by Jeff Long
It wouldn’t be long. The expeditions were returning. The Billings expedition was going to be first. Last night’s satellite image had showed them camping on Raton Pass, on the Colorado border, along old I-25. Everyone in the city was excited. Miranda wasn’t the only one sitting along the rim, watching the road that wound up from the valley.
Depending on conditions, the expedition might come in today or tomorrow, or the next day. Their estimated time of arrival was anyone’s guess. Since dawn, the satellite had lost them to albedo effect. It was not unusual for the satellites to go blind during daylight hours. That was when most of the surveillance team got to sleep.
Miranda looked out across the gap at a section of highway cut into the mesa wall, and it was empty. She took a drink of cold water, and closed her eyes. The water seemed more delicious every day.
Then she looked again, and something was flickering along the top of the far peninsula, a white shape, quick among the piñon and scrub. Miranda raised her binoculars and found it easily, their day ghost, the Appaloosa. She was galloping hard, one more mystery that would probably never get explained.
They knew from the remote cameras that Nathan Lee had ridden her down to the river, but crossed on foot. In the aftermath of the bomb and evacuation, everyone had forgotten all about the horse. One day in January she had simply reappeared. It was cold, but she wouldn’t take their shelter. The bomb had permanently spooked her. She carried burn scars, and wouldn’t let anyone come near. Through the rest of winter, every week or so, someone would throw a hay bale out for her, and that kept her alive. Tara had tried chasing the horse, or laying out apples and hiding. But the horse had gone wild, or half wild. She seemed to enjoy their proximity, though not enough to ever be caught or ridden again.
Miranda watched her for another few minutes. The horse slalomed through the low trees, cutting right and left, muscles flashing. Her dust plume sparkled in the sunlight. The fool thing was going to go flying right off the cliff someday, people said. Or run itself to death. Circles within circles, that’s all people saw. But that missed her real mystery. The question was not where the horse was going or what she was running from, nor whether she would ever make up her mind between the city and the abyss. Rather it had to do with the race itself.
A shout went up along the rim. Immediately Miranda shifted the binoculars downward to see the highway. And there they were, on foot, coming around the bend.
Suddenly her breathing just took off. She had to steady her elbows on the chair arms. Her heart raced. She felt a jolt of adrenaline, which woke the baby, who gave a kick.
Miranda touched the focus knob and the explorers grew sharper. The road had changed them. They were brown from the sun. The soldiers had beards. Ben, too. He was near the front. She moved through the faces. Some she recognized, others were new. There were women and children among them. Survivors!
Abruptly the expedition passed from view. The road wound behind another finger of the mesa. All along the canyon’s edge, people were shouting with excitement. They began to stream away from their perches, racing to greet the travelers as they entered town, and the canyon slowly fell silent.
Miranda stood to join them, but the blood rushed from her head. She lowered herself back to sitting. The iron chair took her weight without a sound.
It wasn’t that she felt heavy or slowed, quite the opposite. Her wings had never been stronger. She had to bully herself to sit there, to take the extra moment. With the arrival of these newcomers, and the coming of her child, life was about to get very busy. She would not have this kind of privacy again, not for years. She pushed aside her crowding thoughts. She sat there.
The sage and rabbit brush were budding. The air was fat with desert scents. Miranda took a deep lungful. Her faintness passed. The world had only seemed to stop for a time. Everything was in motion again. She started to lift her eyes to the sun, but caught on the sight of that never-ending horse across the way. Chopping up the dust, flying through the trees, running like crazy. It was enough to make her smile.
Acknowledgments
Year Zero began as a medical mystery based at Los Alamos…then changed. As my research broadened, I began to see how the old analogy of “religion as a plague” has its counterweight in “plague as a religion.”
In short, the incredible crisscross of science and faith led me away from my original tale. In the early phase of my research, the people I consulted at Los Alamos National Lab heard one story, and Year Zero may come as a surprise to them. Chief among them are Dr. Lawrence Deaven, deputy director with the Center for Human Genome Studies at Los Alamos, who generously shared insights into the project’s work, and Todd Hanson of the Public Affairs office, who guided me “behind the fence,” as it was once called. Special thanks go to Cliff Watts and Charles Clark who have patiently tried to educate me on medical matters over the years. I am indebted to Marcia Hamilton for playing tour guide on our excursion through the human brain. It goes without saying that any bad science in this science fiction is my sole responsibility.
Many thanks to my editors, Jason Kaufman, a great young editor from the old school of editing, and Mitchell Ivers, ever calm within the storm.
I am especially grateful to Bill Gross, my manager, friend, and inspiration. If there is such a thing as a muse with cojones, he is it.
Finally, Barbara and Helena, thank you for sharing this world of dreams.
