by Greg Keyes
“It shouldn’t be anything new to you,” Grey said.
“Ha,” David responded. “I avoid this whenever I can. I came up here to cut the ribbon in ’09, and this is my first time here since.”
Grey’s voice softened. “I was so sorry to hear about Connie,” he said. “She is very much missed.”
“Yes,” David said. “The flowers you sent were beautiful. I don’t think I ever sent a thank you card. I don’t think I sent any.”
“It’s understandable,” Grey said. “When I lost Amelia, it felt like my whole life ground to a halt. Like my own history had disappeared.”
They watched the Earth continue to rise against the blaze of stars.
“It was all bunk,” Grey said.
“What’s that?” David asked.
“The picture of the Earth—the idea that if people saw the truth, that our national boundaries aren’t ‘real,’ that there would be peace on Earth.”
“No,” David said. “No, that took the massacre of roughly half of the world’s population in under two days by our unexpected friends. It seems like the thing we respond to best is fear.”
“That’s what gets us moving, anyway,” Grey said. “I’m proud of what we’ve done here. I’m an old warrior, but I’d sure like to see our warriors put out of a job. Yet I wonder sometimes—what if they don’t come back? What united us was a common enemy, a remorseless inhuman foe beyond our ability to comprehend. But if fifty, a hundred years pass, and that common enemy doesn’t come back? What happens to all of these weapons then?”
“I don’t know,” David said. “There are brush fires here and there, but this is the longest the human race has gone without a major war or genocide or police action taking place since—well, the Stone Age. Maybe we could, uh, get used to it. Maybe if we actually had a hundred years of universal peace, it wouldn’t even occur to us to fight each other again, and we could turn all of this technology and drive toward going out there. Finding new worlds, cleaning up our world—whatever we want.”
Grey clapped him on the back. “Son, I hope you’re right… and I hope we get the chance to find out.”
“This isn’t a private party I hope?” someone said.
“General Adams,” Grey said.
Joshua Adams was the senior American Army official with the ESD, third in command behind the president and the secretary of defense. He was a quiet, intense man with a receding hairline and eyes the color of gunmetal. He looked vaguely tired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. David caught Adams glancing at the transparent wall, and when he did his brow furrowed, as if he felt out of his element.
As quickly as the expression appeared, it flitted away. He reached out, and David took his hand. The grip was somewhat painful.
“General Adams,” David said, trying not to grimace. “I’ve read the reports of what you encountered in the Atlantic in ’96. Very impressive—it’s a miracle you survived.”
“It wasn’t exactly my idea of a vacation,” Adams replied, and he glanced again at the vista. “I can’t say this is much better. We did what was needed though.”
With him was Lao Jiang, commander of the moon base.
“What do you think, Director?” Lao asked.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” David said. “But when the Russian place opens on Rhea, that’s gonna pull from your demographic. Everyone’s gonna want to gaze at the rings of Saturn while they sip their lattes.”
Lao looked a little puzzled.
“He’s making a joke,” Grey said. “With David, you have to get used to that. Hell, I thought he was joking at first when he told us he wanted to fly up to the mother ship.”
“I think I understand,” Lao said. “My English is still far from perfect.”
“Your English is very good,” David said. “A lot better than my Mandarin. My apologies.”
“You flatter me,” Lao said. “May we talk?” He indicated the table and chairs. “President Grey, I would be very honored if you would join us.”
“Thank you,” Grey said. “I’d be pleased to.”
“As you suggested,” Lao said, “we’ve been busy. We have a functioning command here, but we are fragile by nature. At the moment I feel like something of a sitting duck, as you say.”
“Well, that’s part of why I’m here,” David said. “We’re working on the cannons back home, but I need to have a look at your infrastructure, to get the place up to speed. We don’t want to blow all the fuses the first time we try her out.”
“I remember you said something about building the cannon here,” Grey said. “What happened to that?”
“Eventually we will,” David said. “You should see the monster we have on the drawing boards. As a matter of practicality, though, we’ve been able to harvest intact cannon from many of the wrecked destroyers. Now that we’ve solved the problem of the energy source—and now that China has built this next generation of what I have to say are really neat tugs—we can afford to schlep a few of them up here—as well as to Mars, when that’s ready, and eventually Rhea. After that we can talk ‘new and improved.’”
“How long before the cannons are ready?” Adams asked.
“We’re on track for early 2016,” David said. “We can’t take any chances there, but in the meantime we can get your defensive shields running.”
“We’re also planning on bringing up some tactical nukes in the next few months,” Adams said to them all. “They’re equipped with gear to match the alien shield phasing and slip right through their defenses.” He nodded toward the entrance. “The first one came up on the same tug as Director Levinson.”
“Wait, what?” David said. “Why didn’t I know about this?”
“We informed your office,” Adams said.
“That there would be a nuke coming up,” David said. “Not that I would be sitting next to it.” He rubbed his head. “That settles it. No more flying coach. First class, from here on out.”
29
Dikembe was only vaguely aware of hitting the tree, of thrashing for a handhold, of limbs whipping his body, the final hard stop on the ground. After all of that he somehow got up and began running.
His mind had shut down, but his body knew what to do. He stayed in cover of the trees, knowing he had no chance at all if the helicopter spotted him. He knew where he was now—near one of the military compounds—and he remembered that the terrain grew hilly and more deeply forested to the south, where the savanna began blurring into highlands.
Stopping for a moment, he used a piece of torn shirt to try and staunch the flow of blood from his wound, while still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his own father had stabbed him.
He heard the chopper fly over and crouched in a thicket, then continued along a creek that was rapidly becoming the aqueous spine of a swamp. He kept to the margins of it, away from open water, hoping he wouldn’t meet a crocodile—or worse, a hippopotamus. The helicopter passed again, farther away this time.
The soldiers could chase him on foot, he knew, but none of their ground vehicles could follow him where he was going. So it was only men he needed to outrun.
What had happened? Weiss’s man had to be in the pay of his father. What of Weiss himself? Was he part of the conspiracy to entrap him as well? There was no way of knowing.
All he knew was that if he’d ever had a chance to stop his father, he had missed it. The only option that remained was to escape, perhaps bring the horrors occurring in his homeland to the world’s attention, make the case for an armed intervention by the United Nations. It was probably what he should have done in the first place.
Perhaps he was a little mad, too, and certainly the victim of his own hubris.
* * *
Day passed into night, and he no longer heard the helicopter. He continued beneath the light of the moon. It was full, and sometimes when he looked up he felt a tremor of fear without knowing why. Then he realized it was because it resembled the thing he kept drawing, the
circle with the line through it.
That was another thing to put on his “to-do” list—find this French psychiatrist, Marceaux. He had a few things to tell her.
Lost for a time, he had to nap in the forest—never a pleasant thing, even when you weren’t bleeding off and on from your ribs. But in morning’s light he was able to find the old cabin. It had been built by a Belgian hunter two generations ago, but he and Bakari had stumbled across it in their explorations. Dikembe hadn’t been there in years, and by the look of the place, neither had anyone else.
He found a few of the canned goods they had once stored there, and opened them with his knife. The expiration date on everything was long past, but that was the least of his worries. There was a spring of clean water nearby—probably the reason the Frenchman had chosen this spot. There he cleaned his wound, which wasn’t nearly as deep as he feared. With any luck, none of his organs had been nicked, and he wasn’t going to die of peritonitis.
Then, temporarily sated and refreshed, he began to plan his escape.
* * *
Patricia pocketed her phone, feeling drained. They had been training in high-g emergency flight for three days, and now this. It was suddenly all too much.
“Hey,” Jake said. “What’s the matter?”
They were off duty, walking in the park along the old canal, a greenway of tamarisk, Russian olive, and willow. It was one of her favorite places. She missed the verdancy of the east, and this was the closest she could come to it out here. She had taken to jogging here when she was off duty, and lately Jake usually joined her.
She and Jake had been spending a lot of their free time together, which wasn’t unusual—they had been hanging out since Academy days. In the past, Dylan had almost always been present, too. Something had changed, though, and when she was forced to think about it, she knew what it was.
She liked Dylan, loved him even.
But there was something about Jake…
Not that anything had happened. Not that anything could, given their circumstances. Since her breakup with Dale she hadn’t dated anyone else. She wasn’t sure she was ready to, and Jake was good company. He made her laugh, and at times he made her feel… other things.
Ordinarily she wouldn’t answer a call mid-run, but when she saw who it was, she knew she had to.
“I think I’m done running for today,” she said. “You go on.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, standing nearby.
“It’s just all the training,” she said. “It’s messing with my inner ear.”
Jake nodded as if he accepted that, but then he looked back up.
“Because, it really seemed like that phone call…” He left it hanging for her to pick up, or not.
She didn’t.
“Are you applying?” she asked instead.
“For what?” he said.
“What do you mean, for what?” she said. “Legacy Squadron.”
Legacy Squadron was the shiny new thing. A squadron composed of the best pilots from the various countries who formed the collective ESD effort. It was being hailed as the “point of the spear.” Detractors called it a propaganda stunt, which Patricia agreed it clearly was. However, it was the best kind of propaganda—the kind that promoted something true.
That the world was finally united.
“Oh, hell yeah,” he said, but then he sobered a little. “It kind of sucks, though. I mean, it puts me up against you and Dylan. Only one of us can make it in.”
“Right,” she said. “Or one of the approximately forty other people who will apply from the U.S. You can’t worry about that. You want it, you have to go for it.”
“Is that right,” he said. “Fine. I’m sure you’ll kick my ass anyway.”
She smiled, knowing it wasn’t true. The truth was, it was probably going to be Dylan. It wasn’t just that Dylan was a great pilot—it was who he was, what he represented.
The same was true of her, to a lesser extent, but it wouldn’t do to tell Jake that. And who knew? She had been wrong before, about plenty of things.
“Go on, finish your run,” she said. “I’ll be okay.”
“That’s alright,” Jake said. “I’m a little tired myself.” He smiled. “Talked to Charlie today,” he continued. “Kid is kicking butt at the Academy.”
“Was there any doubt?” she asked.
“Not really,” he said.
She remembered when she had first met Charlie and Jake, when Charlie told their story. She had always known that—relatively speaking—she and Dylan had had it good, but the way those two had struggled, stood up for each other, watched each other’s backs. It was what she wanted. Someone like that.
“He’s so funny,” Jake said. “There’s this girl a year ahead of him, and he’s in love with her, of course. He’s always been like that, aiming a little too high.”
“Maybe he figures you have to aim high to hit high,” she said. Their hands brushed, and almost without thinking she took his. An instant later, she wondered what the hell she was doing, but it seemed so natural.
“Uh, Patricia,” he said, and he turned toward her.
Then she knew it was about to get too real, too fast.
“The phone call was about my father,” she said, gently untangling her hand and looking down at the path as she began walking again.
“Oh?” he said. “Is he okay?”
She knew she shouldn’t say anything. She hadn’t even told Dylan, but the secret was eating a hole in her.
“Jake, this has to stay between you and me,” she said. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Sure,” he said. “Of course.”
“My father hasn’t been well. Last time I was home I had to hire someone to help take care of him. That was who the call was from. Apparently he left the house without telling anyone. The secret service didn’t find him for hours.”
“When you say ‘isn’t well,’” Jake said, “what do you mean?”
“They don’t know,” she said. “Some of his doctors think it’s some weird form of PTSD, a dissociative disorder, psychosis… you name it, they’ve tried it on. He hears voices. He sees things that aren’t there. He’s paranoid, he forgets things…” She realized that she was crying. She stopped walking and balled her fists at her sides.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, it’s okay,” Jake said. “Patricia, I’m so sorry.”
“He’s just—everyone thinks of him as this great man, this monumental figure, but to me he’s just Daddy, you know? The guy that used to tuck me in. He called me Munchkin. And I’m losing him.”
“He is a great man,” Jake said. “There’s no question of that.”
“But how will people remember him now?” she said. “I can’t stand that he might be remembered like this, on top of everything else.”
He put his hands on her shoulders as they began to shake. Then he slowly pulled her in for a hug. She buried her face against his shirt, and for a time that’s all she did. She felt exposed, embarrassed, and protected, all at the same time.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
“How?” she replied. “I don’t know how it can be okay.”
He just held her a little tighter. She felt his heart beating in his chest. In that moment she wanted to lift her head, look him in the eyes, see what he was thinking. What would happen.
Instead she reluctantly pushed back from him.
“I’m sorry you had to listen to all of that.”
“No,” Jake said. “I’m happy you felt you could talk to me. I know we joke a lot, Patricia. I know I do. But I want you to know that if there is ever anything I can do, any way I can help—I’m here for you.”
“I know that, Jake,” she said.
Then she kissed him, because she didn’t care anymore. She knew it was wrong, that it was a problem, that nothing good could come of it. And she simply did not care.
For a moment he was so surprised he didn’t respond, but then he did, carefully,
thoughtfully, and, Jake being Jake, playfully. When they finally broke to look at each other, he grinned.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that?”
“Of course,” she said. “Since we met.”
He blinked and raised up a little.
“Oh really,” he said. “When we met the first thing you thought was, ‘This guy wants to kiss me’?”
“A girl knows, Jake. I was disappointed to learn you had a girlfriend.”
“But you had a boyfriend,” he said.
“That’s true,” she said. “I’m horrible.”
“We’re both horrible,” he said.
“Completely,” she said, as he bent to kiss her again.
* * *
Dikembe woke the next morning, cold, stiff, living pain in every joint. His side felt like it was on fire. The skin around the wound was puffy and red and the only part of him that felt hot. Groaning, he roused himself and went to the spring.
He surprised a red-flanked duiker that was drinking the clear, cool water. Its head jerked up in alarm, and then the tiny antelope dashed off into the bushes. Overhead, in the leafy tops of the bush mangos and khaya trees, a troop of vervet monkeys chittered a protest at his presence.
He washed his wound again, gritting his teeth against the agony. He cupped his hands and took a drink, then another.
Water was perhaps the chief constraint on his plans. He could go for a while without eating again, but not without water. He didn’t know how long it would be before he ran across another source from which he could drink without becoming ill. It might be a long time if he went south or west. North, and he would be back on the savanna, too easily seen from the air. That left east, and the mountains.
It would be hard going, especially wounded, but clean water would be easier to come by.
He sat with his back against a tree, trying to focus. What else did he need? Antibiotics would be nice. He could carry a little water in the tins he had emptied out. A machete would be good, a gun even better. There were some villages in the foothills. They might help him.
