by L. E. Howel
Birch was at him in a second. “What do you mean, ‘wait here’? I’m the commander of this mission and if anybody gets to see the president today, it’s me!”
“But you are not required,” the oily assistant replied tonelessly. It was a simple matter of procedure to him; he was following orders. He merely responded to the authority of those above him. Birch was about to suggest some new orders based on the authority of his fists, but Edwards saw his intent and shook his head. He moved between Birch and the young man.
“Let me handle this my way. I’ll get you in, Major, without resorting to punching anyone.”
He smiled vaguely and pulled the man aside to speak with him. From where he stood Birch could see that they were engaged in an animated conversation, but he couldn’t hear any of what was being said. Obviously Edwards wasn’t getting the better of things; he was gesturing back to where they stood and a look of exasperation had taken hold of his face. He kept shaking his head, but after a while the man barely seemed to notice him. Like a stone he would not be moved for all the breath in the world. Finally Edwards gave up and came back.
“It’s no good,” he muttered as he reached them. “I can’t figure out why they’ll let everyone else in to see him, even me, but not you. Nothing I said could convince him otherwise. He has his orders”
Birch growled and took a step toward the young assistant. Edwards restrained him.
“I wouldn’t bother. You’ll just get a beating and still not make it in. They’ve made up their mind. It’s no good. Just sit down and cool it. There’s nothing else you can do.”
Birch fumed.
Lauren shot a worried look at Birch. “You don’t think there’s some plot here to separate us or something?”
Birch shrugged.
“Don’t worry,” Edwards added hastily. “It’s not surprising that he wants it this way. Hardly anyone, apart from his immediate staff, ever get to see him. He’s very busy, very private. I’m sure he has a good reason for wanting it like this.
“Hurry now,” the young man was speaking again. “He is waiting for you. Don’t make him wait.”
Birch turned with deliberate pause and watched unblinkingly as Edwards and the others approached the portal. This was the moment he had wanted: to finally draw his wearisome journey to an end, but he was left here. Left alone.
They passed through the golden doors into the darkness and disappeared. The doors shut behind them and Birch was left alone, gazing again at the golden carving of the dove presiding over the battlefield.
For a time he stood there, perfectly still and stared at the doors, as if hoping they would open to admit him just on the basis of his will. His eyes bore into the door. He glared at the soldiers guarding it. He waited impatiently. None of this had any effect. His effort was wasted. The door and the soldiers guarding it remained unaltered, perfectly unaware of his insignificant presence.
Finally he gave up and sat uncomfortably on one of the angular chairs arranged tastefully along the edge of the room. Nothing happened. He sat and fidgeted morosely as time passed slowly, tick-by-imperceptible-tick.
He got up. He looked around the room, studied each feature, each item, anything to gain some knowledge of who he was dealing with, but it all told him nothing. Beautiful, sterile functionality was all he could make of this room and all of its contents.
He sat down again. He waited, and still nothing happened. But then he heard a click. Metallic. Not loud, but distinct and noticeable in the silence of the room. He looked at the guards. They seemed not to have noticed. They stared straight ahead, unaware of anything but their duty and their door.
He got up again. He searched the room again, looking for any perceptible change. At first he couldn’t see anything, until he noticed the smallest of cracks in the icing-cake walls. That was new. It was right over a large air vent. The vent, like the rest of the walls, was perfectly white and, until this moment, had been almost undetectable because of its tasteful concealment. Birch pulled at it and, with some effort, it moved slightly.
He straightened up, pretending to look at a clear crystal vase sitting on a side table nearby. He picked it up, whistled in mock appreciation, and turned the item reverently over in his hands.
He had to find out how attentive these soldiers were. With no one else here they seemed as wooden as the rest of the furniture. They reminded him of those guards you used to see in London, the ones people would poke and prod and stick ice cream up their nose just to see if you could get them to move. They never would. Their duty was to that gate. Nothing must pass through their gate. The world could go up in flames, but as long as that gate was secure, they would not move. He wondered if these men were the same.
He dropped the vase. It smashed into hundreds of pieces, sending shards of glass skidding across the floor, but Birch wasn’t watching it. He was watching the guards, and they didn’t move. Not a bit. Even their eyes didn’t move. Their attention was still focused straight ahead. They were guarding their door. That was their duty and that was all they were doing. It was almost as if they were turned off until you challenged them. He had other ideas now.
It was worth a try. The vent was in the same wall as the doors, but far enough down to be out of the line of vision of the guards, if they didn’t turn their heads, which obviously was something they weren’t going to do.
He waited for a while before starting. He wandered the room randomly, observing the guards as he went. Their eyes never followed him. Certain now he walked directly to the vent, pulled firmly and yanked it open. A narrow black passage opened up behind it. He had found his way in.
It was a tight fit, but without hesitation he swiftly pulled himself in. He couldn’t close the covering behind him; he didn’t have the space to turn and do it. It would just have to stay open. If anyone was looking for him they would know where he went, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to hide. He wanted to get somewhere and get some answers. That was all.
He crawled along, worm-fashion, for a few minutes when, sooner than he expected, he came out into the open again. It was dark. Only the thinnest trickle of light showed through from the vent shaft, illuminating little more than a few feet of floor before him. He could see nothing else.
For a moment he stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It made no difference. It was impenetrable. All was still and Birch looked impatiently about for any sign of anyone or anything he could identify. There was nothing and all he could do was grope in the dark for the way.
It was a world of ebony emptiness that greeted him. Like the cosmos that he had explored, it was a place of alien mystery, both lonely and bleak. It was a smaller space than the room he had just left. Something about the echo of his footsteps and the feel of the air told him that this place did not have the high ceilings or grandeur of the great hall. His senses could detect nothing more, and yet he imagined he could feel eyes watching him through the darkness, studying, scrutinizing, evaluating, making decisions about his life and his future while he was here, blind and helpless.
Something else was strange. On the surface this place gave the impression of stillness and peace, but Birch could feel energy, like the electric hum of a power station. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel the energy coursing through the air. It crept on his skin and buzzed in his ears. It irritated him.
This was the center of things, he felt that too, but that was the oddest thing of all. From what they had seen of this world he knew they were working for a bright and beautiful future, but here at its very center was darkness and a deep sense of foreboding that brewed in Birch’s stomach.
From the far end of the room a faint light flickered, like the striking of a match. A tiny yellow flame glowed meagerly. It wasn’t much, but a little light was more than nothing. He walked toward it.
FORTY-THREE
“Modern Icarus has fallen to earth.” A feeble voice rasped in the darkness. “The sun has burned your wings,” the voice laughed. “You came back.
”
Birch was walking toward the sound. In the dim light of a single candle he could just make out the face that the voice belonged to. It was ancient, an old man with a halo of wispy, white hair floating above his balding head. The candlelight darkened the shadows and deepened the lines on his face, accentuating his age. He attempted a smile, but seemed exhausted by the effort and gave it up half way through.
Birch was tempted to dismiss the old man as a crank or a decrepit member of the janitorial staff that no one had the heart to fire, but something about his manner suggested more. He listened.
“You don’t disappoint, Major Birch,” the man continued. “Again, you have seen what others have failed to see. You are a perceptive man, Major Birch. Indeed, an impetuous, obstinate, bumbling fool of a man, but perceptive for all that.”
“What?” Birch growled. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”
“I think I am the president,” the old man responded evenly. “And you think you’re the commander of the Hypnos III mission, but only one of us is right. Isn’t that true?”
. Birch blinked dumbly at the question. The directness of it had caught him off guard and left him with no ready answer. Finally, when words did come, they were half strangled with restrained emotion.
“I am the commander,” he rasped. “And since the others were taken in to see the president, and are still there now, you must be the liar.”
“Ha,” the old man laughed weakly. He lifted the candle to observe Birch’s face more closely. In the wafting light Birch could get a better look at this old specimen. He was certainly old, except for the eyes. His eyes didn’t exactly look young either, just different. They were a piercing green, clear and sharp. They didn’t miss much and they were looking deeply into Birch now, sizing him up, appraising him, and weighing his value.
It wasn’t the fierce, probing, green irises that were the most striking feature though. It was the sclera, or the whites of his eyes as they should have been, but they weren’t. They were red. Not the bloodshot red of a sleepless night, but the crimson hue of a thousand sleepless nights and of a thousand more burdened days. They were troubled eyes, wise, knowing, and sad. If they cried, and Birch didn’t doubt that they did, you would wonder if salty-clear tears would fall, or if two bloody trails would stain those withered old cheeks.
“Who said anything of lying,” the old man chuckled wearily. “You do have a habit of getting right to the point, but let’s not be so blunt. Besides, if we tell ourselves something, and we know it to be true, who can call us a liar for believing it?
“You’re not a very good liar, Major Birch,” his eyes never left him. “You’ve tried, as everyone has, but you just can’t make yourself believe it, can you? That’s why I couldn’t let you in to see me with the others. You never would have believed.”
“What do you mean?” Birch felt on an instinctive level he already knew exactly what he meant, but for some reason he couldn’t quite force it to the surface, into his conscious mind.
“You have an inkling of it,” he responded. “You’ve always had an inkling, even before your mission. Sometimes you are a blind fool, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you can see, when you choose to.”
“What can I see?”
“Everything.”
“Yes!” Birch thundered. He had been planning to keep his knowledge of their captivity in the envirodome to himself, to bide his time and wait to see how that information might serve him later. It didn’t work out that way. Something about the way this man so coolly analyzed his life, and in a matter of seconds reached conclusions about him that he had been struggling a lifetime to achieve brought all his customary anger bursting to the surface. In his frustration he let loose on the old man.
“Yes, I do know everything! I know you’ve got us locked up in your pretty cage. You’ve penned us in, but we’re not your animals. I won’t be your performing pet to dance on your chain! Release us now, or you’ll get no cooperation from us. Not on a single thing! Whatever you want from us, under these circumstances you can forget it!”
The president seemed neither shocked nor dismayed by this outburst. He managed his half smile and simply dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“These are personal matters. They are of little consequence. We will discuss them later. We have more important issues to consider first. That will inform our discussion of these trivial matters.”
“I don’t see what could be more important than ‘personal matters’ like freedom and choice!”
“You will.”
“Maybe if they were your ‘personal matters’ you might see it differently,” Birch muttered.
“No,” the old man responded with calm certainty. “The price I pay is greater than yours, but that is not your concern.”
“Since you have made yourself a guest in my personal chambers, Major Birch,” he continued, “I suggest you take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to a uncompromisingly hard, high-backed wooden chair next to his. “We have much to talk about.”
Birch sat stiffly in his seat.
“For a president, you have pretty poor accommodation,” Birch mused aloud as he sat upright in his chair.
“You still doubt me, Major?” The green eyes were probing again.
“Well, let’s just say that in a palace like this your dark little hole here hardly seems like the presidential suite, maybe more like the janitor’s closet! I think you could do better for yourself, Mr. President.” Birch’s tone was mocking.
“Yes, I see,” he replied. “You assume as the head of state I would want the best for myself. That is how you expect governments to work?”
“That is how I know life to work!”
“Yes, I suppose it does, or a least it did for many, but you shouldn’t be surprised at my choice. Remember your history, Major. The same church that raised the towering cathedrals and built the Papal palaces also provided the humble monastic cell. Is it so strange that I should choose the lower, lesser path? What I do, I do for others, not myself.
“I am pleased you made it here, Major. You need to see a little behind the curtain. You are already where no one is permitted. You have seen more than is ever allowed. You have seen me.
“People expect a great deal of their leaders. I am President Malum Michaels. The great, the powerful…” he paused, “…the weary,” he sighed. “I have dedicated my life to this work, to building something out of this world. To transforming it. It is a long journey, and yet even after all these years I have only just begun.”
“Yeah, sounds like a tough job,” Birch was still skeptical.
“You expect something more, but I have no desire for those trappings of state and power. This does not interest me. This tower, its great halls and opulence are all for the benefit of others. It meets their expectations. So does President Michaels. Not me, the public version of me- the one the world gets to see. The imposter your colleagues are meeting now. They are still with him, and no doubt are very impressed with his appearance and his tone and his voice. He is impressive, but he is an empty vessel, as they all are. I could not risk such an encounter with you. You would have seen through him, spoiled it for the rest of them. You see too much, question too much, and fight too much. That’s why I kept you out.
“Still, I wanted to see you personally, to talk with you. You are different from the rest, you see more, and so I gave you the smallest of clues, opened my door just a crack, and let you in, if you could find the way. And here you are. You really do have remarkable perception. It will get you into trouble one of these days, I have no doubt.”
“Well then? Why did you open your door ‘a crack’ for me? What do you want from me?”
“Yes,” the president responded with satisfaction. “This is just the sort of question I expect from you. You really are remarkable”
“Well then, how about an answer!” Birch snapped, exasperated.
“You are very direct, Major. Very well, I shall be di
rect with you. We need you. We need all of you. It was most unfortunate that two of you were lost in transit. That could be a mortal wound to our hopes.”
“Yes, most unfortunate,” Birch echoed bitterly.
The old man looked up sharply. He recognized something in Birch’s tone, something distantly familiar that he knew he should have remembered. He nodded silently and placed a gnarled hand on Birch’s shoulder.
“Yes, of course” he patted his shoulder in a way Birch assumed was supposed to be comforting, but was somehow more mechanical than affectionate. His voice, when he spoke, had that same quality, like a paid caregiver who gives just the right amount of support and compassion, but is always thinking about the paycheck.
“I know it’s been hard for you, Major. You’ve lost half of your crew. I understand your losses since your return. What I really can’t understand though is how you became acting commander. Where is Colonel Ratliff?”
Birch choked on the question.
“He didn’t make it,” he finally answered.
“Obviously,” Michaels responded eagerly. “Why?”
“What’s it to you?” Birch snapped back angrily.
“Everything.” Those green eyes were on him again, sifting, searching, looking deeper into his thoughts than even he wanted to look himself. The question had cut deep into Birch’s brain, penetrating to the heart of what he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t escape it. He would have to face the truth someday, but not today. He could delay it. That’s what he did now.
“Things went wrong,” he answered more coolly. President Michaels was his Commander and Chief. He had to answer him. He knew that. He would do that because it was his duty, but then he could evade. Answers didn’t have to be clear.
“We had trouble from the start,” Birch continued cagily. “The terrain wasn’t good. The conditions were harsh. Probes that we sent out on approach suggested a manageable atmosphere, only mild terraforming required, but there were difficulties. Projects went wrong, machinery broke down. One thing after another. And then Colonel Ratliff disappeared.”
