Joe Haldeman SF Gateway Omnibus: Marsbound, Starbound, Earthbound

by Joe Haldeman

“I wouldn’t attack a fortified position in any case, unless it had something I really wanted. Like the president.”

  He laughed. “Fat lot of good I’ll be after the communications go out.”

  “They want you before that.”

  “Suppose so. Though I’m not sure what they’d do with me. Trade me for food?”

  “Maybe they just want Camp David,” he said. “Easy to defend without electricity, and all that meadowland would be good for planting. A fortified farm like Dustin’s bunch.”

  “My ‘bunch’ doesn’t have much winter,” Dustin pointed out. “This place probably gets a lot of snow.”

  The president nodded. “Gold used to come up on weekends for cross-country skiing. That was a circus.”

  There were three loud, evenly spaced impacts on the log wall, like heavy sledgehammer blows.

  “What was that?” Namir said.

  The president shrugged and looked at one of the guards. “Sir,” he said, “it sounds like a large-caliber air rifle, a sniper gun. No report because the ball goes slower than sound. I’d stay away from the windows, sirs.”

  We all moved toward the wall in between the two west windows. This was where the Indians would start shooting flaming arrows. Ride in looping orbits until the inferno forced us out.

  “Shit,” Paul said, “we shouldn’t have left the guns on the plane.”

  “Some downstairs,” the president said. He strode over to a door in the corner and thumbed the lock open. “Backup weapons for the army, I guess. On a rifle rack in the hall.”

  Namir jerked his head in that direction, and all five of us crept over, staying close to the wall. I didn’t care for the idea of joining the president’s army, but being an unarmed target was ridiculous.

  As we clattered down the metal stairs, I felt panic rising, and a kind of helpless anger. A week ago, Earth was a beautiful blue marble floating in space, full of promise. The surface, it was nothing but fear and panic.

  We used to joke about that. Most of my adult life has been in and on Mars, and her two moons were named fear and panic, Phobos and Diemos. When they rose or set together, we’d sometimes gather in the dome and watch. Drinking bad sweet Martian wine or worse brandy. It was a good place to live, toasting fear and panic. I hoped it still was. I had grandchildren there, old enough to vote.

  I stood on the concrete floor numb, while Namir and Paul and Dustin smashed open the glass case and shouted about which weapons to take. It all seemed in slow motion. Great-grandchildren? My children, my twins, were born in ’84. They’d be fifty-four Earth years old by now, twenty-eight Martian ares. They could have married at ten, and yes, their children might have children. I hadn’t thought to ask.

  Paul thrust a lightweight laser weapon into my arms, rather than a mewling infant, so my career as a great-grandmother was over after a second and a half.

  I followed him up the stairs, almost tripping, because I was looking at the weapon rather than my feet. The safety was an on/off switch just above where your right thumb rested when your finger was on the trigger. A line of light on the top of the shoulder stock showed how much charge was left. Mine was halfway up, amber in color. Enough to fry an egg? A person?

  Paul whispered, “I’ll go check the plane,” and slipped out the back door, before I could say anything. He had his rifle and two bandoliers of ammunition, but not even a hat against the rain.

  The two guards were kneeling by both the windows. I sat down next to one of them, and we exchanged nods. “Anything?”

  He shook his head no and squinted outside for a moment, then jerked back. Of course you wouldn’t want to stay silhouetted long enough for that sniper to aim at you.

  Alba crouched next to the soldier. “Are you in contact with the ones outside?”

  He tapped his ear. “Yeah, but radio silence,” he whispered. “They’re out past the wire.”

  Alba’s weapon was the same as mine. She pushed a button on the end of the stock and a long silver fuel cell came out. She licked her thumb and rubbed both the terminals, and slid it back into place with a quiet click.

  The president was sitting on a worn leather couch in the corner farthest away from doors and windows. Hiding inside a bulky bulletproof vest and a heavy military helmet, he looked kind of ridiculous, like a boy playing soldier. He was punching buttons on what looked like an oversized phone, perhaps dictating the fate of the Free World. Such of it as remained.

  After a long time, I looked at the clock on the wall behind me. It was 1:45; maybe ten minutes had passed. How long were we going to sit here listening to the rain?

  I remembered Namir’s refrain, “I will not quit my post until properly relieved.” Would soldiers wait patiently through old age and into dust while their leaders forgot about them? Not a sound from outside except the oscillating swish of rain being pushed by wind.

  The soldier touched his throat. “Sitrep?” he whispered. “Tony?” He cupped a hand over his ear, and then shrugged at Alba. I guess I didn’t look military enough to shrug at.

  The green picture on the cube shifted, sliding around about 180 degrees; Jorge looking back at us. The old lodge was a faint outline against the trees, our dark windows showing as light squares in the storm’s gloom. From heat, I suppose. Cold as it was in here.

  There was some machine-gun fire, farther away, answered by the crackling of laser fire as it popped rain. “Maybe some of them are falling back,” the soldier said. “Or maybe it’s just a bluff, a diversion,” he stage-whispered to the other soldier. “What do you think, Boog?”

  “I’m a sergeant,” he said. “They don’t pay me to think.”

  “Give it a try.”

  “I guess they figured to pop a few rounds to keep us awake all night. Then they go rest and come hit us when we’re tired.”

  “That sounds right,” Namir said, sitting next to the soldier who had spoken. “That’s their big tactical advantage. Even if we outgun them, they control when and where we fight.”

  “Unless we take it to them,” the first one said. “Maybe that’s what they’re doing now, chasing them.”

  “Leaving us alone here? I don’t think so.”

  Not alone, of course. We also have a relatively useless president and a handful of intrepid interstellar space explorers. What are a few hundred people with guns against six who’ve faced the Others and lived to tell the tale? And a seventh who was able to walk through darkness undetected? Plus a zombie brother who had lost two of his three lives. Who could blame the rabble for running?

  “A lot depends on how many of their weapons are electrical,” Namir said. “They must know that the military have powder weapons.”

  “They might also know that our powder ammunition would be used up after a few minutes of heavy fighting. They might’ve been stockpiling reloads for years.”

  “What is a reload?” I asked.

  “It’s a do-it-yourself recycling thing,” the other soldier said. “You save your empty cartridges and refill them with lead and powder. Tax on ammo is really high.” He looked at Namir. “Was there a lot of ammo down there?”

  He shook his head slowly and bit his lip, thinking. “We emptied a green metal box that had, what, ten bandoliers, maybe twelve. There were three other boxes.” Like Paul, he had two bandoliers slung over his shoulders, across his chest, looking like a dangerous Mexican bandito.

  “Bandolier’s got 240 rounds,” the soldier said, “twenty cartons. Hope there’s more.”

  The back door swung open, and Paul clumped in, dripping. “Plane looks okay,” he said, pressing water from his hair. He cut a glance toward the kitchen door. “Coffee.”

  I followed him into the kitchen; Namir and Elza followed me. Paul grabbed a tea towel to wipe off his rifle.

  “Look, this is bad. The plane’s okay right now because you have to cross so much exposed ground to get to it. But once they flank this building, they can hit it with gunfire. One lucky shot would disable it.”

  “So let’s get th
e hell out of here,” Namir said, “while the plane still works. They’re gonna rest up tomorrow, and then on Wednesday it’ll be Custer surrounded by the Sioux.” I didn’t quite know what that meant, but was sure it was nothing good.

  “We should go right now,” Elza said. “Every minute we stay here—”

  “Take me with you.” The president had slipped quietly into the kitchen behind us.

  Paul looked at him. “Rather take two of the soldiers.”

  “What?” He seemed surprised. “But I can be . . . I’m the president.”

  “What did you do to Professor Gold?”

  “Gold was an old man. The shock of the last few days, the Others . . . it was more than his heart could take.”

  “Bullshit. I talked with him the day before he died. He was fine.”

  “But old.”

  “He swam a half mile a day to relax. He didn’t have a heart attack.”

  “He did, though. I was there.”

  Paul looked at him for a long moment. “Go tell the soldiers we’re going to take you to safety. Ask them to cover us. Then we’ll make a break for it.”

  He shook his head. “What if . . .”

  “I’ll go get the others,” I said, and walked by the president. His sweat was acrid. Was that the smell of fear? Or of lying.

  Maybe he wasn’t lying when he said he was there, when Gold died. I wondered if anybody else was.

  I went into the room and started toward Card, to whisper for him to get into the kitchen, but there was no need for secrecy. When everybody disappeared, the soldiers would figure it out, even if the president hadn’t told them.

  “We’re gonna get out while the jet can still fly,” I said in a loud voice.

  “That’s intelligent,” one of the soldiers said laconically. “Leave us some ammo, please.”

  “You could bring the boxes up from downstairs,” the other said.

  “Got it.” Dustin gestured for Card to follow him down.

  “I should . . . I should stay and fight,” Alba said.

  The older soldier studied her black uniform. “You’re just a cop, man. Save your skin.” He smiled. “Thanks anyhow. And you’re taking the vice president?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. I would’ve liked to have read his thoughts. “Boog, you hold down the fort here while I cover the escapees?”

  “Gotcha. Try not to hit your commander in chief.”

  “No promises.” He got up just as Boyer came through the door.

  “Men,” he started, “we’ve decided—”

  “The Mars girl told us, sir,” Duke said. “Gonna fly out of the rain.” He looked at me. “Know where you’re headed?”

  “California, I think. A farm up in the north, where one of us grew up.”

  “Good luck. Finding anyplace safe.”

  “Good luck to you, too. Maybe if they know the president, the vice president, isn’t here?”

  “Acting president,” Boyer said. “If only I were a better actor.”

  “We’ll let them know,” the other said. “No reason for them to believe us, though. And they’d still want Camp David and all the stuff here.” A good reason to conspicuously leave, I thought. That would probably occur to them.

  Would that constitute quitting one’s post before being properly relieved? Does the principle still apply if your commander in chief deserts first?

  The boys brought up the metal boxes and left them under the windows. We said good-bye to the soldiers and went out into the rain, following Paul and the president.

  On the other side of the tarmac runway, there was a small control shack with radar and satellite dishes. Two men in blue flight suits stood on the porch, watching. The pilots of the two jets, probably. They waved casually, and I waved back. Would they fly after us? Probably not.

  Or maybe they didn’t want to hang around Camp David, either.

  As we approached the NASA jet, a strip of fuselage swung down, becoming a staircase. No wide Martians to worry about.

  The others hurried up the steps. Paul put a hand on Boyer’s shoulder. “Wait.”

  “What for?”

  “Just wait.” I stepped slowly past them as the president shook loose. “You can’t—”

  “I think I can. This is my plane, and you’re not getting on it.”

  “Don’t you dare. I can have you shot down.”

  Paul looked at the assault rifle in his hands, and smiled. “Shall I pretend you didn’t say that?” He gestured for me to go up the steps and then he followed me, backwards, keeping his eye on Boyer.

  “You think they won’t obey me.”

  “Pretty sure they won’t. Go back and ask them.”

  He looked around, back up to the lodge, then the control shack. The two pilots stared back.

  Then he started walking. “I’m going to stand right behind your exhaust. If you start the jet, you’ll be a murderer.”

  Paul stepped inside and slapped a red button by the door, and turned to look down on the president. “You do what you will,” he said as the stairs rose off the ground. “This thing doesn’t have a rear view mirror.”

  I sat down and buckled up. “Is that true?”

  He sat in the pilot seat and the harness clamped itself around him. “Well, sure. Where would you put a mirror?” A flatscreen blinked on and showed the black tarmac behind him.

  The president stepped into view and planted his feet wide apart, standing with his hands on his hips.

  “All this and stupid, too.” He tapped a sequence of keys.

  “You’re going to—”

  “Relax. The nozzle’s more than a meter above his head. I could roast him if I goosed it, but I’ll just bleed in a little fuel and creep away.” He put on a headset. “Control, this is NASA 1.” He paused. “Roger. We had to leave one behind for weight limitations. Taking off due north, into the wind? When we’re over the clouds I’ll take a heading of about 250°, destination Northern California.” He nodded. “Roger, thanks. Same to you guys. Over and out.”

  The engine started with a loud pop, and I saw Boyer take off running. With a low whine, the plane inched forward.

  “Everybody stay buckled in till I finish turning left above the weather. Then the flight attendant will come around with drinks.” He laughed. “Oh, hell. We left him behind.”

  8

  Nobody had said anything about drawing fire as we took off. I supposed whatever was going to happen would happen. Paul kept the plane low, treetop level, a minute or so after take-off, so I guess a person on the ground, with forest overhead, probably wouldn’t have time to aim at us and fire.

  Then I was pressed back into the seat and the plane roared and rattled as it screamed for altitude. We suddenly broke out of the clouds into afternoon sun but kept accelerating, almost straight up. After a minute, he throttled down and leveled off, green rounded mountaintops drifting by underneath us, sticking out of the misty clouds.

  The cabin became quiet. Paul turned around in his seat and spoke normally. “Sorry; should’ve warned you. I wanted to get out of range, in case they had heat-seekers.” He checked his watch. “It’ll take us about four hours to get to California. Landing sometime after three, Pacific time.”

  “Want to fly over Fruit Farm on the way?” Dustin said.

  “Yeah, see if anybody’s home.”

  “See if we draw any small-arms fire,” Namir said. “That would help with our planning.”

  I reclined and closed my eyes, but there was no way I could sleep. Too much adrenaline, and whatever chemical follows it. I’d be nervous even if I didn’t have anything to be nervous about.

  Card and Alba and Dustin had rearranged the rear of the plane so it had seats around a table. Card had found a notebook made of sheets of paper. Each page had the presidential seal and Mervyn Gold’s name embossed (in gold) at the top. He was drawing a complicated geometrical doodle with a pencil, filling the page from the upper lefthand corner down. It wa
s actually beautiful, in a rigid formal way.

  I sat down next to him. “I didn’t know you had artistic talent.”

  “I don’t; this ‘me’ doesn’t. Picked up some from my second avatar.”

  Dustin looked up from his book. “Your different personae had different skill sets?”

  “Yeah. Pity we don’t have the third one here. He was the negotiator, the businessman.”

  “You learned from both of them?” I asked.

  “It’s not like learning.” He shrugged. “Sort of ‘being,’ actually. There’s a quantum-chemistry explanation; they start out as perfect duplicates, but begin to diverge in a microsecond or so. Personality more than specific skills. You would have liked either of them more than the original.”