by Greg Keyes
Instead they had gotten worse.
He found his father in his room, fully dressed in his military attire, lying on the bed.
“My son,” Upanga Umbutu said. “Come rest with me.” It seemed as if his father had aged several decades in the space of one. His hair was grayer, the lines of his face set deeper, but it was more than that.
Reluctantly Dikembe got up on the bed and lay on the brightly patterned coverlet. A ceiling fan beat overhead, pushing the hot summer air around the room. His father took his hand.
“Do you remember?” he said. “When you and Bakari were little, how we would lie like this in the heat of the afternoon, one of you on each side of me?”
Dikembe did. Back then, his father had been a busy man, always working, often gone for many days at a time to the capital or some hot spot. When he was home, however, he always took an hour to rest with his boys. They might talk of their day—more usually they took a nap—but he remembered how protected it had made him feel, how loved.
“I’m not a little boy anymore,” Dikembe said.
“I know,” his father said, “but sometimes I need my little boy. Both of my little boys.”
Dikembe was silent, thinking. Quiet moments with his father were few these days. Should he merely receive it as a gift, or look at it as an opportunity?
People were hurting. His people.
“Father,” he ventured after a moment. “It’s been a year since the last of the aliens was killed. Isn’t it time we rejoined the world?”
His father closed his eyes, and Dikembe wondered if he would ignore the question.
Then his lids fluttered open.
“That world is not for us,” his father said. “None of them are to be trusted. That is all so clear to me. This is our place. We must protect our people.”
“Our people are starving,” Dikembe said. “Some are being executed for trying to find work.”
“For deserting their country,” his father said. “Disloyalty cannot be tolerated. We must be strong. We must face them down, these monsters that killed my Bakari.” It wasn’t the first time his father had said something like that, but it stirred a bit of horror in Dikembe, because he feared what it meant.
“They are dead, Papa,” Dikembe said. “All of them.”
“They are not,” his father said. “They live on, inside and outside of our borders. They may look human, but they are not.”
It was too much. Dikembe started to rise, but his father gripped his hand harder.
“I have heard rumors,” he said, “that my son has been interfering with the work of the Home Guard.”
So he knew, or thought he knew. Dikembe had always been aware that it would only be a matter of time before his activities were noticed by the old man.
“You made me a general after the war,” Dikembe said. “They are under my command, are they not?”
“To be clear,” Umbutu said, “they are not. They answer only to me—as do you. Do you have plans to usurp me, son? Is this what all of your scribbling has brought you to?”
“No,” Dikembe said, feeling a chill pass through him. “I have no such intentions. You are my father.”
“You would not be the first son to murder his father for his own gain,” the old man pointed out.
“I wish you could not believe such a thing about me,” Dikembe said softly.
His father sighed. “I don’t, of course, my dear boy,” he said. “I’m sure you would not have the stomach for it.”
* * *
“So this is what you learned at Oxford?” Zuberi asked, glancing around the cluttered little room Dikembe thought of as his studio.
“It helps me clear my mind,” Dikembe said. “You know what I mean. I’m trying to draw the things they forced into my brain.”
“Why relive that?” Zuberi said. “I was tortured only a tenth as much as you were, and I do my damnedest not to think of it, ever.”
“That doesn’t work for me,” Dikembe said. “I think I’m hoping if I draw these things enough, I will eventually get them out of my head. But I have to get them right, you know, exactly right—and that hasn’t happened… yet. So I draw on. I think it keeps me sane.”
Zuberi, gazing at the alien symbols and paintings, some of which were so abstract as to be inchoate even to Dikembe, seemed skeptical—until his eye rested on one particular sketch. It was one of the simplest, a circle with a line through it.
“My God,” Zuberi said. “What the hell is that?”
“I call it Fear,” Dikembe said.
“It’s disturbing as hell,” Zuberi said. He turned away from it.
“I know,” Dikembe said. “But why?”
* * *
Whitmore greeted her at the door. He looked well enough, a little older, and a lot more relaxed.
“Connie,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Come on in, have a seat. Irene will bring us a little lunch.”
They sat at his kitchen table. The maid brought coffee.
“David doesn’t know I’m here,” she said.
“Is that such a good idea?” he said with a little smile. “Considering.”
“No, this is more about his pride,” she said. “I don’t want him thinking I’m trying to fix things for him.”
“What are you doing?” Whitmore asked.
“I’m trying to, uh… fix things for him,” she said. She explained the nature of the problem, and the former president listened without much comment until she was done. By then, chicken salad sandwiches had appeared on the table. As they ate, Connie noticed a picture on the wall.
“Wow,” she said. “Is that Patricia?”
Whitmore nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Seventeen. Can you believe it? She’ll be attending the ESD Academy next year.”
“Dylan, too,” Connie said. “That’ll be nice. To have someone you know in a new place is always a good thing.”
“Sure,” he said.
“And you—you’ve been keeping busy,” she said.
That was true. It was the rare day that Whitmore didn’t appear publicly in some capacity, whether lecturing crowds about the importance of the ESD or acting as a sort of ambassador, celebrating the achievements of the organization around the globe. In some ways he was still more the public face of America and the global alliance than President Jacobs or anyone else in the current administration.
“I like to stay busy,” he said. “This place gets a little lonely if I just sit here, and there’s so much left to do.”
“They say you keep pushing back against the idea of a presidential library.”
“Of course,” he said. “That’s an exercise in vanity. We’ve got kids in the country without enough to eat. I’m turning donors toward funding schools and existing libraries, and if they feel the need to stick my name on them, fine. But if I’m to have a legacy, I want it to be that we’ll never be caught flat-footed again.”
He took a breath.
“Sorry, sometimes I forget when I’m talking to an old friend. Connie, I’m not sure I’ve told you how proud of you I am. I always thought you were cut out for something big, and you’ve proven it. You’ve become a real power to reckon with on the Hill.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“This thing with David,” he said, “I don’t know how much help I can be. Jacobs is the sitting president, and I can’t be seen to get in his way.”
“I wasn’t thinking of anything public or overt,” she said, “but you know David. He’s usually right about these things. You may not be in office, but you still have a lot of influence.”
“And you want me to use it.”
“Yes,” she said. “For David. He’s earned that.”
“Yeah,” he said, “you’re right. I’ll poke around quietly, drop some hints, have a conversation or two. I can’t promise anything, though. What you have to understand about me is that what I do these days isn’t really politics. It’s more like cheerleading, and I enjoy it—God knows I enjoy it more than back
room deals and trying to wrangle votes from Congress. I was never really cut out for that.”
“Yet you did it,” Connie said. “You’ll certainly go down in history as one of the greatest presidents.”
“Yeah,” he said. “The president who saw three billion people die on his watch.”
“No,” she said. “The president who brought us all together so it can never happen again.”
“I hope that’s true,” Whitmore said. “I really hope you’re right. Not about how I’m remembered, but—”
“I know,” she said.
20
APRIL
Before Rain became a resident of the Gobi Desert, she had imagined that all deserts were hot. This might have been because she’d paid little attention to geography lessons when she was younger, and possibly because the image her younger mind had summoned at the word “desert” was the Sahara.
The Gobi was high desert, and in the winter it could be very cold indeed. Depending on the winds, it could be cool even in summer, but on this late day in April it was unseasonably warm, nearly eighty degrees as she walked the dusty path from the school toward the apartment she shared with her Uncle Jiang. She stopped to slip off her shoes and dangle her feet in the cool water of the Ruo River, and gaze off at the scruffy hills west of town.
West, over mountains and plains, forests and finally an ocean, to America, where she was not going tomorrow. Of course, from here it was probably quicker to go east—or no, north, over the pole. It didn’t matter. She would still be here, eating noodles with mutton, not hamburgers.
She watched a dragonfly hunt in the reeds. Across the shallow river, younger children laughed as they played tag among swings and jungle gyms. East, in the desert, the gigantic ships loomed, nearly ready to go to the moon. She wished she could be on one of them, or at least go with Uncle Jiang to America, but she wasn’t yet fifteen. Uncle Jiang assured her that her time would come, soon enough, but it seemed to be taking forever, each month crawling along like a snail.
She pulled her feet out and let them dry, which happened quickly in the arid air. Then she slipped her shoes back on and went home.
There she found Uncle Jiang packing, which just made her all the more jealous. She had an apple and a glass of water, and then went to her room to do homework. She paused to look at the framed, autographed picture of Steve Hiller, and collapsed on her bed.
She hadn’t yet opened her books when she heard a slight rapping at the door.
“Yes, sir?” she said.
Uncle Jiang stayed in the doorway, looking a little uncomfortable.
“How was school today?” he asked.
“Good,” she said. “Nothing to complain about.”
“Well,” he said. “That’s fine.”
“Is there anything else?” she said.
He paused another moment. “I know how much you wish you could come with me,” he said. “To see the test flight. I’m sorry that it isn’t possible. This is state business, and it wouldn’t look right to bring nonessential personnel along.”
“I understand,” she said.
“However,” he said, “I’ve arranged for you to view the event remotely.”
“I was planning on watching it in the common room in the compound,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “You could do that, or you could watch it here, in the apartment.”
“How can I—” Then she hopped up and flew past him to the next room. There, hanging on the wall, was a flat-screen TV.
“You got a TV,” she said, unbelieving. “You, Lao Jiang, got a TV.” Her uncle despised television. He believed it was the greatest existing underminer of civilization, and that it turned human brains into boiled jellyfish.
“If I see the slightest slip in your grades, it goes out, do you understand?” he said.
“I understand,” she said. “Oh, thank you, Uncle Jiang.”
“Well,” he said. “You’ve done very well since you’ve been here. You’ve followed my rules without fail—at least that I know of.”
He glanced away, out of the window.
“Ms. Li will keep an eye on you while I’m gone,” he said. “If you wish to have a friend or two over to watch with you, that should be fine. It’s a morning launch there, so it won’t be too late here, but bear in mind you have school the next day.”
“I will, sir,” she said.
* * *
It had been a long time since Patricia had been on Air Force One, and her memories of the aircraft were indelibly marked by the confusion and terror of their flight from Washington, of the flames and smoke of the city’s destruction by an alien destroyer. At six, she hadn’t been clear on what was going on, only that grown-ups were frightened, and crying, and yelling at each other. But her father had been there, and that had helped.
He was here now, too, riding at the invitation of Vice-President Lanford.
She watched the barren but beautiful desert terrain as they began their descent, and forced herself to continue watching as the ruins of the wrecked spaceship came into view, now as much a part of the landscape as the volcanic cores and ragged uplifts that characterized the region.
“I get why they want to have the Expo here,” she told her dad, “but it still gives me the creeps.”
“Our first victory,” he said. “It’s hard to believe it’s been almost eleven years.” His eyes shifted to her. “It’s hard to believe you’re shipping out to the Academy in a few months.”
“I’m having a little trouble believing it myself,” she said.
“Have you settled on a major?” he asked.
“I’m still considering,” she said. “I’m leaning toward poly-sci.”
“Your mother would be proud of you,” he said. “I know I am.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said.
The fact was that she barely remembered her mother. Of course there were plenty of pictures and video to remind her, and biographies to read. And Dad, always Dad with his stories. Patricia wanted to remember, to fill the sadness that did linger, the remainder of the little girl trying to comprehend so much at once. So she could talk to her father about her, because she knew he would like that.
This time, however, she let it fall into silence and watched the desert arrive.
* * *
“That’s truly a thing of beauty,” Secretary of Defense Tanner said, touching the smooth metal of the prototype. Colonel Steven Hiller stood by in the hangar as Tanner and Vice-President Lanford examined the craft.
“She is attractive, Mr. Secretary,” Hiller acknowledged. He meant it—it gave him shivers just looking at her.
Lanford turned to him. The vice-president was a striking woman in her late forties. She carried herself with an effortless air of competence. She had hazel eyes and dark brown hair, and was wearing a black suit.
“I’m given to understand, Colonel Hiller,” she said, “that you have some problem with the test flight.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “With all due respect, the little problem is that there’s not going to be a test flight.”
“I beg your pardon?” Tanner said.
“I’m not putting any of my pilots in that thing until David Levinson gives it the once-over, and has the test performance record to evaluate.”
“Colonel Hiller,” Tanner said, “you’re skating toward insubordination.”
“Sir, if one of my pilots is in danger, I’ll skate all the way up that hill and back down it again.”
“First of all,” Tanner said, “they aren’t ‘your’ pilots, Colonel Hiller. Secondly, Director Strain assures me this ship is ready to go.”
“Why was Levinson removed from the project?” Hiller asked.
“Colonel, I know the two of you are friends—”
“Friends? We flew an alien spacecraft into their mother ship and blew it up. If it weren’t for David, none of us would be having this conversation. The fact that we’re friends is so, so not the point.”
Tanner took a step
forward, frowning dangerously.
“Colonel, you were on record yourself saying that you thought he was dragging the project out unnecessarily, that his approach was too timid.”
“I never said ‘timid,’” Hiller said. “There’s nothing timid about him. Careful, yes. A little obsessive, sure. Especially when it comes to other people’s lives.”
“Colonel—” Tanner began, but the vice-president interrupted him.
“I see no reason to deny the colonel’s request,” she said. “He would feel easier about the test flight if Levinson approved the craft, so why not give Levinson access?”
Tanner’s mouth pressed into an upward arc.
“The test is in two days,’ he said.
“Well, then,” Lanford said, “he’ll have a day and a half with it.”
21
The town of 51 was bustling as people arrived from all over the country, there for the ESD Spring Expo. The event had begun in 2004, in the months following the Army’s adoption of alien weaponry, partly as an attempt to quell public reservations about use of alien tech. It had been successful, and in the following years had developed into both a showcase of the latest advancements and a conference at which scientists, engineers, and mathematicians came to put their heads together.
Attendance by the general public had been down the last few years, but following the announcement that the Expo would feature the test flight of the first fully operational hybrid fighter, it quickly became a sold-out event. Many who couldn’t get tickets were camping out in the surrounding desert, hoping to get a glimpse of the ship taking flight.
Due to the crowds, it took Dylan a little longer to reach the hotel where most of the dignitaries were staying. The lobby was awhirl with color and alive with the sounds of languages from around the world. It took him a few minutes to pick out Patricia, dressed casually in jeans and a halter top. She had been cornered by a reporter and seemed to be giving an interview. She saw him at about the same time, and her expression said “Help me.”
