Beneath the Gated Sky

by Robert Reed

  “A fair point,” Trinidad said, amiably.

  “For instance,” the woman continued, “we know that you have a habit of sealing and locking the intrusions leading to friendly worlds. Worlds that offer intelligent life and new technologies. Why keep those things to yourself?”

  “We’ve had hard experience,” Porsche replied. “Species need to advance at their own perfect pace—”

  “Cousin,” Trinidad interrupted, “how about a moratorium on the platitudes?”

  Porsche ignored him.

  “How did you learn about us?” she asked F. Smith. “Was it him?”

  “It’s not my place to say,” the woman replied. “But I’ll tell you this: Several years ago, my people were contacted by someone offering to sell an impossible technology. That’s how we learned to make a simple key that opens the easiest intrusions.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Trinidad promised, “and I don’t know who it was.”

  Porsche refused to believe him. From here on, the simplest statement would always, always demand doubt and hard examination.

  F. Smith continued, “Our benefactor never mentioned the Few. But once we opened our first intrusion, there were some obvious possibilities. If humans could dress like aliens and explore High Desert, why couldn’t aliens stroll up and down our streets, too?”

  “Humans can reason,” said Trinidad, in mock warning.

  “We could have used help in our explorations,” the woman allowed, a grimness in her eyes and in the meaty lips. “Talent has always been our weakness. As you well know, Miss Neal. We tried to hire good people, yet hundreds died, many because they didn’t have your kind of strength.” She paused a moment. “You saw their suffering. You could have used your innate skills and helped us with our selection process. But instead, you remained mute, standing by while hundreds died needlessly—”

  “Don’t,” Porsche snapped. “It was your project, your responsibility. And you knew that things were going wrong.”

  “A sensitive subject,” F. Smith observed.

  Porsche tried to remain silent, but a question leaked out, under pressure. “When did you learn about me?”

  “When did we?” The woman enjoyed the moment, the suspense. “We used to play with the possibility. At meetings or lunch, someone would say, ‘That Miss Neal is a little too good at this business.’ You were excellent in the field. Independent. Mentally sound. Easily the best player on the team.” She laughed, then added, “I protected you. Did you know that? There was talk about reexamining your life, putting your family under surveillance. But I told my superiors to leave you alone. An attitude that eventually brought me all sorts of embarrassment.”

  “Blame me for your embarrassment,” Trinidad offered.

  Carefully, in vivid detail, Porsche imagined flinging a basketball into her cousin’s grinning face.

  F. Smith asked, “Any more questions?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “That’s the important question, isn’t it?” She pushed her chair away from the old table, wood screeching against concrete. Then she rose with a certain gravity, saying, “For now, I think we should take a little break. You’ll want to see friends and family, I’m sure. Since the answer involves them, and we want to be fair.”

  “And I should leave, too.” Trinidad jumped up, giving Porsche an obnoxious wink.

  “Money, or revenge?” Porsche inquired.

  “My motivation?” The traitor laughed, shaking his head and glancing up at the high ceiling. “It’s the same as yours, cousin. All I’ve ever wanted, since before I was born, is to be the hero!”

  Porsche sat alone for a few minutes, then Cornell appeared, wearing new jeans and a simple pullover shirt, and, feeling a kick of happiness, Porsche nearly made a joke.

  “Did Aunt Farrah take you shopping?”

  But she didn’t say it, thankfully. Cornell turned, and she saw the deep purple-black bruises on his forehead and temple.

  He took the chair on her right, sitting slowly and wincing.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered. Then in a louder voice, he asked, “Who in hell can I trust here?”

  “Not me,” she confided. “I’ve been wrong forever, it seems.”

  Her parents appeared, then her brothers. The four of them sat across from Porsche, gazing at her with a mixture of weary concern, puzzlement, and outrage.

  “Are you two all right?” asked Father.

  Porsche nodded, then glanced at Cornell. He was watching the ceiling, and she found herself following his eyes, spotting the tiny camera that had been bolted to one of the high beams. Everything seen and said was absorbed; why did she feel the slightest surprise?

  Everyone looked up.

  Mama-ma shouted, “Where’s my nephew?”

  Porsche told her what had happened, in brief.

  “What do they want?” asked Leon. Her older brother looked exactly like a midlevel insurance executive, a little heavy and rather gray, as respectable as he was astonished. “Porsche? Do you have any idea what they’re planning?”

  Carefully, slowly, she took a cleansing breath. “In the short term,” she said, “I think they want to see how we get along.”

  Donald pointed out, “Microcameras wouldn’t be visible.”

  “That’s the idea,” Cornell offered. “They want us to know that they’re watching. That they’re in control.”

  People nodded, saying nothing.

  Pulling his hand across his bare scalp, Father promised, “They won’t learn much from us. Because we don’t know much.”

  “We’re ordinary citizens,” Leon growled.

  “I don’t know how to build an automobile,” Mama-ma boasted, “and I can’t tell anyone how an intrusion key works.”

  “I don’t even know where they’re made,” joked Father.

  “Newark,” Donald offered.

  Quiet, forced laughter blossomed, then died.

  Porsche kept thinking about her cousin. In his position, he had access to keys, including the six-sets that let them into friendly everted worlds. He could very well understand the theory behind them, at least well enough to sell the information to the agency…but F. Smith had gone to the trouble of claiming that Trinidad wasn’t their original source—which might or might not be the truth.

  Father caught her gaze.

  He mouthed the word, “Jack?”

  With a look, she said, “I don’t know.” If Uncle Jack had been captured—or worse, if he was an accomplice—this mess was even worse than it appeared. But if he was their ally and still at large, and he’d discovered the truth, he was probably already working on their release as well as his son’s intricate punishment.

  “We aren’t worth much,” Mama-ma declared, with a brittle pride. “Almost nothing, if they’re thinking of ransoming us.”

  “Basic policy,” Father echoed. “No ransoms.”

  A lie, Porsche knew. But really, how much could Uncle Jack offer in exchange for them?

  “These people are short-term stupid,” said Donald. “Push the Few too far, and we’ll pick up and leave.”

  “And seal our intrusions behind us,” his brother added.

  “It’s happened in the past,” Mama-ma sang, happy to threaten. “And it will be humanity’s loss.”

  Cornell sat motionless, withdrawn. But his eyes had a rattling, energized quality.

  Porsche knew the look, touching him gingerly on a shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Do you know what that camera sees?” he asked no one in particular. Half-smiling, half-grimacing, he warned, “It sees a room full of terrified people pretending not to be.”

  Father started to speak, eager to deny—

  “No, sir,” Cornell continued. Then he took Porsche’s hand and kissed the back of it, and speaking into the bones, he said, “We should just shut up now. Shut up and bore them. And then maybe something will happen.”

  The bluster fell away to silence.

  Twice they heard the distant ra
ttle of helicopters arriving, then departing. Then after a long pause, the room’s only door burst open, and Nathan stepped inside, followed by a pair of men dressed in black trousers and simple gray polo shirts, sidearms on their hips, and walking between them, a dazed and sorrowful Timothy Kleck.

  Nathan saw no one but Cornell. Sitting next to him, he examined the bruises with a mixture of rage and vindication. “How are you?” he sputtered. Then before his son could answer, he added, “They’re bastards, aren’t they? Government bullies! I warned you, didn’t I? A bunch of monsters!”

  “I believe you, Dad.”

  Timothy took a seat at the far end of the table, alone. He wasn’t injured, yet he seemed in worse shape than anyone. How could everything have gone so wrong? he was asking himself. Wide, haunted eyes examined his surroundings, then shot an accusing look at Porsche. Then, trying for hope, he fixed his attentions on the all-powerful guards, his mouth opening, fumbling for the magic words that would set him free.

  But the words didn’t exist, and the realization came slowly, painfully.

  A few moments later, F. Smith reappeared, her face and manner like granite, pink and unreadable.

  Trailing after her were two of the fishermen from the farm. Long scratches decorated one of their faces. He glanced at Porsche with a quick, utterly smug look, then held F. Smith’s chair out for her, the picture of civility.

  More guards entered, wearing the same black-and-gray garb, each man carrying several folding chairs that were arranged in neat rows. Middle-aged men and women filtered into view in the next few minutes, sitting in the new chairs. The atmosphere was more like a corporate meeting than an interrogation. There was coffee in cellulose mugs. Someone asked about the weather, and someone else mentioned the fire. What fire? Then Mama-ma spoke with a shrill voice, saying, “Where’s my nephew? I want to see Trinidad!”

  “I’m sorry,” said a sudden voice. “He just departed.”

  The last fisherman made his entrance. Hard, tiny eyes burned above a cold smirk. He was wearing the same simple uniform but no sidearm, and he carried an electronic notebook in huge, bony hands.

  No one spoke.

  Even the bulldog woman regarded the man with a tangible respect.

  “Finally, Miss Neal.” The man approached, saying, “It’s good to actually meet you. Officially, I mean.”

  She felt the hammering of her heart.

  Walking behind her, the man said, “For those who don’t know, my name is Latrobe. Benjamin Latrobe.”

  Father stiffened, growling, “What do you want?”

  The question seemed to go unheard.

  Latrobe continued walking to the far end of the table, then leaned over Timothy, speaking softly into an ear.

  Timothy rose, and with a shredded dignity, moved his chair and himself out of the way.

  Then Latrobe set his notebook on the table, staring at Porsche for a long moment, a serene disdain building.

  Quietly, in a near-whisper, he said, “Before I explain what we want, Miss Neal, let me tell you why it is that you’re going to do everything we ask.”

  A pause, then, “And why you will do it gladly.”

  No one spoke, or moved, or even breathed.

  “Allegiance,” said Latrobe. “Devotion.” His eyes drifted over to Father as he asked, “What matters most to the Neals? A particular government? But that’s preposterous. A particular planet? I don’t believe so. As your wife said, you can leave the earth whenever you wish. And as for the human species…well, Mr. Neal, you haven’t been one of us for even half your life. The universe is filled with viable species. A blessing for you, I’m sure. But the rest of us are a little more trapped in our circumstances, I think.”

  Everyone watched as Latrobe touched his notebook with a thick, delicate finger.

  “The Few are what matters to you.” He smiled at his hands. “I’ve had some long, fruitful discussions with Trinidad. On general matters, mostly. You’re a vast and powerful family—despite that false-humble name—and despite the plethora of worlds and circumstances, you’ve managed to keep that sense of family. Which is noble, I think. I do.” He paused, then asked, “Is my assessment fair, Mr. Neal?”

  Father sighed. “It’s a simple one.”

  “You’re right. Everything has its complications.” Latrobe read from his notebook’s screen, then walked around the corner of the table, stopping behind Donald, taking his hand and lifting it with an easy, irresistible strength. Sunlight angling through one of the tiny windows danced on the golden wedding band. “A lovely wife, you have. Linda. But then again, Texas girls are natural beauties. Isn’t that what people say?”

  Silence.

  “And you have sweet children, too. Your daughters Clare and Peggy. And Josh, too.”

  Her brother retrieved his hand, saying nothing.

  “We won’t tell you anything!” Father roared.

  “I think you will,” Latrobe countered. “You have alien souls, but you’re saddled with human physiologies, human frailties. Give me the opportunity, and I’ll wring every secret out of your synapses.”

  Porsche stared at the broad, amoral face.

  “But you’re mistaken. I don’t care much about your technical wonders.” He was amused, and serene. “Trinidad approached us with a very different offer. Very persuasive, and very specific. Your magic is impressive, but as he has pointed out to me—with a certain force—we really don’t need your magic.”

  “What are you talking about?” Father asked.

  “We want to make a leap of technology,” Latrobe replied. “We’re working for the chance to put this nation back at the helm of this little world.” He shook his head, grinning as he said, “We’ll leave the serious empire building to you, I think. For now.”

  Her parents winced, saying nothing.

  “Now,” said Latrobe, “I bet you know where this is going.”

  No one spoke.

  “Really? No guesses, even?” He gave Father a solid, familiar pat on the shoulder, saying, “All I need is your daughter’s help. Although everyone else will accompany us. If things go wrong, I want all of you in easy reach.”

  The voice was soft and filled with menace.

  “Your sons and grandchildren, too.” He gestured, saying, “Plus Mr. Kleck. And both of the Novaks, of course. Everyone is invited.”

  “To what?” Nathan growled.

  Porsche knew.

  Suddenly she was staring up at Latrobe, astonishment mixed with horror, plus a crystalline dose of tortured pride. Her cousin was an inventive monster—

  Father noticed her expression. “What is it, Porsche?”

  Because she could do nothing worse, she leaned over the table and stole away the surprise. “The CEA has been trying to find an advanced civilization. People with useful knowledge.” She waited a half-moment, then said, “There’s a perfect world. Exotic materials. Force Fields and advanced engines. And powerful weapons, too.”

  Cornell saw it next. Or maybe first, and he had been holding his tongue.

  “Jarrtee,” he said. Badly, as always.

  Latrobe nodded, adding, “Trinidad has shown us how to accomplish all of our goals, and in a matter of days.”

  The audience sitting on the folding chairs began to nod and smile, a feeling of self-congratulations washing over the table’s bleak despair.

  “Before this year is done,” he continued, “the United States will have the means to achieve a one- or two-century jump on our competition. According to conservative predictions, by the end of the decade, we’ll be spearheading the most incredible burst of technological change ever seen on this planet.”

  Porsche’s first instinct was right: This was a corporate meeting.

  “A few days,” Latrobe repeated. “That’s all I need from you people.”

  “And then?” Mama-ma squeaked.

  “You’ll go free, of course. With our thanks.” If the man was lying, he did it easily.

  “And if we won’t help?” aske
d Porsche.

  “You’re the only person whose help we need,” Latrobe reminded her. “If you refuse, I’ll simply leave your family and the other conspirators behind. In the jarrtees’ capable hands.”

  With a deep, cold voice, Nathan said, “Monster.”

  Latrobe shook his head. “No one here is a monster, Mr. Novak. But believe me, I know how to summon a monster when I need one.

  “Which is true of everyone. If you think about it.”

  4

  Quarters were assigned to the prisoners.

  By chance or by plan, Porsche was given the same tiny room that she’d slept in years ago, and judging by appearances, the same very narrow bed. Cornell walked in after her and sat on the hard spring mattress, kicking up a sudden cloud of dust. Desiccated flakes of her skin drifted in that cloud. He remained motionless for a long moment, hands between his knees and his mouth more opened than closed; then he swallowed and looked up, asking, “Are you all right?”

  A naked bulb made his bruises more vivid. She touched his face gingerly, then said, “No, I’m not.”

  “Neither am I.” He almost laughed. “I’m being held against my will, and I hurt, and I’m very tired, and I’m pissed.”

  She sat down beside him, slowly, trying not to disturb the dust. “It was such a mess at the farm. I tried to find you—”

  “I’m not blaming you, Porsche.”

  “I’m not apologizing.”

  “Besides,” he said, “if I’d escaped, it would have just delayed the inevitable. Right?”

  Sad, and true.

  Cornell had a biting, cynical look when he wanted it. A dark laugh came welling up from deep inside.

  “What’s funny?” she asked.

  “I am,” he confessed. “All the things I worried about, and it never occurred to me, ever, that the trouble would come from inside such a perfect family.”

  The word perfect carried amusement and a whiff of bitterness.

  Louder, without laughing, Cornell warned her, “They’re probably listening to us now.”

  It was a certainty.

  “I’m going to tell them exactly what I think,” he vowed.