfriends?”
“I was the outsider,” he said. The rubble shifted and planks fell to the floor nearby. Lanie scooted closer and clutched his arm. “I grew up around people years older than myself. It strengthened my performing, but got me no friends. Nothing was ever expected of me emotionally.”
“Women?”
“None. Not even close. Never been kissed. I’m thirty-seven years old and I’ve never even held hands with a girl I liked.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “If we ever get out of here, I’ll give you a first-class kiss to get you started on your way.”
“Promise?”
“You bet, I… it’s so dark. Why are we here?”
“We were trying to save a boy trapped by the volcano—”
“Volcano?”
“—and we got trapped ourselves. And yes, Dan’s all right. He’s not here. Here is Martinique.”
“Have I asked you these questions before?”
“A time or two.”
“Guess I forgot. But I won’t forget now. What happened to the boy we were trying to save?”
“Put your left hand out beside you.”
“Okay, I—Oh God!” She practically jumped onto his lap. “Is that…?”
“The boy. He didn’t make it.”
She went limp, then slumped against the tub. “We’re going to die, aren’t we? We’re going to die in the dark.”
“The possibility exists. I’m sorry. They’re looking for us now. We did get the city evacuated in time, though.”
“City… evacuated?” He heard her take a deep breath. “Can we do anything from in here?”
“Not really,” he said. “In the dark, I’d be afraid to pull on anything for fear of bringing the house down on us.”
“Maybe there’s a lighter or—”
“We’ve already looked… even in the boy’s pocket. Besides, I’m beginning to worry about the oxygen.”
“Scare me, why don’t you?”
“It’s all right, you’ll forget.”
“I resent that. I will not. Is Dan here?”
“No… and he’s fine.”
“Good,” she said, then took a long breath. “Did we predict this one?” she asked.
“I can’t predict anything,” he said, then stared in her general direction. “You want to hear the whole story?”
“What story?”
He drew a deep breath of the fetid air. “I’d been tracking Sado,” he said low, “since the day the Israelis saw the Iranian helos overhead and blew their whole nuclear stockpile, thirty multimegaton bombs. Fifty million people vaporized instantly, ten million more within seconds.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; Lanie was shuddering. “The blasts not only irradiated the entire Middle East and its oil, but it had profound effects below ground—first on the Arabian Plate, which in turn had an effect on the Turkish-Aegean and Iran Plates. It was like watching dominoes fall. By the time the Indo-Australian and Eurasian Plates started to buckle, I was predicting the quakes with a fair degree of accuracy, within, say, a month or two. Finally, years later, the Indo-Aus, Philippine, North American, and Pacific Plates collided roughly, which had a small, but devastating effect on a zone near Sado.” He shrugged. “It was laid out like a roadmap.”
“What was?”
“The EQ’s connected to the Masada Option.”
“Why didn’t you predict other quakes before Sado?”
“Two reasons. First, nobody listens anyway. Second, if I was going to take the chance of being wrong and being forever labeled as a crackpot, I’d take the best odds. Sado was the plum, the shot heard round the world.”
“Now… we’re not at Sado now, are we?”
“We’re in Martinique. Dan’s not here. He’s fine. Ask me the next question. If you’ve been listening, you’re probably wondering what I’m selling since you now know that I can’t really predict earthquakes.”
“Yeah. Tell me that. I’ll remember this time.”
“I’m selling the dream of a perfect world,” he said. “This kind of suffering is needless, wasteful.”
“I’m sorry… I lost something back—” She flailed her arms, squealing. “Crawling on me. A thing’s crawling on me. Get it off! Off!”
His hand felt her thigh, running its length. He felt it then, cold, metallic.
“Ha!” He grabbed the optical sensor that had slithered into their lair and held it up to his face. “It’s about time you got here. Dig us out slowly. We’ve got a pocket here, but the whole place is about to go. Tunnel in easy. Try and get us an air tube first. And for God’s sake, get me a drink! They have sugar mills here; there must be rum. If you can get to the air hole, shove a bottle through.”
The sensor slithered away. He relaxed at the sound of the rescue workers pounding a pipeline of fresh air into their musty tomb.
“Is Dan out there?” Lanie asked.
“He’d better not be,” Crane said. “He’s supposed to be at the labs looking for quakes.”
“If you really can’t predict,” she said, “what’s the point?”
He took her hand in the darkness, kissed it. “Dear lady, you don’t give up your life’s dream just because it has no reality.”
Suddenly the barest light shone in the cavern, brightening it to a sickly haze. A rush of fresh air followed, and with it, hope.
“Dr. Crane,” a voice called down the five-inch tube.
“I’m here! Where’s that rum I ordered?”
“Coming!”
The bottle was shoved through the tube, followed by a bottle of water. Crane handed Lanie the water and unscrewed the cap on the rum, taking a long drink. “How far away are you?”
“Ten to fifteen feet,” the voice returned. “We’ll have you out quickly.”
“Are we the only ones?”
“Everybody alive got out… except you three.”
“Two,” Crane said, taking another long swig of rum. “There’s only two of us here.”
He sat back, glancing sadly at the corpse. Lanie had been staring at it ever since the light had entered.
“What happened?” she asked, reaching for his bottle of rum after she finished the water.
“We tried to save him. He died. End of story.”
“Was this an earthquake?
”
“A volcano… we’re in Martinique.”
“You’re kidding. Where’s Dan?”
“Back home.” He liked having her this way. He was able to be honest without ramifications, sincere without recriminations. “Do you remember your promise?” he asked.
“Promise….”
“Never mind.” He sagged close to her, pressing his lips to her ear. “I love you, you know,” he whispered.
“Don’t say things like that,” she said sternly. “We have enough problems in our lives.”
“Say things like what?”
She took another drink and passed him the bottle. They looked like people made of clay. “You know,” she said, “there’s something I don’t understand.”
“Yes?”
“You want all this funding, all this… power to predict quakes. Didn’t we just talk about that?”
“Yes, we did. You’re probably wondering what I really want.”
“Yeah. Predicting to save lives is a noble cause, but Dan’s the person working those fields. Why not go his way? Define areas likely to be affected and rewrite building codes or make them off limits. You don’t need the detailed information you want to do that.”
He said what he’d never had the guts to say to another human being. “I don’t give a damn about earthquake prediction,” he whispered. “It’s a means to an end.”
“What end?”
“I cannot coexist with the world the way it is,” he said. “So I intend to change it. I intend to stop earthquakes from happening.”
She laughed and reached for the bottle again. He took another long drink before giving it to her. “And how do you intend to stop earthquakes?”
“By fusing the plates,” he said fierce and low. “This world was once one continent, named Pangaea. It had no earthquakes, no volcanoes. I’m going to make it that way again.”
Lanie drank deep, Crane grabbing the bottle from her and finishing it. She giggled. “You said you wanted to fuse the plates, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He winked at her before murmuring directly into her ear, “By exploding huge thermonuclear bombs right on the fault lines.”
“What?”
Light flooded in, the sound of excited voices echoing all around them. “Come on, Elena King,” he bellowed, grabbing her around the waist with his good arm. “We live to fight another day!”
“Is Dan here?” she asked as hands reached in to pull them to safety.
“No.”
“What about the boy?”
“Leave him. Nothing mars a triumphal rescue like an untimely death. PR, Lanie. We live and die by it.”
Dan Newcombe sat staring at the screen, fists clenched, keeping his mind clear and controlled as he watched the SAR team digging gingerly in the gray-green mud that had once been a two-story house. The image of Ishmael floated just beside him, quiet, contemplative. He could see the icon, but it could not see him. “Are you watching the dig?” he asked, his voice choked.
“Yes,” Ishmael said. “I have a very positive feeling about it.”
“How so?”
“Crane is a madman. He will walk unscathed through tragedy. It is his blessing, Brother, and his curse also.”
“The first time I’ve ever heard you speak well of him.”
“I am not speaking well of him. He is not a man in the normal sense. He is a force moving through my life as I am a force moving through his. We’re glaciers, Crane and I, slowly creeping, rolling over everything in our paths. Crane is beyond definition. Do you see the man in the bright blue coat by the truck?”
Newcombe looked. It was the tech working the monitor for the opticals. He appeared to be excited as he turned the dials.
“I think he’s got them,” Newcombe said, watching the man dance an impromptu jig in the mud. “Look at him jumping! They’re alive!”
The lecture hall door banged open. Burt Hill and several programmers charged in, whooping. A similar scene was being monitored on the huge screen by the crew in Martinique.
“Go,” Newcombe whispered, Ishmael disappearing on Hill’s entry. Newcombe made a mental note to call and thank the man for his friendship during a bad time.
“I ain’t never letting him get away without me again!” Hill shouted. He charged happily down the aisle to watch the excavation with Newcombe; the others scattered through the theater. “They must have lost all the surveillance gear. That thing they used is jury-rigged outta spare parts.”
Newcombe nodded. “Believe me, next time Crane goes into the field, I’ll personally chain him to you.”
“Gawd,” Hill said, shaking his head as the workers shoved a bottle of rum through an air facilitation tube. “He’s getting a drink before he gets out. That’s Crane.”
Newcombe continued to stare as they dug, the workers handing bucketsful of mud along a human chain, shoring up the wreckage as they went. There was life. Now to see if there were injuries.
The team broke through within minutes. The crew in the theater and in Martinique cheered as Crane stumbled out of the debris under his own power, smiling wide for the cameras. He was carrying Lanie in his arms, his good arm taking most of the weight, the nearly empty bottle of rum dangling from his bad hand.
Newcombe’s stomach lurched. Lanie’s head was bandaged, blood covering her entire left side, matting her hair. She appeared to be only semiconscious. Crane didn’t look any the worse for wear.
“She’s hurt,” Hill said.
Newcombe grunted. “They’d better have someone more experienced than interns down there.” He banged on the wristpad, reopening the contact between him and the team. A muddy figure, barely recognizable as human, blipped onto his screen. “Get Crane over here,” he told the man.
Just then, on the main screen, he saw Lanie throw her arms around Crane and give him a long kiss as she was lowered onto a stretcher. His insides knotted and he clenched his teeth to keep from cursing out loud. Crane seemed more startled than surprised at the kiss. What was happening?
Crane waved heartily at the cameras, holding up his bottle of rum and laughing, one more sumptuous meal at the buffet table of his exciting life. Damn the man. Brother Ishmael was right—he wasn’t human.
Swallowed up by his rescue team, Crane slithered off the screen and disappeared for half a minute, only to blip up on the insert box, finishing the rum.
“Crane,” Newcombe said low.
“Danny boy!” Crane dropped the bottle to wipe his face with a towel. “Did you miss us?”
“Where is she?” Newcombe said. “I’m hoping you haven’t killed her.”
“This is an open line, Danny boy.”
“Where is she?”
Crane had put on his public face and it wasn’t going to budge. He smiled. “We’re getting set to vac her over to Dominica for some doctoring. I think it’s only a concussion. She’ll be fine. Keeps asking for you, by the way.”
“Put her on.”
“Can’t do that, Dan.” He looked off camera for a second. “They’re getting her ready to go. Besides… you don’t need to be having any reunions over an open line. Save it for later.”
“For the love of God, Crane, put her on. I have to know if she’s all right.”
Crane shook his head, the smile still on his face. “Not on an unsecured line,” he said. “We don’t want to give away any trade secrets.”
“Crane—”
“Got to go, Danny boy. My public awaits.” Crane walked away from the screen, leaving dead air behind.
Newcombe fell back heavily in his chair, staring at the screen and the workers preparing to leave the site.
“I got to set up for them to come back,” Burt said, standing, quickly putting distance between himself and Newcombe. He got everyone else out with him.
Newcombe sat alone, feeling stupid, feeling used. He hated Crane at this moment, would hurt him if he could. Ishmael had been so right about so many things. He saw with a c
larity that defied rationalization.
The Q line was the secure fiber. He tapped it up on his wristpad and pegged in the number he had memorized in the Diatribe’s dining room.
Sumi Chan sat before her surveillance terminal, juicing right into the wall screen in her Foundation chalet. “Are you receiving the transmission, Mr. Li?” she asked, the wall screen rerunning a scene of Newcombe speaking with a small projection of Mohammed Ishmael.
“Yes, quite clearly, Sumi. Thank you.”
“I felt the subject matter might be of interest to you.”
“More than in passing. Pursue whatever connection between Dr. Newcombe and the outlaw that happens your way. We will do the same. Mohammed Ishmael’s provocative behavior and poor public ratings have forced us to condemn his actions and the existence of the Nation of Islam as an entity.”
“I see,” Sumi said, but she didn’t see at all. “Is there anything else for now?”
“Keep up the good work. We have big plans for you. Zaijian, Sumi Chan. Stay in the shade.”
“Zaijian, Mr. Li.”
Contact broke from Li’s end, though his computers had dumped the entire conversation between Ishmael and Newcombe into its memory. Sumi shut down and pulled the green dorph bottle from the desk beneath the full 3-D wall screen.
She moved to the front door. The chalet was huge and roomy, basically one open room with a loft bedroom beneath an A-frame roof. The entire front was open to the outside and a magnificent vista. Under different circumstances she could have known complete peace here.
She stepped out onto her balcony, the wind warm and playful this high up. A lone condor flew beneath her. She felt Mr. Li was making a mistake in condemning the Nation of Islam whose members were consumers, at least to some degree, and in their own way a part of mainstream life in America. Condemnation set them apart and drew attention. That attention could lead to derision, certainly. It could also lead to support. Americans were used to diverse, individual thought patterns. Unchallenged, they would absorb NOI. Forced to choose, however, Americans were likely to opt for freedom, a concept unknown to Mr. Li.
Feeling suddenly melancholy, she uncorked the green bottle and drank directly from it. Her breasts hurt beneath their bindings, a monthly problem. Her special dorph, containing high concentrations of both oxytocin and euphoric PEA, seemed to help, even if it did burden her with a certain sexual yearning that could never be satisfied. No sexual partner could be trusted. Sex itself could not be trusted.
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