A spark of fear lights in the emissary’s eyes. “Sir?”
The president squeezes his shoulder. “You are an honored guest of the White House, my friend. No harm will come to you here now, and for as long as you choose to remain.”
Once again the president’s legendary charm works its magic. The emissary shows a grateful smile and bows. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” He lifts his hand, signaling for the visitor to be taken away to be plied with food and drink while his brain is being subtly picked for useful information about the enemy.
I re-enter the Oval Off ice once the emissary is gone. The president has headed back behind his desk. He sits down slowly, carefully, as if trying to keep all the new things piled in his head from sliding out of order.
“Well?” he says as I stand in front of him.
“He believes what he’s telling us,” I say.
A nod. “That’s my take.”
“But he hasn’t personally seen what’s being offered.”
“No. He’s just a messenger.” A shrug. “He may honestly believe what he’s been ordered to tell us. But I wouldn’t trust the source of the message, his master, alone with a sheep.”
I chuckle at the implication that the sheep would certainly get raped or eaten—more likely both.
The moment of levity passes and the President sighs. “If this is true it presents a monumental . . .”
“Quandary?” I suggest.
“One wrapped in a predicament and frosted with dilemma. Any sort of entente is going to be . . .”
This is how he habitually asks my opinion. Not directly, but leaving me to supply a word to sum up a given situation.
“Problematical?”
This makes him laugh. “What a tidy word for a barbed-wire monkey trap.”
“Still, this is an opportunity, of sorts.”
“Yes, but what kind?” He looks me in the eye. “So what do you think we should do about this?”
The answer to his question is obvious, although it is not one I particularly like. “We have to take the bait and investigate. Which means playing Wolf’s game.”
“And if what is being offered is real . . .”
There is no word I can supply that is adequate.
Instead I say, “You want me to leave immediately.” This is not a question, but a forgone conclusion.
“Yes. As soon as you can.”
It is a mark of how important and time-sensitive the president considers my trip that I am provided with the use of an airplane and pilot.
I am relieved to learn that my pilot is Chloe, a chunky, raucous, irreverent, self-described mongrel bitch. She loves f lying, lives for it. Most of us don’t.
“Hey, boss!” She calls gaily when she sees me. “Ready to go hump some clouds?” She rolls her hips to demonstrate.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer mournfully. “I’ve rewritten my will.”
“Great! Leave anything to me?”
This is really a game. I have flown with Chloe many times. She is the best of the White House Pilot Corps, not that we have many of her kind; as a species we don’t seem all that sold on the concept of friendly skies.
“Of course not,” I reply. “I figure when we crash we both die.”
“Then I guess we better not crash.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
When the Change was imposed on us our physiology was altered to more closely match that of the aliens who “liberated” us. A physiology that, ironically enough, also mirrors that of our former masters. We are taller. We can stand upright easily now, and our front paws have become hands with fingers. Our vocal apparatus has been altered, allowing us to talk.
Our minds are a patchwork amalgam of who we were before, and the minds of our now long-gone people. This is how I came to be who and what I am.
How was this done?
We have no idea, though not for lack of trying to figure it out. But we are new to science and technology; up until the Change not a one of us could use a cell phone to order a pizza, something we can easily do now.
This new skill set has made pizzerias one of our fastest growing economic sectors.
Takeoff is terrifying and uneventful. That and landing are, to my mind, the two parts of f lying that most seem to flirt with suicide. Landing at least has the advantage that one can get out afterward and kiss the ground. My love for solid ground will remain unrequited for several hours.
Seen from above, Washington looks much like it did before the Change, and yet completely different. There is far less vehicular activity, more foot and bicycle traffic. The cityscape is marred in places by the burned, broken stumps of buildings, scars from unfortunate events that happened during the Change. To balance this are swatches of vivid new green where nature is being allowed to reclaim areas once rendered dead with concrete and asphalt.
“Ever been to Colorado before?” Chloe asks, interrupting my keeping an eye on the ground and willing it to stay down below us.
“Actually, yes. Back before.”
“What was it like?”
I remember running through snow, and skies so big they seemed to go on forever. I remember being deliriously happy, and utterly carefree. I shove the images away, not daring to lapse into nostalgia. “That doesn’t matter much now,” I answer gruffly.
“Because it’s part of the Bad Lands.”
“The black heart of it.”
“Are things there as bad as I hear?”
I watch Washington shrink smaller and smaller under us, and I have a forlorn feeling that I might just be leaving it forever.
“We’re about to find out, aren’t we?”
Country—that is to say nation—is not a natural concept for us, not like the less abstract and more instinctual ideas of turf and terri-tory.
We inherited a country, one called the United States of America. This was not something we built or overtly shaped, and while it was a place that treated what we used to be better than many others, it still wasn’t ours until it was handed to us.
Like, I sometimes think, the biggest squeaky toy ever conceived.
An overwhelming majority of us felt that the überpack or metapack called America should be maintained as much like it had been before the Change as possible. Why was this?
I have thought about this a lot, and spent numerous hours kicking it around with the president. I have reached no firm conclusions. Maybe some of it comes from a sense of loyalty to our former masters and what was important to them. Some of it can be chalked up to the mental overlay that came from them.
That imprint is how we came to have such a fortunate and functional diversity of interest and occupation; why we have farmers, police, politicians, medical types, teachers, chefs, and even brewmasters. Carryover.
This is, I believe, how we ended up with the self-styled General Wolf, a vicious separatist thug with the same primitive attitudes and ruthless nature as his former master.
Or maybe we’re trying so hard to maintain what was in the vain secret hope that those who made it might come back again.
I wake to find myself upside down, body straining against the straps, cracked concrete whipping past just a few feet over my head. I let out a yelp and cringe deeper into my seat, certain I am a heartbeat away from dying in a fiery crash.
“Hey, boss,” Chloe calls brightly. “Enjoy your nap?”
“What the hell are you doing?” I howl.
She frowns my way, unsure why I am so hysterical. Then her eyes widen. “You mean flying like this?”
“Yes,” I growl, trying to keep from looking up—or down.
“Here, let me.” My stomach lurches as the ground surges away, then again as the plane rolls over. We settle back into level flight. “There. That better?”
I don’t usually frighten easily, and am not inclined toward overreaction, but waking to what feels like a near-death experience has scared me badly, and her blithe tone fuels the fire of my sudden anger.
/> “Bad dog!” I shout. “Don’t you ever—” The shocked and hurt look on her face, and my ears catching up with my mouth register at the same time, leaving me with the realization of the unforgivable thing I have just said.
My rage collapses as suddenly as it ignited.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That was uncalled for. In my defense, you scared the living shit out of me. You’re lucky my seat doesn’t need cleaning.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she says meekly. “Really.”
“I know. I’m certain you have a perfectly good reason for flying upside-down six feet above the ground at over a hundred miles per hour.” I manage a smile. “I sure would like to hear it.”
Chloe is not the sort to harbor a grudge, and I can see that she is sorry she frightened me so badly. I am forgiven, and this means a lot to me.
The radio is gabbling for her attention, but she ignores it. “You know how it is. We’re good at some stuff, not so good at other stuff. Airport maintenance is one of those areas we, quite frankly, suck at. I was giving the runway a careful visual inspection before setting down.”
“All proper arrangements were to have been made for our landing.”
“They were, boss. I’ve been on the radio. We’re cleared to land. A refueling crew is standing by. They’ve set up a reception area with food and stuff.” She shakes her head. “But I don’t set this crate down until I verify that some dumbass tail-chaser hasn’t left crap on my landing strip.”
“That sounds like good practice.”
“Bet your ass it is. I had a close call last month. Still not sure if it was incompetence or sabotage, and that’s not my problem anyway. Putting us down in a big enough piece to take off again is.”
“Thank you for your . . . attention to detail,” I say. “But could you warn me if you’re going to do that again?”
A bright eye regards me merrily. “Think that would have helped?”
“Probably not,” I say so dolefully it makes her laugh.
Chloe informs me that the airport at Topeka is run by a shaggy mixed-breed named Franny. Seen from above it appears well-kept and organized. The landing goes smoothly, the control tower directing us into the smaller and more secure private aviation sector.
The flaw in the organization Franny controls only becomes apparent when we step inside the arrival lounge. News that we are coming has leaked, and the mayor of Topeka is waiting to greet us.
He pounces on me like a cat on a mouse, bursting with bubbling bonhomie. “Welcome to Topeka!” he bellows, grabbing my hand and pumping it. Chloe wisely hangs back, leaving me the one to get slobbered over.
“Thanks,” I reply as I try to extricate my hand. My mind is more on taking a leak and getting some food than playing visiting politician.
“You’re welcome, sir! Always glad to have someone from the Capitol come visit us here in the hinterlands!” This is boomed out like a proclamation, and I half expect to next be given a key to the city.
Franny comes to my rescue, moving in smoothly, her expression apologetic. “Sir, we know you’ve had a long flight. The restroom is over that way, and once you’ve had a chance to freshen up you can get a bite to eat while your plane is being refueled.”
“Absolutely!” the mayor agrees eagerly. “Go lift a leg, then you can come back here and taste some of the best food Topeka has to offer! We’ve put on one hell of a spread!”
“Thanks,” I mumble, heading in the direction Franny indicated and knowing my escape will only be temporary. I try to console myself with news brought by my nose: I smell steak.
“Well, that was certainly fun,” I grumble once we are airborne again.
“Sorry, boss. We were supposed to get in and out without any fuss, but somebody blabbed. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Why is that?”
She gives me a look like I am being especially obtuse. “You’re from the Capitol, boss.”
“So?”
“Flying gets me around some, right? All the places out here are pretty isolated. It’s not like there are jumbo jets with folks from Washington—or much of anywhere else—coming in every day.”
“They’re not that cut off,” I argue. “There’s TV and radio and the internet. The trains are running pretty regularly. There are more buses and private vehicles on the road all the time.”
“Yeah, but mobility is still pretty low. So is visibility of you political bigwigs. Our kind have special needs. We need . . .” She pauses, searching for the right description. I wait, curious to hear what she has to say.
“We’re a lot more dependent on, um, first-order social contact. You know, face to face. See their posture, watch their eyes and tail, hell, sniff their butt. Your coming from DC helps prove it’s real. Like with the Crumble. That’s a more extreme example of where too little contact can lead.”
“What do you mean?” The Crumble is the nickname for the immediate area around the Bad Lands. A place where, despite our best efforts, Wolf’s influence continues to encroach.
“Military and police aren’t stopping it, are they?”
“Not as well as we want.”
“Wolf’s operatives go into the Crumble, lie their tongues off about what their version of governing is like, spreading dissatisfaction and dissent. Or fear, when those don’t work. They say you—the government—don’t care. You know that, right?”
“We get reports.”
She snorts derisively. “We still have our noses, boss. We can smell a fart a mile away and know what the farter had for dinner. But . . .”
“Whose butt?” I joke.
“My hairy butt,” she growls. “Here’s the deal: Smelling that fart doesn’t help us be there when the dinner that caused the fart was served.”
I have to chuckle at her crude and strangely compelling reasoning. “You’re calling the reports farts? Or our presence?”
“I’m saying that’s what they’re ultimately worth. You want to shove Wolf-ass back from the Crumble? Send a flood of folks out from DC and happy states. Show them that the US of A is something more than a really humongous, really stale fart they keep sniffing from a dinner they never get to taste.”
“That is certainly an . . . interesting way to look at it.” I am tickled by the idea of, after this peculiar mission is over, going back to the president and explaining that the erosion of control around the Bad Lands has stemmed from his being the Fart-in-Chief.
Chloe shrugs. “I just call them like I see ’em.”
“Or smell ’em.”
She nods. “Damn skippy.”
There are no walls or fences separating the Bad Lands from the rest of the country. No line in the sand, no yellow crime tape, no concertina-wire-draped walls. I know that we have entered Wolf’s domain only because Chloe tells me so, and she goes on to explain that we are to follow a very specific flight path that has been sent to her.
“Is that to avoid other planes?” I ask.
“Nope. No fliers in Wolf-land that I know about, anyway.”
I had heard this, and wondered if her information differed from mine. “Why is that?”
“Because us pilot types are smart,” she informs me in a smug tone.
“That’s funny. I heard that the only pilots who qualify are those who aren’t dumb enough to stick their heads out the window while in the air.”
She laughs. “Good one, boss. I’ve heard it before, but I like your delivery. This gig doesn’t pan out, maybe you should go into stand-up.”
“Thanks. Now tell me, why are there no pilots out here?”
“Like I said, flyers are smart. Anyone bright enough to get off the ground boogied when Wolfie started howling.”
“Because?”
“A clown like that gets pilots and he immediately starts thinking war planes. Shooting? Bombing? No thanks. Flying is too much fun to go screwing it up with shit like that.”
“You and your fellow pilots are to be commended on your sanity. So why the strictly delineated flight pl
an?”
“Folks down there are nuts. I hear they’ll shoot at anything that moves and eat what’s left afterward. The general level of paranoia here means a bright shiny plane like ours is probably part of an invasion—and an invitation to air-lifted lunch.”
All of that agreed with what I had heard. We have managed to place and cultivate a few sources inside the Lands, and most have reported incidents of lunatic overreaction to perceived threat and cannibalism becoming less a crime than a movement.
Not that many of us delve all that deeply into the nuts and bolts—or more properly, blood and guts—of human history.
I do. In truth, I can’t seem to help myself, any more than I was once unable to resist the provocations of squirrels. Wolf does not lack for non-canifolk predecessors and counterparts on other parts of the globe. Those he ruled would fall into two camps: the terrified and the true believers. His fanatic followers, especially those benefiting from the regime, would see anything that kept them in power as the proper course of action.
A human named Goldwater once proclaimed the pilfered quote that “Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice.” A ringing, potentially lethal declaration in that the perpetrator of the extremism is invariably the one who defines the meaning of the justifying liberty. Wolf, like so many before him, uses his concept of liberty to defend atrocity. The Pol Pot calling the kettle white. White as a stack of skulls.
“So where are we landing?”
Chloe shakes her head. “Never Never Land, for all I know. I’m not being given that information until we get deeper into Bad Lands airspace. Past the point of no return, I guess.”
“How charmingly paranoid of them. Is fuel going to be a problem?”
“Nope. That’s why we tanked up in Topeka. That gives me enough range to spend stupid time circling and doubling back, and still have enough fuel to put a whole bunch of klicks between us and this dump.”
“Good thinking.”
“I have my moments, boss.” She is quiet a moment. “So how dangerous is this mission?”
“We’re hanging way up in the thin frigging air in a goddamned steel pipe, aren’t we?”
“Would you feel safer about three feet off the deck?”
Analog Science Fiction and Fact 01/01/11 Page 15
