Aftermath a-1

by Charles Sheffield

  “Sewers and storm drainage systems aren’t the same thing at all. They use the same underground paths a lot of the time, but you keep them apart when you can. As for knowing about them, I’d say I do. It’s one way I make my living.”

  “Eh?” Dana stared. “Have you been lying to me? You told me you were a network and feedback analyst.”

  “I am. What do you think a storm drainage system is? It’s nothing but a big, complicated flow network. It happens to work with water, not electricity, but the basic principles are the same. You have line-carrying capacities, and variable loads, and peak load shunting. If you want to you can even make switches and amplifiers, through a thing called the Coanga Effect. But I won’t get into that.” Art spoke to Dana. “I admit I may have misled you a bit. I work with both electrical and water networks — and others, too, like oil and gas pipelines. But don’t you think ’telecommunications network specialist’ has a nicer ring to it than ’water and sewage network specialist’?”

  “You just didn’t want to tell me you worked in the sewers.” Dana smiled at Art. “But is it safe to go into the storm drains now, after the supernova? How can you be sure that everything is still working? I mean, the whole power system is down, and I’d think the storm drains would be dependent on it.”

  “Not in this universe. You won’t find electricity used, except here and there for maintenance. Think of it, Dana. In normal times, when is the electrical power in an area most likely to fail?”

  “When you have high winds and a bad storm.”

  “Right. The last thing you want is a storm drain system most likely to fail when you need it most. The engineers don’t assume electrical power is available when they design flood control and storm drainage networks. They assume the opposite — that no one will have power when the storms and floods are at their worst. Everything is controlled by the water loads themselves, through volumes and pressures and feedback to spillways and control gates.”

  “You’re dead serious, aren’t you?” Seth had become very still. “You think we can do it this way.”

  “I know we can. But if you have a better idea, I’ll take it. I don’t want to be Harry Lime any more than you do.”

  Art didn’t expect the others to catch the reference, but Dana smiled and said, “Great movie. Maybe we’ll go see it when this is all over. I’m persuaded. Now tell us the snags.”

  “The main thing that worries me is finding a good entry point to the storm drain system. We’re not water, we need a hole big enough for us to get through. There has to be one within half a mile at the most, for service access, but it might be hidden by snow. I’ll go out now and search.”

  “Us, too?” Dana asked.

  “Waste of time. You wouldn’t know where to look. You stay here and get things together. Once we’re in the storm drains, the underground part shouldn’t be hard. There are walkways — narrow and low, but big enough for a person. All we do is follow the direction of flow, and that takes us to a river discharge point.”

  “After you find the entry point, how soon can we leave?” Seth stood up.

  “At once. Snow and cold weather help, because we’ll find very low runoff levels. But we’d better not be down there when the thaw starts.”

  “Not a chance.” Seth touched the stove, snarled, and pulled his finger away. “Gotta cool this sucker off in the snow. Don’t worry none about the thaw. Before that happens we’ll be there and thaw old Ollie. He’ll tell us what to do about the telomods, and we’ll be back in business.”

  Not a word about whether or not old Ollie would choose to cooperate, Art thought as he muffled himself up to go outside. Would they be able to find the man, even if they reached the syncope facility? How do you find one convicted criminal among umpteen thousand others? What did Guest look like, even before he went into judicial sleep?

  Art didn’t recall the media pictures. A murderer could look like anyone.

  Even Seth Parsigian.

  They faced tough decisions before they left the Treasure Inn. There would be no tractor, no motorbike. Everything had to be carried on foot for an undefined distance.

  Even the little stove was too much of a luxury. So was alcohol — a food of sorts, but not a nutritious one. Blankets and pillows were not heavy, but they were bulky.

  The final list almost defined itself. Clothes, as many as you could stand to wear or to carry in a single bag. One thick blanket each. Food, but only in its most compact form: dried rice, ham, bread, cheese, and dried beans. Weapons, just in case.

  At the last moment Art added a compass, candles, and the maps to his own load. He was sure to need light at some point, and the maps could fold to fit easily into his pocket along with his knife. As he packed away the first one, he noticed Seth Parsigian holding the map that showed on it the marked location of Art’s house in Catoctin Mountain Park. Seth had handed it casually to Art, but the look on his face was more calculating than casual.

  Dana and Seth had their own small group of “luxury” items. In her case it was soap, a hairbrush, and the long wrench she had used to break into the Institute. Seth had his hunting knife, pliers, and a flashlight that produced electricity not from batteries but by turning a hand crank to drive a generator.

  A child’s toy last Christmas — but not today. Seth used the flashlight to guide their way down the ladder and into the storm drain. Art looked carefully around. He saw debris left by recent high waters, but the level had receded a long way and the walkways were dry.

  “This is better than I expected. It shouldn’t be too difficult, all we need to do is follow the incline. Flat and down are all right, but we avoid any upward slopes.”

  Seth nodded and led the way. The storm drain tunnel was clammy and icy cold, but since they were all wearing extra clothes that was not a problem. After the first hundred yards Art dropped a few steps behind the other two. His knee was feeling pretty good, but he didn’t know how far he might have to walk on it. He would prefer an even, steady pace, and no wasted steps. Whoever was in front had to make occasional side trips, when neither the compass nor the direction of water flow made the choice of branch clear.

  Seth didn’t seem to mind being asked to lead. The storm drain tunnels added a strange booming echo off walls and ceiling, and after half a mile he began to sing as he walked. It was a dirge about two people called Saunders and Margaret, and the verse went on and on.

  “That’s Clerk Saunders he’s singing.” Dana had dropped back to walk just in front of Art. The path was not wide enough for two, and she had to turn her head to talk to him. The tunnel was not totally dark even without the flashlight, since every thirty yards or so the narrow grille of a storm drain, blocked by snow, admitted a diffuse, pearly light.

  “It’s a Scots/English border ballad,” she went on. “All death and misery. First time I ever heard it with a West Virginia accent. I’ve never known Seth to sing before, either. He must be feeling good.”

  “Look where you’re going,” Art said gruffly, “or you’ll be in the water.” He was ashamed to say what he was actually thinking. The world had gone to hell, but he was feeling good. Better than when he left Catoctin Mountain Park.

  “I’ll give you a thought that should make us all cheer.” Dana ignored Art’s warning and again turned back to face him. “There are two and a half million lawyers in this country. What do you think they’re doing now?”

  “Trying to survive, like everyone else.” Art wasn’t sure she wanted an actual answer from him.

  “Sure, but doing what? Nobody will be getting divorced, or arguing over a will, or ready to pay a lobbyist. Where my sister lives the economy has gone mostly to barter — food for clothes, fuel for the use of an old car. Lawyers don’t actually do anything, so they have nothing to barter.”

  “You don’t like lawyers?”

  “I hate the sons of bitches.” Dana sounded remarkably cheerful. “One of them sued on behalf of my sister, and she won. And you know what? His fee took every cent of t
he whole settlement.”

  “You’ve never dated a lawyer, then? I’d think they’d be buzzing around you, like flies round — well, like — bees.”

  “That’s not what you were going to say, is it?” The path had widened, and she dropped back to Art’s side. “Just as well you didn’t stay with your first thought, or it’s you who’d be in that water.”

  “I spend a lot of my time with men.”

  “Oh, yes? What’s that mean? That you think it gives you an excuse for crude, sexist remarks?”

  “No.” Art wondered how he had got into this. He said doggedly, “I was just trying to point out that someone as attractive as you must get offers to take you out all the time, and a lot of those men would probably be lawyers. They’re keen on trophy dates and trophy wives, women they can show off in public.”

  “I have dated lawyers,” Dana said airily. “Three of them. They’re the ones I hate the most. The bastards.” She eased her way around a tall concrete pillar that narrowed the walkway, ducked to allow for the lower ceiling, and waited until Art had done the same. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though.”

  “You could have fooled me. You were the one started on lawyers.”

  “I know. I was just feeling uppity. Must be the ambience. If I could carry a tune, I’d be singing, too. But I wanted to ask if you signed some sort of release document before you started the telomod treatment.”

  “I certainly did. A release from everything, so far as I could tell. I could be killed, ground up, and sold as cat food and the Institute wouldn’t be held responsible.”

  “The same as mine. But do you remember any particular side effects of the treatment that they warned about?”

  “They had a long list of possibles. Plain and fancy cancers, in addition to the one that brought me to the program. Nausea, bleeding, fits, fainting, headaches, seizures, liver failure, kidney problems.” Art shrugged.

  “You name it. The list went on and on. I never had any of them.”

  “Do you remember anything—” Dana halted on the walkway, so that Art had to stop, too. “Look, Art, don’t laugh at me, even if this sounds totally crazy. But did anyone or anything ever mention a side effect that could make you feel totally wonderful?”

  “I don’t remember one.” Art gestured ahead, to where Seth was walking on steadily, farther and farther in front of them. He took her hand and pulled her forward with him. “We were told that if things went well we might have a normal life expectancy, even one beyond the normal. If we were lucky, we might see some rejuvenation effects, too.”

  “That’s my point! I’m not just feeling better, I’m feeling great, the way I haven’t felt for thirty years. I’m like a kid. I wake up, and the whole day spreads out before me. Even in the middle of this disaster, I look forward to things. And you, Art. You look ten years younger than the first time I met you. You’re acting it, too. Don’t you feel younger?”

  “I guess I do.” It wasn’t the time to say that he had been feeling horny a lot, particularly around Dana. “I’m in better shape than I thought I’d be, three days ago. When I left Catoctin Mountain I expected that the drive down to the Institute on the tractor would just about kill me, and it didn’t. Yesterday I felt fine. And last night with you was great, the best night I’ve had in years — I mean, the best night’s sleep.”

  “I assumed you meant that.” She gave a coarse, low-pitched laugh that echoed off the tunnel roof and walls. “Don’t you think there’s a faint chance I would have noticed, if you’d meant anything else? You don’t have to tell me you slept well. I would have liked to talk last night, but you told me we ought to go to sleep. Then you went out like a light.”

  “You’re worried about feeling well, are you? You shouldn’t be.” Art finally released Dana’s hand and waved to an invisible Seth. The walkway was straight and they had allowed themselves to fall far behind.

  Now from in front of them a flashlight had turned in their direction. “I can’t think of any bad side effect that makes a person feel good. I don’t think there’s any such thing.”

  “I hope you’re right. But what do we know?” Dana walked faster. “We have to find Oliver Guest and learn exactly what’s going on with us. I hope he can tell us more than the doctors at the Institute. I could never get much out of them.”

  “Medical caution.” Art increased his pace to match hers. “Unless you want to call it medical cowardice. Suppose they predicted our condition, and things turned out some other way? Then they couldn’t act like gods anymore.”

  “Sounds like you feel for doctors the way I feel about lawyers.”

  “Could be. One of them damn near killed me. That toe-tapping double-talking buckle-shoed charlatan.” Art walked faster yet. One nice thing about feeling fitter, you had the energy for righteous indignation. “He was an arrogant little shit. If I hadn’t ignored him and gone for a second opinion right away while he was still blathering on about allergies, I wouldn’t be talking with you today.”

  “I sympathize with that feeling. But what can you do? The faith healers and karmic gurus are even worse.”

  They were almost up to Seth, who turned off his flashlight. Art could see him outlined against a lighter patch of wall. The tunnel made a right angle turn, and a brighter light came from there. He reached in his pocket for his compass. The water flow was southwest.

  “Been enjoying yourselves, you two?” Seth sounded cynically amused. “Me, too. So are we ready for stage two? This might be a bit tricky.”

  The black water flowed on through a dark opening, but the walkway terminated at a wider platform. On the right, away from the water, a rusty iron ladder stood bolted to the wall. It led up to a square vertical metal grating through which weak daylight filtered. A thin layer of snow had found its way through to the platform beneath.

  Seth went to the foot of the ladder and stared up. “If that sucker has a lock on the outside, we’re in trouble.”

  “It shouldn’t have. Service staff need to be able to get in and out of any access point.” Art moved past Seth and climbed three rungs of the ladder. He held on with his left hand and reached up to the grating with his right. “The real question is, has it been used recently? There’s a layer of snow behind the cover. That won’t help.”

  He gripped the grating and pushed one-handed, as hard as he could.

  “Is it moving?” Seth asked from below.

  “Not an inch. I think it’s frozen. It’s hinged on the upper side. Dana, lend me your wrench, would you?”

  He took the long tool and thrust it as hard as he could. The result was a loud clang and a shower of snow in his eyes. Art tried again. Snow again fell, more than the first time.

  “I think it moved a bit.” Seth was peering up from the foot of the ladder. “Come down, and let’s try something different.”

  He took the wrench from Art, climbed the ladder, and halted on the second rung.

  “The two of you hold me at the legs and waist. This needs a two-handed swing.”

  Dana gripped Seth’s waist. Art reached higher, to support his lower back.

  “Hold tight and try to catch me if I fall off. I’m not gonna hold anythin’ back.” Seth, turning sideways, gave an explosive grunt and rammed the wrench against the bottom of the grating.

  “Any good?” Art again had a face full of snow.

  “Nah. Nothing. Move, you mother, move.” The wrench thrust out, again and again, while Seth grunted and cursed. At the fifth effort he moved higher on the ladder and said, “Watch out below. I’m dropping the wrench.”

  Art and Dana stepped quickly out of the way. A moment later came Seth’s gasp of triumph. “Yeah, baby. Here we go.”

  He was pushing the grating, turning it upward on its hinges and climbing higher on the ladder. Finally he could scramble out through the square opening. He peered down at them.

  “Come join me. Let’s see if we know where we are and where we go from here.”

  Holding the heavy wrench
in one hand, Art climbed awkwardly after Dana. Outside, he peered at the world through half-closed eyes. Daylight was blindingly bright after the gloom of the storm drains. He did not know how long they had been underground, but judging from the position of the sun in the cloudy sky it was early afternoon. The snow had tailed away to nothing.

  Art surveyed the cold, still, and silent landscape. He stood at the foot of a bank covered with shrubs and small trees. Directly in front, in what he judged was roughly south, he saw a gleam of dull gray. Beyond that lay taller trees and, farther off, another and larger body of water.

  “Well?” Dana said. She and Seth were staring expectantly at Art. “This is your stamping ground, not ours. What do you make of it, stout Cortez? Where are we?”

  Art was pulling out a map with fingers that still trembled from the effort to open the storm drain cover.

  “I’m pretty sure we are right here.” He unfolded the map and placed his finger at a point on the bottom left quadrant. “Near a place called Cabin John. The water you see right in front of us is the C O Canal — the Chesapeake and Ohio. We’re at a spillway into it. You can’t see the towpath on the other side because of the snow, but it runs all the way down into Georgetown. We couldn’t use the canal, though, even if we had a boat, because it has locks all the way down, and you can’t operate them without power. Beyond the evergreens is the Potomac River. Downstream is to the left. There are rapids, but the bad ones are upriver toward Great Falls.”

  “Boats?” Seth asked.

  “I don’t know if we’ll find any close to here. There’s a big boathouse downstream, on this side of the river. But it’s about three miles away. And they rent boats that you row, not boats with motors.”

  “Renting ain’t what we got in mind today. We’ll borrow. But, boy, you weren’t kidding. You really know this area.”

  “I guess I do.” As Art replied he was taken by a memory, thirty and more years old, of a warm afternoon when he and Mary had walked the towpath together, gathering wild hollyhocks and sweet-smelling phlox from close to the water’s edge. Two small boys were ahead of them, uncomfortably close to the quiet canal. Mary, worried not at all about Art teetering on the steep bank and in need of a steadying hand, had rushed off after the children. The summer memory was so piercing and so bittersweet that his eyes rejected today’s snow and its leaden reflection in the canal.