Apart from the circumstances, watching Adam work with us (them, really) would be a treat, because people who are as smart as he is always bring out the best in him. Somehow the implied competition hones his talents: His concentration intensifies; his eyes become almost predatory; his processing of available information begins to blur the line between deduction and augury.
In this case, in only three days’ “tinkering,” with hardly more than an opportunity to learn his way around the hard- and software, he's achieved a significant increase in static suppression and signal isolation, which in effect boosts monitoring range and signal discrimination.
Of course, Adam's primary, unblinking focus is on finding Candy, keeping her out of trouble, or, if things have already progressed beyond that point, rescuing her, so those competitive tendencies are further sharpened by his nearly berserker-level intensity.
Then there's Adam the gourmet chef: Age notwithstanding, the boy is simply one of the finest chefs on the planet. According to Candy, all he has to do is wander through a kitchen, lift pot lids, and sniff contents, and somehow everything tastes better. Originally I thought she was engaging in hyperbole (no!—Candy?), but thereafter I personally witnessed the phenomenon, had the opportunity gratefully to sample the result, then found myself almost in mourning over the realization that we'd eaten it all.
Needless to say, therefore, everyone is delighted that he's also helping Kinsella Woodson, one of our food-services magicians, retool the big planes’ on-board galleys to feed the couple hundred or so of our people who are going along during what's expected to be a protracted field operation, and he'll almost certainly participate regularly in food preparation.
(At which point I can almost hear Candy interject, “And the crowd went wild....")
On the actual mission-planning front, Teacher, Wallace, Danya, and Peter have spent the past several days going over everything we know about the Khraniteli and their Serdtsevina Rasovyi base, and teasing ever-finer resolution from satellite imagery. In one recent photo I saw, you can tell that, not only is the driver of an open vehicle not wearing a hat, but that he's attempted a comb-over and really shouldn't have. However, thus far they have not seen anyone who might be Marshall Foster.
Not counting the thermonuclear warheads, which, regardless of how safely they're packed, we all tend to give a lot of elbow room, it takes a great deal of materiel—weapons, ammunition, selected combat and cargo vehicles, spares for the planes, as well as living supplies—to fill up a C-17, never mind two of them, but provisioning is well under way.
We're scheduled to leave tomorrow at noon. At the C-17s’ four-hundred-fifty-knot cruise (which translates to almost five hundred twenty miles an hour in my more old-fashioned frame of reference), the voyage will take about fourteen hours’ actual flying time. And though the cruising range of one of these flying behemoths is about five thousand miles, Wallace plans two conservative runs of about twenty-five hundred and three thousand miles each, with refueling stops at Anchorage, Alaska, and Norilsk, a major Russian military base with which he's had experience.
A thousand miles after that will bring us to Kamensk-uralskiy, a civilian airfield located only some hundred fifteen miles from Serdtsevina Rasovyi, which he and Danya have selected as our operations center.
Between refueling and maintenance, the stops will add a good four or five hours to the trip.
Still, if everything goes as planned, we should arrive in-theater at about the same time Candy does. Then, eavesdropping via Terry, we'll zero in on her and, as Danni expressionlessly puts it, “invite” her back into the fold and keep her out of trouble while we locate Doctor Foster, if he's there, and clean out that Khraniteli nest.
Sure. That's just how it'll work. I mean, it's not as if there's any potential for something to go wrong....
* * * *
Volume V
Welcome Wagon
Candy's Journal:
Day VIII
This is bad, Posterity. Too early in mission to be getting this sloppy. But how else to explain this morning's security implosion?
Maggie woke big sister shortly after sunrise. Stretched, extracted self from sleeping bag. Retrieved M-1, popped open door, descended from ship, performed customary 360-degree, hungry-fauna scan, with usual negative results.
Thereafter, yawning demurely, scratching elegantly, rifle dangling absently from one hand, stumbled over to little environmentally friendly recycling pit excavated previous evening amongst scattered bushes/trees demarking airport's border.
Almost before Yours Truly had managed to undo belt, allow dignity to drop around ankles, Assume Position—and catch breath from initial thrill after brisk Siberian morning zephyr's caress raised goosebumps on skin unaccustomed to such familiarity—Maggie had completed own business without recourse to pit ("Real dogs don’ nee’ no steenking pit!"). Thereafter BC frisked back, companionably plunked down within convenient scritching distance, settled in to wait for slower-starting human metabolism to complete appointed rounds.
Thereafter, while passing ... er ... time, peeled off appropriate length of tissue, and, following brief wrestling match with breeze, managed to fold neatly. Placed roll on ground, laid folded tissue packet on top, with Swiss Army universal appliance weighing it down. Then transferred attention to horizon, concentrated on thinking tranquil thoughts, attaining that all-important thousand-yard stare. Had time to wish had brought book.
Just finishing personal tidying-up phase when noticed Maggie's tail had shifted into high gear; plus BC's attention seemed to have switched from usual fond-if-intense gaze at elder sister to characteristically focused working-dog stare at something located beyond my shoulder, when—
“Good morning,” offered softly rusty-sounding male voice from somewhere behind me. “I love mornings, don't you? The colors are so bright and vibrant, and every breath is full of the scents of the night.”
Only just managed not to fall backward into pit during burst of enthusiasm surrounding abruptly refocused attention. In single motion, readjusted trousseau while scooping up M-1. Spun as rose, one hand leveling rifle, snapping off safety, seeking target, while other hand, in fumbling, distinctly after afterthought, buckled belt.
Whereupon, discovered, almost invisible in camos against bushes/trees background, slightly rotund, white-haired, -bearded, somehow elfish-looking individual, seated some thirty feet away on clever one-legged golfing stool/cane, rifle slung across back, faced three-quarters away, currently engrossed in elaborately detailed study of far horizon, apparently in deference to Plucky Girl Adventurer's prior state of dishabille.
“I think,” mused new acquaintance wistfully, speech betraying no more accent than someone raised just up street from own house in Wausippi, “that of our regular imports, I miss the softness of that lovely American toilet paper most of all.”
With which, apparently picking up my movement from peripheral vision, stranger rotated slowly on golf seat, like slightly worn, gnome-on-a-stick weathervane. Happy smile lit face as completed turn, our eyes met; not so much ignoring M-1 lined up on center of mass as apparently uninterested.
“Please forgive me,” he said in tone conveying more amusement than apology, “for startling you. With my attention directed away from you, I misinterpreted the sound effects accompanying your activities to indicate that you were entirely finished. The intrusion was unintended.
“Let me introduce myself: Long ago, my parents, the Rozhdestvos, named me Otekh. However, by the end of my first few decades of operating the toy factory, people tended to call me Igrushka Izgotovlenie, which in English more or less means Toymaker. Then, of course, as I grew older, they began to call me Otets Igrushkayami, which translates loosely, though almost as compactly in English, to Father Toys. I suspect either translation will roll more easily off your American-educated tongue than either my name or the Russian versions of my nicknames.”
Opened mouth to interject question; then realized Father Toys’ cheerful rambling cov
ering much of what would have wanted to grill him about anyway.
“Passing through the area late yesterday afternoon, I noticed your aircraft's approach. And may I say,” he added, cocking approving eye, “your landing was very smoothly executed. My own sorely missed corporate pilots could have done no better.
“As you emerged, I noted your alertness, weapons, and your evident skill in handling them. It seemed to me that suddenly appearing and approaching might alarm you, to our mutual detriment. So I remained out of sight, and also stayed downwind to be certain that your dog would not scent me. For the balance of the evening I merely kept watch, to be sure neither of you would be surprised by a bear or wolves. In the absence of poachers, the populations of both have begun to recover nicely in this region. This can be a mixed blessing.
“After you reentered your plane at sunset and failed to come out again within a reasonable interval, I assumed you had gone to sleep. I spent the night on a surprisingly comfortable couch in what once was the airport manager's office.
“Early this morning I returned, settled down here at what I hoped you would regard as a sufficiently nonthreatening distance, and waited quietly for you to waken, emerge, and notice me. My hope, by appearing as innocuous as possible, was to get us through introductions without incident.”
Russian smiled apologetically. “And indeed, just as I planned, you appeared and promptly headed my way. I thought you had seen me. I was just about to introduce myself—when your sudden swoop placed me in a most awkward social position.”
Could not repress giggle. “Not as awkward as mine.” Despite best intentions, found self cautiously warming to Father Toys. On subtle levels, reminded me of Harris, Wallace, Teacher, other older AA males.
Grin spread across Father Toys’ slightly cherubic features. “I shall not debate the issue. Beyond any doubt, there was ample awkwardness to go around.”
But at that point, one of those endlessly fretting, loose-ends-noticing brain cells, with which have been saddled practically from birth, awoke, contributed observation: “Wait. Before I said a word, you greeted me in English; you called me American-educated. How did you guess that?”
Russian's smile widened further. “Never mind the clues represented by the English lettering and numbers on your American-manufactured Helio aircraft. Here you are—forgive me; I mean this as a compliment, not as condescension—so young but flying a comparatively very large airplane all by yourself. After landing, you immediately fueled and serviced it. By yourself. Only thereafter did you play with your wonderfully clever dog. After you both ate, you went straight to bed without displaying more than a security interest in your surroundings.
“All in all, yours were not the actions of a tourist; someone merely exploring or wandering randomly. Your conduct could hardly have been more businesslike. Obviously, in today's depopulated world, someone of your age, so serious, heavily armed, so obviously capable—you are on a quest." Toymaker's eyes twinkled. “—Where but America could you have come from?”
Didn't quite scuff toe aw-shucksly in dirt. “Uh ... thank you.”
Curiously, something about Toymaker—demeanor perhaps, or maybe appearance—motivated Plucky Girl Quester to remember manners at that point. “I'm Candy Smith-Foster. This is Maggie. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Toymaker.”
Which certainly was the case from Maggie's perspective: BC had already migrated to sit at new Best Friend's side, chin on knee, enjoying what appeared to be old gentleman's autonomic scritching in response.
And, though still proceeding cautiously, found was beginning to agree with her: Father Toys one of those people who are just intrinsically comfortable to be around.
Obviously invited him to join us for breakfast.
Unsurprisingly, accepted with grace.
To Maggie's delight, company inspired Plucky Girl Flying Chef to go a bit beyond usual a.m. culinary efforts: Pulled out powdered eggs, last of bacon from travel fridge, pancake mix, syrup (not that BC got any of latter goodies); dug out, fired up Coleman.
As we chatted, and I enjoyed cozy sensation of cooking for, sharing with, someone other than self (and Maggie, always ready to share), found Danni-implanted interrogation lessons edging toward fore: First impressions notwithstanding, clearly needed to know more about Toymaker before lowering guard all the way.
So by way of “making conversation” (i.e., priming pump), observed, “You said you were ‘passing through’ the area yesterday afternoon. Are you exploring or just wandering randomly?”
Laugh-lines surrounding Father Toys’ eyes crinkled with delight. “Wonderful,” he responded happily; “you actually heard what I said. At your age. I wonder if you can appreciate how rare that was, even among adults, back before people became an endangered species.
“I am, of course, searching for survivors. Originally the process did almost constitute random wandering. However, in the months since I began, I've found there is a tendency for the same factors to affect where people live today as those that influenced the original establishment of most settlements in pioneering days. First, one needs water and reasonably decent soil.
“Hence my presence in Chemaya: The Pyasina"—Father Toys made vague gesture toward broad stream just out of sight beyond trees—"over there, is my second river. I have already enjoyed some success while making my way northward down the Yenisey: I found eighteen people, almost evenly divided between genders, ranging in age from slightly younger than you to about my age. Since transferring my attention to the Pyasina, I have located two more, one of each. I invited them to my home in Mikhaleva, in Kraznoyarsk, southern Siberia. So far all have accepted.
“I live on a very large farm on the river. In the bad old U.S.S.R. days, it was a collective, so it has accommodations for many, as well as a wide variety of tools, equipment—a broad spectrum of resources. It seems to me that the more of us we can band together, the better our chances of survival, particularly if we can establish a viable, self-supporting settlement.
“Likewise"—for briefest moment Toymaker's intrinsically merry expression faded—"it will be less lonely....
“It appears,” he continued in somber tones after a moment's pause, “that fewer than two to three percent of the world's population have survived the plague.”
“The actual figure is on the order of three and a half hundredths of a percent,” I blurted, without thinking.
The Toymaker paused, eyed loose-lipped Intrepid Girl Expert Interrogator thoughtfully; then mischievous smile crept back across features. “So confident a delivery of such a precise number from someone so young ... perhaps there is even more to you than appears on the surface, remarkable as that seems.”
Okay, Posterity; clearly had blown cover. Decided to throw caution to winds; provide full disclosure, but thereafter drill straight in for key information.
(Hoped revelation would not prove mistake. As just plain likeable as Father Toys appeared to be at first impression, did not look forward to having to terminate relationship “with prejudice"...)
“I suspect there's more to you than you suspect, too,” I replied obliquely. Fixed him with unambiguously gimlet eye. “Have you ever been sick?”
Heart sank as Russian burst into laughter. “Oh, my goodness, yes! Within a day of the holocaust, I became so ill that I thought I would die, too. For a week I could keep nothing down; for a day I couldn't even raise my head.”
Barely had time to wonder whether sweet old gent could actually be authentic survivor of heretofore 100-percent-lethal, H. sapiens-targeting, airborne bioweapon's ferocity before he dropped other shoe: “You see, one of the problems of growing up the overly-protected son of a post-Soviet-Union-collapse-wealthy industrialist is that one can miss out on key life lessons. For instance, I now know that, no matter how hungry you get, you should never eat unrefrigerated mayonnaise....”
Plucky Girl Adventurer only partially successful in restraining unmannerly sputter of laughter at relief that flooded soul at explanation. Teacher had ex
perienced similar affliction during attack (though certainly not from mayonnaise).
Beloved pedagogue had been under impression at the time (had never been tested) was H. sapiens himself; convinced was dying, soon to join rest of species on History's Compost Heap. But symptoms had proved to be result of botulism toxins. Not even we are immune to bad food.
So pressed on: “Ever been sick otherwise? Measles? Chicken pox? Mumps? Flu? Colds?”
Toymaker shook head at each question. “Now that you mention it, no, not that I can think of. Ever.” Brow furrowed ever deeper. “That does seem odd, doesn't it.”
“How did you do academically in school?”
Replied: Russian equivalent of straight A's.
“Did you compete in scholastic athletics?”
Had, and been darned good at it.
“And have you found that your night vision is better than almost anyone else's?”
By now Father Toys regarding me with undisguised amazement, not unmixed with alarm. “Who are you...?” he demanded finally.
In response, told him who he was: Gave him rundown on heritage as H. post hominem. Then told him who started war, to what end; finishing up by bringing up-to-date, to degree possible, regarding threat posed by remaining Khraniteli.
Took news well. Better, in fact, than had myself.
“Well, this explains some questions I've wondered about most of my life—and even some I hadn't thought of,” said Toymaker presently, shaking head slowly in wonderment.
“Though it doesn't,” he mused, eyeing me thoughtfully, “explain what a nice girl like you is doing in a place like this—clearly on course for that hellhole, Serdtsevina Rasovyi.”
Spontaneous, right-out-of-blue mention of said hellhole caught Plucky Girl Adventurer flatfooted, Posterity. Forgot manners entirely. Without answering his question, demanded to know how he knew about Serdtsevina Rasovyi—never mind unsettlingly accurate characterization!
Father Toys regarded me for long moments before answering. “I have been to Serdtsevina Rasovyi," he said slowly. “The miniaturized sensing, computing, and power-storage technology, and electric motor designs that we developed for our voice- and remote-controlled toys was fairly advanced. Almost a year before the attack, I was ‘invited,’ I thought by the central government, to attend a conference held there. I demonstrated some of our more advanced products for them.”
Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Page 10
