Finally taxied over to pretty little grove of trees near airport perimeter. Deployed big T-handle wrench to twist tie-down kit's coiled-spring stakes deep into ground; one under ringbolt in each wing, one at tip of tail; secured plane against unexpected wind gusts with strong, kit-furnished ropes.
In shade under starboard wing, cooked dinner on Coleman camp stove transferred from van; stuffed face until comfortably full. Cleaned up “kitchen” by burying non-breakfast-reusable leftovers.
Then pulled out duffle bag containing clothes, blankets, etc., set down next to big main-gear wheel. Planted tush on bag's cushion, leaned back against side of tire. Closed eyes, composed, sent off wish-you-were-here-touristy message to family via Terrymail.
Wondered how much non-message-quality, random stream-of-consciousness, mental activity baby brother had already passed on. Probably mind-numbing duty for poor Terry-monitor—little doubt Teacher would have posted one already.
Which caused slight twinge of guilt: AAs perpetually short-handed; hated to inflict on them need to divert possibly essential personnel to remote baby-sitting duties. But then recalled: Decision to tiptoe off alone to Urals prompted in part by recognition, acceptance of fact could hardly expect Teacher to divert limited resources for mission just to rescue Daddy—assuming even still alive.
Viewed in which light, Terry-watching becomes bargain: Nets Teacher additional realtime Urals/Khraniteli intel without personnel/materiel costs attendant to mounting, dispatching actual mission.
(Wow, sounds so reasonable, almost believe it myself.)
Settled down, brought journal up-to-date.
And suddenly found self temporarily at loose ends, with too much time on hands, reflecting on plans—and at that point could not avoid facing fact that killings almost certainly lay in future. In fact, assuming don't manage further to martyr self in process, undoubtedly lots of killings.
More specifically, lots more killings: Yes, Posterity, despite chronologically tender age, your Humble Historiographer has already been forced to kill.
Twice, actually.
At which point, despite best efforts, horrific series of memories from astonishingly violent recent past floated before eyes...
On first occasion, Rollo Jones, brand-new acquaintance, had attacked Terry with big iron skillet. Impact would have crushed delicate avian skeleton like balsa-wood airplane model.
Now, to be fair, featherheaded baby brother started it. But to be even fairer, fact that situation was allowed to deteriorate to that level was fault of no one but Yours Truly. On so many levels.
First, ignored portents: Terry hated Rollo. Instantly. On sight. And for years, had never known birdbrain to be wrong about people.
Even today, if silly sibling likes someone, invariably new chum proves to be Best Friend material. If not—Wait. Come to think of it, haven't encountered any nots since being invited into AA/hominem community. (Terry never met Kyril...)
Rollo, an M.D., had been charming, funny, obviously terribly smart. And while at least thirty years older than self, was indisputably handsome, in dignified, gray-templed fashion. Plus much of age difference had been spent surviving variety of hostile environments during Peace Corps tour, among other adventures. By any measure, would have been asset.
Seemingly more important at the time, however, Rollo only third living soul to cross path since Armageddon; really had hoped would become friends. So shrugged off alarm bells sounded by Terry's instant hostility; allowed acquaintance to progress from introduction to tentative, cautious friendship.
That evening, Rollo served dinner for us (Adam, self)—and on that very first “date,” proposed (or at least propositioned); i.e., suggested practical arrangement, as primitive societies had employed down through ages: Would pledge his loyalty, years of all-around survival experience, medical training—for access to your Humble Historiographer's bed.
In process of deliberating pros, cons; actually on point of accepting, largely for Adam's benefit (having doctor join expedition could have been of inestimable value). But just then Rollo came within reach of Terry for very first time since meeting—and birdbrain promptly bit living daylights out of him.
Injury triggered absolutely berserk rage; if hadn't stopped him, Rollo would have killed featherheaded touchstone/ prognosticator in heartbeat. Intervention had required karate, hysterical strength. But pain, frustration at being blocked by child had redirected Rollo's fury from Terry to self.
Still might have restrained attacker without killing, but Rollo big, strong, pretty fast. Hurried me. Ultimately, encounter ended badly.
Reaction to killing was to go catatonic for better part of twelve hours, brood for weeks. Didn't recover fully until Kim (who, with daughter, Lisa, were fourth, fifth live people encountered after Mankind's End) took me aside, administered metaphoric shake, helped set head back on straight.
Then came Kyril: bright, fun, good company; also eminently cuddlable in sweet, fatherly sort of way.
But when dust settled, proved to be Khraniteli agent. His people wanted my people dead. Russian stood between me and mine: those whom had volunteered to die to protect.
No anger involved, Kyril's or mine. Nor, on this occasion, stampeded into lethal violence, as with Rollo. Killing Kyril was coldest-blooded, most undilutedly deliberate assassination imaginable: product of thoughtful, if brief, calculation, planning; methodical execution.
No two ways about it: Killing bad. And on indefinable levels, cost of having killed almost worse.
However, cost of losing genocidal war worse still. So whatever must do to defend my people, individually or as a whole, shall accept, pay price, whatever that may be.
Same holds at least as true for rescuing Daddy....
Well, gee, glad we settled that.
Finally found self reflecting on curious sense of accomplishment, depth of comfort imparted by simple activity of journal keeping. Though begun originally as mere therapy, to drain off nearly suicidal levels of depression experienced while trapped in shelter right after End of Days, since then have more or less come to regard keeping up journals as responsibility—personal Duty to Future Generations.
Hmm ... Hope Plucky Girl Savior of Our People not beginning to believe own publicity.
* * * *
Day I(b)
Yes, technically, this should be Day II entry, since being written next morning after having put journal to bed—not to mention minor detail that events about to be chronicled took place after midnight.
Whatever.
* * * *
Having concluded Day I(a)'s journal update, relaxed, leaned head back, rested against tire sidewall, settled in to enjoy gorgeous, colorful, sunset lightshow display over Cascades.
Mind you, may even have rested eyes briefly; perhaps moment here, second there. But certainly not as if slept.
However, in view of sunset admirer's certified nonsleeping status, startlement level delivered by gentle impact on lap from what at first impression appeared to be lightweight, inverted, plastic dinner plate seemed anomalous at best.
Eyes snapped wide. As nearly simultaneously as physically possible, looked left, right, and—
Found self locked in staring contest, at point-blank range, with cold, almost luminous, ghostly whitish-blue eyes of
—Wiley Coyote...?
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
Unfortunately, Teacher's attempt at calming Adam was begun with the observation, “Now, we can't just go rushing off half-cocked...”
But Adam, clearly in the grip of that hyperintense, almost berserker-quality state of focused concentration I first saw the day Candy's ultralight engine failed and she went down in the Sequoias, was already dashing out the door.
Unlike the rest of us, he didn't hear Teacher say, “...however, Wallace, I have come to the conclusion that I may be in error. Though Candy's tactics at this point are open to question, I think perhaps that her decision was strategically correct. We've done enough inf
ormation gathering, analysis, and reflection. It's time we moved actively against the Khraniteli. If you'd please organize an expedition for that specific purpose.”
“My pleasure,” said Wallace with a wolfish smile.
“In general,” Teacher continued, “I'd like to reduce all their known bases, beginning with Serdtsevina Rasovyi, and the research-and-development facility located there. If possible, I would prefer to recover whatever data it may contain. However, regardless of whether that proves possible, I want it neutralized, and everyone connected with it eliminated as a future threat.
“We know that most of the installation is underground, in that huge, so-called indestructible shelter of theirs. If you feel the need to use one or more thermonuclear warheads, so be it.
“Of course, at some point Candy will undoubtedly need assistance in determining whether Marshall really is alive and extracting him, so while we're at it—”
Bouncing up, I forced myself to interrupt (no one interrupts Teacher—not that he minds; it just isn't done): “Excuse me, Teacher. I've seen Adam in all-out Candy-rescue mode before. He's impetuous, but he's not half-cocked: Before he cleared that door, he'd already decided what equipment he was going to need, and I'll bet he knows where every piece of it is located.
“If we don't stop him"—I was already headed for the door myself, accelerating to a dead run—"he'll have it all accumulated, and by sundown we'll be missing another Stallion.” Jumping up, Danya and Gayle followed me.
“How 'bout that,” said Terry from Lisa's shoulder. “Ooo,” he added so softly that probably only Lisa and I heard him as I raced past her and out the door; “that cloud looks just like a giraffe....”
* * * *
Volume III
Sidekick
Candy's Journal:
Okay, Posterity, recognized new acquaintance as Border Collie almost instantly. Or as nearly instantly as possible, considering...
One: Fact that sun had quite unambiguously retired for evening; western horizon's bottommost fringes barely even hinted at pinkish tinge. Which meant Hair-Trigger-Alert Sentrygirl had been dead to world for probably two hours or more; and...
Two: Dog almost entirely black; relieved only by minimal white feet, modest chest blaze, narrow collar, slender stripe from nose to just behind flop-tipped ears.
Utterly motionless in pool of deeper darkness beneath wing created by slightly oblate moon hanging in crystal-clear, star-studded sky, canine effectively invisible at that moment, except for faintest infrared glowing auras detectible from areas where coat was thinnest; brighter glow from naked nose, edges of eyelids, outlining—
Only anatomical feature really visible: spooky, light blue eyes—picked out by random moonbeam reflected back under wing from polished metal propeller blade.
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
Gayle runs faster than I do, but Danya runs faster than anyone; she caught Adam only about a quarter mile from the chow hall. He had almost reached what I suspected was going to be his first stop: the armory.
However, when Danya really wants to speak with you, the sheer radiating power of her personality (even without an awareness of the potential for dislocated joints and broken bones to underscore the effect) makes it difficult to ignore her. Far more quickly than either Gayle or I could have managed, she gained Adam's attention and suggested he return with us to what was obviously about to turn into our first expeditionary planning session.
“Don't you even think of skipping out ahead of us and running your own operation,” she told him sternly. “Wallace is going to want to arm-wrestle me for you, but I'm asking first: I need your fix-anything, mad-scientist talents on my team when we go in.”
Danni is so good. She couldn't have picked a better stratagem. No hint of the “You young idiot; you're just going to get yourself killed!” mom-style, common-sense approach I probably would have tried—which would have fallen upon the deaf ears of a mission-bent berserker.
No; with a perfectly straight face, Danni addressed him on the level of “us professional rescuers,” one to another: Teacher had just authorized a preemptive strike, we were going in to carry it out, as well as to help Candy get her dad out—and, she, Danni, needed Adam on her team to make it all work.
I've never encountered anyone, whose construction included Y chromosomes and normal concentrations of testosterone, whether Homo sapiens or H. post hominem, who wouldn't have responded to such a matter-of-fact request for assistance from someone who looks like Danni with other than improved posture, a significantly expanded chest, a piercing, look-of-eagles expression, and a heightened overall aspect of manly determination.
Of course, at least equally important, by “drafting” him as part of her team, giving him mission responsibilities, and letting him know that she and we all are counting on him, Danni has also minimized the likelihood that he'll go charging off on his own.
Which is a relief. I love Adam almost as much as Candy does, and he's a terrifically talented young man. In his fields. But the fact is, special-operations skills and hand-to-hand combat simply are not among them. He is nowhere near Candy's level. Heck, even I'm better at it than he is. There's no doubt in my mind that, if he tried to go in on his own, he'd get caught in a heartbeat.
* * * *
Candy, on the other hand ... Even before beginning to train under Danya, Candy had much the same focused, thinking-all-the-time quality to her gaze as her tutor; and the more time she spends with Danni, the more she reminds me of our ex-Mossadniki.
Since then Danni has repeatedly confided to me that Candy is a natural-born ninja: Her talent for special-operations work, such as infiltration and stalking, are unmatched. Danya says that, since taking her under her wing, Candy's learned to move with utter silence, and become virtually invisible in terrain offering less concealment than anyone she's ever met.
As a Sixth Degree Black Belt, Candy was already approaching her coach's skill level in hand-to-hand and nonfirearm-type weapons; but according to Danni, our lethal little sister has become an even better shot than she, a Mossad-trained professional sniper/assassin, ever was, particularly with the big rifles at extreme long range.
In short, under normal circumstances, the thought of an eleven-year-old girl prowling the Urals, stalking Khraniteli in their own territory, would be terribly distressing. In Candy's case, however, similes involving wolves in sheep's clothing fall almost blood-chillingly short. A more appropriate comparison might be something on the order of a wistfully helpless-looking Golden Retriever puppy—which transforms in the blink of an eye into a tiger. Or perhaps more accurately—a velociraptor....
Danni's only halfway tongue-in-cheek term-of-art for this phenomenon is the exploding baby bunny surprise: an adult adversary's momentarily confused hesitation upon the sudden discovery that within this innocent-appearing, small-for-her-age, apparently vulnerable, winsome, preteen girl dwells a supremely well-trained warrior who holds no ruth whatever for our enemies.
Intellectually, based on the above, I know that her chances of pulling it off are comparable to those of Wallace or Danya working alone. Possibly even better, actually, on some levels, because of the Q-ship factor.
Except, of course, for the language: They speak it like natives, but Candy's command of Russian is limited to about fifty words; with, I'm told, an atrocious American accent; most of it having to do with spaceflight and disarming orbiting doomsday bombs—an inventory of dubious utility on her current quest.
All of which raises the question: If she's like this now, what's she going to be like—Heaven help us all—when she grows up?
If she grows up...
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
Dwelling on 300-plus acres located not quite five miles outside Wausippi, small Wisconsin town where Daddy/ Momma Foster—then Daddy/Teacher—raised me, Weldon Helmrick was independently wealthy gentleman farmer. As part of operation, Helmrick ran commercial milking parlor. Sort of. Yes, did raise
cows. Yes, did market lactate output (Wisconsin was Dairy State, after all) to pay for upkeep on 200-plus really contented (some almost borderline-obese) Holsteins.
Mostly, however, Weldon pocketed huge governmental subsidies for not operating anywhere near capacity, lest someone in government have to figure out how to avoid feeding excess to Third World poor.
(Hmm ... Really must stop getting diverted into these side issues. Not as if matters; those people all dead now—starving victims, soulless governmental dogs-in-the-manger alike.)
Point toward which your Humble-if-Scatterbrained Historiographer was tacking so obliquely, even prior to inadvertent digression into sociological-injustice rant: Weldon's actual motivation for keeping cows in first place was so his Border Collies would have herd of their very own to play with. (Weldon called it “training"; may even have believed it himself.)
Breeding, competing in herding, obedience, agility, tracking, catching Frisbees, plus occasional foray into conformation breed ring, were focus of joyous dilettante agriculturist's lifework.
As well, with such outlook, served as state coordinator for (surprise!), Border Collie Rescue.
BC population at Helmrick homestead seldom dropped below 15, 20: four, five of his own (more when one or more females had puppies on ground), plus 10, 20 rescuees being fostered, resocialized, retrained, in transit from/to old/new homes, etc. In point of fact, Weldon spent virtually every waking moment working, playing with, loving his dogs.
(Fair number of sleeping moments, too, based on Yours Truly's experience with Alpha, oldest daughter. [Yes—Heaven help them—Weldon named kids in order of arrival, as if two-legged pack members. He and wife had made it up to baby girl Epsilon(!) by Armageddon time.] Seldom did any family member, or overnight guest, experience less than “three-dog night"—and can testify from own experience, actually pretty cozy arrangement during frigid Wisconsin winter nights....)
Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Page 6
