The Border

by Robert McCammon

  The soldiers were near enough that Ethan could make out a small red glyph at the lower right of their faceplates, what he reasoned was a mark of honor. The one in the lead wore an additional glyph, a mark of higher honor. As Jackson took aim with his rifle, this Cypher leader stopped in its advance and fired a blast with its energy weapon. The double fireballs streaked out toward Jackson, but just that fast Ethan with a resurgence of will turned them off their deadly course and sent them sizzling through the wall.

  Using both hands again, he fired two blasts of his own at the Cypher leader. The effort cost him more pain and a feeling that the organs and bones of this body were nearing meltdown, but double whirling storms of a thousand fiery spheres left him and flew at the alien. The Cypher leader vibrated out at incredible speed. The soldier behind him was not so quick, and it was this creature who was blown into burning pieces by Ethan’s directed energy. The two other soldiers blurred out and in again, appearing at different places and more widely spaced. Ethan sensed an electrical disturbance just to his right and there the Cypher leader vibrated back into a solid, reaching for him to clamp a spidery hand upon his shoulder. The peacekeeper feared that grip, for he thought a charge of power from it could paralyze this body with pain and render it uncontrollable, which he knew was its aim. Before the Cypher could take hold of him, it had to blur out once more because of the bullets that were being fired from both Jackson and the two men with rifles; a couple of the rifle slugs ricocheted off the concrete dangerously close to Ethan and the others who were still fighting off the effects of the monster’s sonic shriek.

  One of the other Cyphers vibrated back in fast enough to fire its weapon at the two riflemen, and again Ethan was able to veer the fireballs off their trajectory. A bullet from Jackson’s rifle hit the soldier in the chest and knocked it backward, but it ghosted back out before it fell and did not return. Ethan sent a stream of flaming spheres and bolts of energy at the remaining soldier, who was caught before it could defend itself or dematerialize. It was blown to burning pieces as the other had been.

  The Cypher leader reappeared about six feet to Ethan’s left and behind him, almost on top of Bennett Jackson. As Ethan turned and summoned up the power to destroy this creature, the soldier blasted Jackson at point-blank range and the double fireballs blew the man apart. The upper portion of Jackson’s body from head to waist was thrown across the garage by the impact, and just as Ethan let loose another barrage of explosive spheres and energy bolts the Cypher leader vibrated out and the far wall was cratered by the blast, which flung pieces of rock and plumes of dust into the air.

  Ethan searched the roiling miasma of dust, the breath harsh in this body’s lungs and his head still full of pain. He scanned the garage, expectant that the Cypher leader might come at him from any direction.

  There was no reappearance. The seconds ticked past. Ethan reasoned that the Cyphers orders had been to capture him but not kill or maim him. They had just learned he would not be taken alive. A minute passed. The peacekeeper waited, but the Cypher leader did not vibrate back into solid form. He looked at the grisly remains of Bennett Jackson. The upper portion of the body was on fire, the lower sprawled out only a short distance away. Extreme heat had cauterized both halves of the corpse. That execution had been vengeance for the death of the Cypher leader’s soldiers. Ethan thought it had become a personal battle, if the Cyphers could think in that way. What the Cyphers could not capture they would have to destroy, and Ethan knew they realized that now…he was too powerful to be allowed to live, no matter what weapons they might be able to create from him.

  The Cypher leader would be back at any time, and with orders to kill. Ethan was sure of it. But for the moment…his radar was clear.

  Except for the ships.

  He stood up, shakily, and fell again with his first step. The world seemed to be revolving around him at a dizzying speed. He pulled himself up and walked slowly, as if burdened in a dream, through the destroyed entrance to the White Mansion.

  His vision was still clouded with a red mist and his ears still rang. But he could look up at the yellow clouds and see two worlds at war.

  They were fighting up there. The Cypher ships had attacked the Gorgon ships. Streaks of incandescent red and blue shot across the heavens. He couldn’t see with these eyes any of the ships nor could he hear any of their battle beyond a low rumble, but he could see them with his mind: the huge triangular mottled shapes of the Gorgons and the even more massive sleek black craft of the Cyphers, now pouring out hundreds of the smaller, single-pilot ships that darted in to either be destroyed by Gorgon energy orbs or, getting past those, to impale themselves upon Gorgon meat and explode with deadly force. The Gorgons were fighting back, though, because as Ethan watched he saw one of the Cypher warcraft, eight hundred feet wide, careen down from the clouds with blue-burning holes along its length and crash into the mountains ten or so miles distant. A red energy beam lanced from the sky and seared the top off another peak, throwing huge chunks of rock into the air.

  The peacekeeper stood alone.

  How he could stop this, he wasn’t sure. Area 51 might hold the key. He realized he had been compelled to reach this place before the President of the United States could commit suicide, because that man was the only one who could get entrance to the complex.

  If there was something in Area 51 that might help him…something of alien creation, that could stop this senseless war and save the planet from destruction…

  Someone touched his shoulder.

  He turned to face Dave, who was ashen and haggard-looking. Behind him was Olivia, and behind her, Hannah and Nikki.

  His friends, on this turbulent and troubled world.

  Derryman staggered out. His face and hair were whitened by rock dust, his glasses were crooked and blood leaked from his right ear. He was shaking his head back and forth as if to deny the nightmare his life had become.

  Ethan started to speak to Dave, but words failed him. There was nothing he could say; the horror spoke for itself.

  They stood on what seemed the edge of the earth, watching the beams of energy weapons streak back and forth, seeing explosions in the clouds, until the sky itself ruptured and rain fell upon the vast landscape of dead trees and broken rock where no human dared walk.

  FIVE.

  WHAT IS TO BE

  TWENTY-NINE.

  JEFFERSON JERICHO HAD FLED UP THE STAIRS AND NOW FOUND himself standing before the automatic rifles of two soldiers who wore immaculate dark blue Marine dress uniforms, white caps and white gloves. They looked for all the world as if they were born to blast him into nothingness. Their fingers were on the triggers and the laser targeting put red dots on Jefferson’s chest near the heart. One of the Marines was using his communicator.

  “Axe Two Zero,” said the young man, who was maybe in his early twenties but had the hard, composed face of someone who had both seen and delivered violent death. He was having to speak loudly because the alarm was still ringing. “One of the new arrivals is on Level Four! What’s the story down there?”

  No answer was returned.

  “Greg? Where are you?”

  Jefferson had lifted his hands and put them behind his head on their command. “Something got in,” he told them. His voice was weak and shaky. “That’s what they said. I don’t know what, but something got in.”

  “We know there was a breach,” the soldier answered. Then, into the comm device again, “Greg? Come back, man! What’s going on?”

  “There was a Gorgon down below,” Jefferson managed to say. “Level Three. Down below.”

  “Greg, answer up!”

  Jefferson saw another corridor beyond the two soldiers. He had just come out of the stairwell when these men had stepped in front of him with their weapons ready. Another set of stairs continued up along the stairwell to one or more higher levels.

  The young soldier pressed another combination on the keypad. “Axe Two Zero,” he repeated. “Frisco, you copy?”
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  “The Gorgon,” Jefferson said. “He looks like a man. Something else got in, I don’t know what.” He had the feeling of hot blood pounding in his face and cold sweat making the rest of his body shiver, and he thought he was about to pass out, but he feared any movement because he thought these two would shoot him with no hesitation. He wavered on his feet, dark motes spinning before his eyes.

  “Frisco, talk to me!”

  “Can I get some water?” Jefferson asked. He dared to look behind himself at the stairwell, fearful that even though shot to pieces Vope was coming after him. “Please…I think I—”

  “Shut him up,” the Marine told his companion, who stepped forward to spin Jefferson around and slam him against the wall. Then with a rifle barrel between his shoulder blades, Jefferson was frisked though this had already been done when he and the others had entered the garage. “Frisco,” said the Marine into his comm unit, “come back!”

  “He’s not gonna answer,” the other Marine said. “Shit’s hit the fan down there.”

  “What’s happening?” the voice of another man asked, loudly over the alarm. “Sergeant Akers, tell me!”

  “I’m finding out the situation now, sir, but everything’s under control.”

  He was a good liar, Jefferson thought. Sergeant Akers was probably scared shitless, but his voice conveyed firm authority. Jefferson turned his head to see who the new man was, though he already knew. He recognized that man’s voice, and there was only one reason this installation was here and guarded by both Secret Service agents and Marines.

  The President of the United States stood in the corridor.

  “Jason!” Jefferson said to President Beale. The one and only time he had seen this man in person had been many years ago, when Jefferson was known as Leon Kushman and was working in Arkansas as a volunteer for Bill Clinton. Jason Beale had been a young law student in Missouri, four years older than Jefferson, and both the self-confident and rather devil-may-care firebrands had found themselves at a party where they smoked weed and talked about Leon’s penchant for sneaking into porn theaters, which led to a rambling discussion of the attributes of several actresses in that profession.

  “It’s me! Leon Kushman! Don’t you remember me?”

  Jason Beale wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a red-patterned tie with a knot so tight it looked near to strangulation. An American flag pin gleamed at his lapel. He was thin, the suit and the shirt a little too large for his shrunken frame. His mane of blonde hair had gone all gray and was thinning in front, but combed with careful precision and likely sprayed in place. He was still a handsome man, very photogenic, but there were circles as dark as bruises under the wary blue eyes. Deep lines cut across a high and noble forehead. His jaw sagged, and as Jefferson awaited an answer, a tic started at the corner of Beale’s left eye and made that entire side of his face twitch as if he’d taken a blow there, or as if he expected a blow to be delivered and he was already flinching from it.

  “Leon Kushman!” Jefferson repeated. “The party at Ginger Wright’s condo, May of 1992!”

  The First Lady, who was not Ginger Wright, was standing behind her man. Her name was Amanda, maiden name Gale, daughter of the president of an influential Missouri financial group and herself the founder of a public relations agency that had helped Jason Beale along to the Oval Office from the state senate. She was helping him now, it seemed, by holding onto him as if steadying him from a fall.

  “Who is this man?” Beale asked his guards. There was something slow and mushy about his speech. The tic continued, getting stronger. “Why is he here?”

  “Sir, please return to your quarters,” Akers said. “We have everything under control.”

  “I demand to know. The alarm’s going off. Vance doesn’t answer when I call and neither does Bennett. I demand to know what the situation is.”

  “Sir, please—”

  “Sergeant, I go on television within the hour to speak to the American people. They deserve to know what the situation is.” He looked up at the ceiling, his face twitching badly on the left side. “That alarm. Can’t you stop it?”

  “Yes sir,” Akers replied. Jefferson saw the young Marine glance at the First Lady and give an almost imperceptible nod. “If you’ll allow yourself to be taken back to your quarters, sir, we’ll get that alarm shut off and everything in order.”

  “They’ll be coming to do my makeup soon,” Beale said.

  “Jason!” Jefferson tried again. “I wrote you! I asked you to autograph a picture!” He realized what name he’d last used on the several requests he’d made for a personally autographed picture to impress potential High Rollers. “Jefferson Jericho! Don’t you remember?”

  The President’s mouth opened and then closed again. An opaque film seemed to fall across his eyes.

  “Let’s go back home, Mandy,” he told the First Lady, who was herself heavily lined and weary-looking though she’d been very beautiful, a sportswoman as well as a business brain, back in the day. Her long dark brown hair was streaked with gray, and her eyes, sunken down into a face that carried no expression, were the color of ashes. She led her husband away along the corridor toward a set of double doors at the far end.

  “Axe Two Zero,” Akers said into his communicator. “God damn that alarm!” he told the other Marine, and then back into the comm device, “Keith, you there? Answer me, man!”

  “Danny, copy that!” The voice sounded out of breath, and behind it was the noise of confusion as if people were rushing past the speaker and jostling him. “You secure?”

  “Got an intruder up here, one of the new arrivals. He’s babbling about a Gorgon on Level Three. What’s the story?”

  “We had a breach.”

  “Copy that. What came in?”

  “You’ll have to see it to believe it. I can hardly hear you, my ears are fucked up. We’ve got a shitmess down here. Doc’s on his way. We lost Jackson, and we’ve got five others in pretty bad shape.”

  “Lost Jackson? How?”

  “I can’t talk, Danny. My head’s killin’ me.”

  “Copy that, but what am I supposed to do with this sonofabitch up here?”

  “Hold him. We’re gonna do a sweep on all levels, we’ll get somebody there as soon as we can. Out.”

  “There’s a dead man on Level Three,” Jefferson said. “One of the agents. The Gorgon killed him.”

  “You sit down,” Akers told him. “Do everything real slowly. Put your back against that wall. Keep your hands behind your head. Cross your legs in front of you and sit still.”

  “I know the President. I knew him when he was a law student. What did he mean about going on tele—”

  “Shut your hole and sit down.” The second Marine put his rifle’s barrel right in Jefferson’s face and the little red laser dot glowed on his forehead.

  Jefferson sat down. There would be time later to try to contact Jason Beale, if the President could remember who he was, but for now the preacherman decided to ask no further questions. He wanted to stay alive, and if two Marines with rifles were standing guard over him, it suited him just fine to stay exactly where he was.

  “Damn,” said Vance Derryman as he took stock of the decimated garage level. How the hell were they going to get that carcass out of here? And how would the entrance be repaired? Bennett was dead, some of the others had been carried to the infirmary, the level was wrecked, and up in the sky the Gorgon and Cypher ships were still fighting though the boy—check that, the alien who looked like a boy—had told him their battle was moving away from the White Mansion. His head was pounding and his nerves were shot, everything was muffled, and he thought his insides had been hurt because he’d thrown up blood a few minutes ago. That alarm…piercing even through the damage to his hearing. “Somebody cut the alarm!” he shouted. His voice sounded like the murmur of someone speaking underwater. “Jesus, stop that noise!” He couldn’t think, he couldn’t reason any of this out. Reasoning had been his strong suit before th
e aliens had brought their war to this world. Everything was cut-and-dried, everything had a rational explanation. When he was briefed about Area 51, he had closed his mind to it. That was someone else’s responsibility; he could listen to the briefing and hear about extraterrestrials and ships from other planets and artifacts that were being researched at S-4 for the military, but he could be masking all that with mentally replaying a golf game at Hidden Creek or thoughts on why Rachmaninoff’s First Symphony had been so savagely panned by the critics in 1897. On the third day of April two years ago, the steadiness of his life had been destroyed. He’d asked his younger brother to get Linda to a shelter, because he had a duty to the President, and he had no time. He’d gotten a cell call that they’d made it and were with the National Guard in a warehouse complex outside Reston, but then the satellites had come down and the towers went out and that was the end of all communication.

  General Winslett staggered up to him and said something. Derryman only caught bits and pieces of it that made no sense. Winslett’s face was florid and sweating. His eyes looked like they were swimming in blood. The general stood staring at the headless monstrosity that lay across the floor, and very suddenly he turned away and made a couple of steps before he threw up. One of the soldiers came to help him, and Foggy let himself be guided to the infirmary.

  They were going to have to chop that thing up, he decided. Have to chop it into a thousand pieces and haul it out of here piece by piece.

  Dave McKane was at his side. He spoke, but Derryman shook his head.

  Dave tried again, leaning in and speaking louder: “Can we talk?”