“The Inner Section?”
“Right now, you’re in the Outer Section. There’s no code, here. The Inner Section’s different. You just might be okay there.”
“Throw in some water and we’ve got a deal.”
“Third plane on the right,” the twin responds. “There’s a five-gallon can and a tin cup.”
The second twin has gone completely limp, and Lane relaxes his grip, but doesn’t let go. “Here’s how we do it. You turn around and walk back to the main gate, and don’t stop until you get there. You get far enough away, I’ll let your brother loose.”
“Agreed.” The twin turns and starts off.
When he’s some distance away, Lane lets go of the inert brother, who collapses onto the hard ground. Lane hoists his bag onto his shoulder and heads down the corridor between the planes.
He finds the water can and cup right where the twin promised. Standing in the shadow of the plane’s tail, he fills the cup, and the gurgle of the water creates a whirlpool of liquid on metal in the great silence. Before he drinks, he looks back and sees the first twin reaching the gate and the other rolling over on the ground, clutching at his throat. He drinks two cups of water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Above him, the rudder on the plane’s tail begins to swing and creak in the wind like a weather vane.
Jesus, how did it all come down to a place like this?
Chapter 21
Adventure and Opportunity
Lane stares through the rippled air down the long corridor between the gutted aircraft. Sweat beads over his brow. The road into Pima spans an immense distance in some unit of measurement he can’t begin to understand.
He wants to rest but knows he can’t, so the bag goes back onto his shoulder and he moves to the center of the corridor. Great streaks of shadow spill over the bone-hard ground and the wind fades to a whimper. Ahead, Lane can see where the road ends in some great square, and he makes out an occasional figure in the wobble of ground heat: the Inner Section.
When he gets closer to the central square, the distant figures become men in prison denims, walking alone or in small groups. A different kind of plane lines the square: old B-52 bombers, the great drooping giants of the Cold War, their wings severed from their bodies in accordance with treaties at the end of the last century. Twelve dismembered bombers now face in nose first from each side of the square, and their former wings lie across the top of the fuselages, like planks across the rafters in an attic. In the shade of these wings, the prisoners swarm about engaged in all forms of commerce, exchanging goods and services. Several hundred men, at least.
Wisps of smoke issue from the top of certain nearby planes, and the smell of frying meat hits his nostrils. The path around the sides of the square in front of the planes is well worn and filled with prisoners. Even though his duffel bag is clearly the signature of a new arrival, most ignore him. There must be law here, the code the twin spoke of, or he would already be in another battle over his bag.
“Lane!” comes a voice from behind him.
Lane turns to see a wiry man with a handlebar mustache and a prominent nose.
“Whoops, sorry,” the man apologizes as he holds up his hands. “Thought you were someone else.”
Lane ignores the man and quickly scans the immediate area. Sure enough, a second man is watching them, and quickly breaks off eye contact when Lane spots him. By now, the first man is already walking away.
He’s been made. But why?
He considers following the pair, but thinks better of it. The big water tower in the center of the square catches his interest. No pipes emanate from its base, so there must be an underground system that distributes water throughout the prison. He continues on, down a row of kitchens projecting from the bomber fuselages, with open-air seating between them.
By the time he reaches the third kitchen, he has a plan of action, and goes right up to one of the cooks.
“What’s a guy do to earn a meal?” he asks.
The cook, a sour man with bunched brows and mutton chops, glances up, sees the bag on Lane’s shoulder, and goes back to his cooking. Lane waits patiently. It’s a game.
“You slop garbage, you clean, you wash,” he eventually answers without looking up. “Two coins a day, and one meal.”
Lane manages a wry smile. In other words, you work all day and get just enough food to survive. “All right,” he agrees. He’s an immigrant, and like immigrants everywhere, you start at the bottom of the food chain. Literally.
The cook points toward the nose of the plane, where a short metal ladder runs up into the belly. Lane walks along the metal flank of the great winged beast, which still retains its green-and-rust camouflage. He ascends the ladder steps and pokes his head into the interior, which is significantly hotter than outside.
A diminutive man stands with his back to Lane. Wearing only shorts, sandals, and a dirty tank top, he shoves a frying pan into a big tub of sudsy water. The man is quite elderly, with a feeble fringe of gray hair surrounding a pink, speckled dome.
Lane continues up and in and throws his duffel bag in a corner. The old man apparently doesn’t hear him, and continues to scrub away at the pan. Lane moves closer.
“Hello?”
This time the old man turns. His face is a junkyard, except for the eyes, which are perfect: pale blue irises set in flawless white. Not even a single thread of bloodshot.
“Ah yes,” he says as he reaches for a towel to dry his hands. “I’m Samuel Winston. Just call me Sam.”
“Anslow,” Lane responds as he shakes Sam’s water-withered hand. “Lane Anslow.”
Sam gestures toward the washtubs and cooking implements. “It’s very simple. We scrape, we wash, we dry. Then we haul the garbage out back for the morning pickup.”
“When do we eat?” Lane asks.
“Normal mealtimes. We take turns. That way, we don’t get behind. How about I keep washing and you scrape and dry?”
“Fine by me.” As Lane picks up a pot to scrape, Sam goes back to washing the pan.
“What did you do on the outside?” Lane asks.
“I don’t remember,” Sam answers. “My memory’s going. Piece by piece. Or scene by scene, if you will.”
“Do you remember how long you’ve been here?”
“No.”
“Do you know what you’re in here for?”
“To be honest, I can’t recall.”
They scrape and wash. The light of late afternoon finds a way in through the windshield behind them and plays across the murky water in the tubs.
“Couldn’t they come in and check your lobe and tell you?” Lane asks.
“I suppose they could.”
“Then why not?”
“It would only perpetuate the illusion that the past is still with us. It’s not. There’s more to it than that.”
“There is?”
“Yes. There’s the matter of poetic wisdom.”
“Of what?”
Sam smiles. He points to a beam of light poking through the fuselage and terminating near the rim of the tub. “When the light leaves the tub, it’s time to haul the garbage.”
The tables under the wing of the kitchen plane are empty as Lane wolfs down his meal of fried pork and vegetables and looks out across the square. The great tails of the hobbled bombers slash through the deepening dusk, and the water tower looms like a black colossus. Then the lights come on and throw fuzzy pools onto the pale ground. At the same time, strings of small bulbs come on under the wings and in the fuselages.
“They go off at ten-thirty.”
Lane looks up and Sam has appeared. He wears a denim shirt over his dirty tank top to protect against the mild chill.
“We got an extra spot in our squadron,” he tells Lane. “Quite nice, really. Old B-12s from the Navy. Twin-engine radar planes. Big cabins with lots of room to stretch out. You’ll have to talk to the boss but I’m pretty sure it’ll be okay.”
As they cross the square
toward the bombers on the other side, Lane slows his pace to accommodate Sam’s slow shuffle.
“A couple of guys got an ID on me today,” Lane says. “That a normal thing for newcomers?”
“Not really. Most people would be more interested in your bag than who you are.”
Soon they are weaving through smaller aircraft, some still up on wheels, most with wings and engines still intact. Occasionally they see a single light of modest wattage mounted on a slender wooden pole. Prisoners lounge in its circle, many sitting in makeshift chairs. “They’re a squadron,” Sam explains. “It’s like a small neighborhood of people who’ve signed a mutual defense treaty. One stays and guards the squadron’s gear while the others work. Everybody contributes to pay the guard.”
“Are we still in the Inner Section?” Lane asks as they pass by a decaying 727 jet transport, the flicker of lantern light coming through its windows.
“Oh yes. The Outer Section is mostly deserted. Forage parties sometimes go into it after salvage, but only a few live out there. It’s extremely dangerous. There’s no code.”
Lane is tired by the time they reach Sam’s squadron, which is marked by a light pole between two of the old twin-engine reconnaissance planes. Three men tilt back in chairs under the light, and one waves at Sam as they approach.
“Well, we’re home,” he says. “Let’s have you talk to the boss.” He addresses one of the men in the chairs. “Norman? I’ve brought a newcomer. Seems a decent-enough fellow. Worked in the kitchen with me today. Needs a place to stay.”
“Have a seat,” Norman offers Lane as he points to a vacant chair. “You’re brand new, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m brand new,” answers Lane as he sits down and watches Sam shuffle off between the planes. A dark brown beard covers Norman’s face, but the advancing squalls of middle age drift out from his eyes and flood down his spare cheeks.
“So what brings you here?” Norman asks, his eyes playing out the humorous irony in the question.
“A midlife crisis,” Lane replies. “I was looking for a second career. Something exciting and far from home.”
Norman smiles softly. “And have you found it?”
“What more could I ask?” Lane answers dryly. “Adventure and opportunity in a truly exotic location.”
“And what was your former occupation?”
“According to the prosecution, it was homicide, but you know how that goes.”
Norman doesn’t press the issue. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Anslow. Lane Anslow. It would seem that I’m currently without accommodations. Can I bunk here tonight?”
“Don’t see why not,” Norman says as he points backward with his thumb. “Fifth plane down is empty. It’s yours. You pay one coin a week to the squadron.”
Given his present wage, he’ll miss a meal each week to make the payment, but Lane decides it’s better to suffer in silence at this point. “Thanks. Just one question.”
“Shoot.”
“What gives you hope in here? How do you go on?”
For the first time, Norman breaks into a full-fledged smile. “You know that gate you came in through?”
“Yeah.”
“Every morning, very early, people wheel the carts out there. They drop off the garbage. They pick up the day’s supplies. But someday, maybe not too long, they’ll find the gate open but no supplies there. Then they’ll tiptoe out into the security zone and notice the genius dogs are gone. Then they’ll go a little farther and find they don’t draw any fire from towers. Then they’ll reach the outer gate at the far side of the zone, and they’ll find there isn’t anybody there. Then they’ll come back, get tools and more men, and they’ll rip the gate down. Then it’ll be over. Just like that.”
“You really believe that?” Lane asks.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Civilization runs on big ideas, and this one is fresh out. The world outside those gates is like a giant car coasting with a dead engine. Sooner or later, it’ll come to a halt. Good night, Mr. Anslow.”
Chapter 22
Off to See the Wizard
The streetlights still shine here. The sidewalks show no signs of buckling. The parking strips remain green and newly mown. Fresh paint covers the older, but well-maintained houses. Their porch lights beckon.
The Bird looks out a second-story bedroom window from one such house. He knows that the entire neighborhood is a façade, a heavily secured fortress to protect the residence of Harlan Green, directly across the street. As the leader of the populist Street Party, Harlan has no choice but to live here on the East Side. After all his raving about commercially secured communities, it would be utter hypocrisy for him to live in one. As an alternative, the party has created a contradiction, a gate that isn’t a gate. All the houses for several blocks around are populated by heavily armed members of the palace guard. The Bird ought to know, because even though the palace guard reports to Green, they all come from his ranks and remain on his payroll.
But the two armored SUVs now parked in front of Green’s house have nothing to do with the Bird’s payroll. Even more annoying, they arrived here on short notice. An hour ago, his people received a brief message from Green himself to let them through when they arrived. The Bird was informed of this message while watching yet another remake of Scarface in his penthouse condominium in the Pearl. He came all the way across town to assess the situation.
As he watches, Green appears, flanked by two men. The trio descends the porch steps and heads for the second armored SUV. The Bird doesn’t like that these two men are not his men, that these two SUVs are not his SUVs. He watches suspiciously as Green climbs into the backseat of the rear vehicle.
Two similar vehicles recently showed up to transport that comatose prisoner of Green’s to a “permanent facility.” Just like now, no other information or advance notice was given. That time, the Bird let it slide. The captive was a nuisance and he was glad to be rid of him. But not this time. He’s already arranged to have the vehicles shadowed when they exit.
“They’re here,” Arjun informs Zed on the video link to his hilltop residence. The large door on the front of the Other Application has opened to admit the two SUVs. They drive through and roll to a halt on the vast cement floor. Green exits alone, and the two vehicles circle around and drive out.
“I’ll be there presently,” Zed informs Arjun over the video. “Go ahead.”
Arjun leaves his office and walks across the floor to Green, who is taking in the scale of the place. “Good news,” he announces as he reaches the grinning politician. “We’ve had a positive outcome on the Phase Two test.”
“Glad to hear that,” Harlan says. “And where is Mr. Zed?”
They reach Bay 3 and Arjun opens the door. “This is where treatment takes place, mostly under computer control.”
They walk into a maze of instrumentation, tubing, and wiring. The bed in the center seems almost like an afterthought.
“So this it,” Green says. For the first time, he is confronting the enormity of the process.
Arjun nods. “This is it.”
“So, what do you think?” Green and Arjun turn to the voice of Thomas Zed, who has just walked in behind them. “You ready?”
Green doesn’t take the bait. “Tell me this: How tightly can you control the extent of the rejuvenation?”
Arjun supplies the answer. “It has yet to be precisely determined, but we estimate that a minimum treatment would remove about five to seven years of aging. Of course, you can do more with subsequent treatments.”
“Of course,” Green repeats. “For now, five to seven years sounds just about right. How soon can we start?”
Arjun opens his mouth to protest, but Zed cuts him off.
“How soon do you want to do it?” Zed asks.
“The sooner, the better.”
“We’re going to need some samples first.” Arjun says.
“What kind of samples?”
“DNA, blood, urine. The usual.”
Green shrugs. “All right, have away.”
“Excellent,” Zed declares. “Just stay right where you are. We’ll send in a technician.”
“I’m not sure you should’ve agreed so quickly,” Arjun tells Zed as they walk back over the wide cement expanse toward his office.
“The sooner Mr. Green participates, the sooner he’s committed to our course of action,” Zed says.
Arjun nods. “Which leaves him no option but to continue indefinitely.”
“Quite right,” Zed agrees.
***
Harlan Green shuts the door behind him as he enters Rachel’s office. The room goes silent as the bustle of the Street Party office staff is shut out. He likes the dramatic flare associated with this move. It always presages something of exceptional import—at least to him.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks Rachel as he slides into the chair on the far side of her desk.
For an instant she thinks he’s about to disclose whatever he’s doing with the people up on Mount Tabor. She recovers. “Of course I can keep a secret. If I couldn’t, I don’t think I’d be here.”
Green smiles agreeably. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“So what’s up?” she asks.
Green assumes an expression of faux embarrassment. “Now, don’t laugh, but I’ve decided to have a little plastic surgery. Nothing serious, just a little touch-up work. Goes with the job, I guess. The public has expectations and you need to meet them if you’re going to stay on top of your game.”
“Yeah, I guess so. How long are you going to be out?”
“Just a few days. Nothing that will hurt the schedule.”
“When are you going in?”
Green gets up to leave. “Right away. They had an opening,” he explains. “Anybody asks, I’m in conference off-site and unavailable. Got it?”
“Got it.” The son of a bitch. He’s done it. Beyond a doubt, he’s made a deal.
“When you get back, will you have swelling or anything? Maybe we should control your media exposure for a while.”
The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller Page 25
