“I loved my job, ma’am. Serving my country has been rewarding. It’s not something I part with happily, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then I give you my condolences, and as a citizen of this country, thank you for your service.”
It wasn’t lip service, he knew. What the woman spoke, she meant.
“Thank you,” he said.
She went to the window and looked out at the analysts buzzing busily at their workstations. “It’s I who should be thanking you, Doctor. Because of you we’ve successfully found and destroyed all of the Healer labs hidden throughout the city.”
“Thank George Galen. He put the locations in my head.”
She turned to him. “Yes, he put a great many things in your head, didn’t he?” She folded her arms. “Tell me, what’s it like to have two memories?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Your employer will fire you and you’ll suddenly feel as if you’ve lived enough years to be a hundred and twenty.”
She smiled, which surprised him a little and relaxed him even more. She sat in the chair beside him. “The military was wise to release you, Dr. Hartman.”
I agree.
“But I also think that the military’s loss can be our gain. I’d like to offer you a position here. We’d have you under heavy surveillance for a while to ensure that you’re . . .”
“Stable?”
“Up to the task, let’s say. And if you are, we’d be foolish not to have you. You already know the extent of this agency’s operations even more than I do, and you possess two of the greatest medical minds alive. Not many people can say that.” She smiled again.
“That’s very generous of you.”
“I don’t operate by generosity, Dr. Hartman. I make decisions based on what I believe will fulfill the purpose of this agency, which is to protect the American people.”
He believed her. “Are you sure it’s politically wise to make such an offer? The BHA isn’t the most popular of federal agencies at the moment. Taking me in wouldn’t exactly help your cause.”
She laughed. “Smart and politically minded. Some might find that a threatening combination.” She patted his arm. He didn’t mind. “Let me worry about Washington,” she said. “The president feels that an incident such as this one is evidence that the BHA is a necessary component of our national defense. We’re not going anywhere.”
“That sounds like a rehearsed response.”
“I’ve been practicing. You think the media will buy it?”
“Coming from you, who could doubt it?”
She smiled wider this time. “I like you, Dr. Hartman. I’m glad you’re joining our team.”
“I haven’t yet accepted your offer.”
“No, but you will.” She winked. “And to help convince you of that fact, I’ve arranged for you to visit T4 and see precisely what it is I’m offering. I’ll have Agent Pacheco escort you. He’s been eager to see you.” She got up and buzzed the secretary.
A minute later Byron appeared at the door in a dark conservative suit with a flashy ID card pinned to his coat. He nodded. “Hello, Frank.”
Frank took his hand. “You clean up well.”
Byron didn’t waste any time. “Shall we?”
They took the subway car. Frank noticed that the agency had already patched it up nicely and put in a new window.
“So you opted for a career change after all,” said Frank.
“It’s still a desk job. No one’s shooting at me.”
“What does a tax attorney do for the BHA, exactly?”
“I’m too green to do much of anything. Right now I tell a lot of stories around the watercooler in an effort to impress women. Other than that, I’m in training. I won’t bore you with the details. Benefits are great, though. Good dental.”
“So they sent you to convince me to accept their offer?”
“You want the straight answer?”
“I expect nothing less from you.”
Byron loosened his tie and sat forward. “There are two philosophies. Half the people here are crapping their pants thinking you could go all psycho-Galen on us at any minute. So they want you here to keep a close eye on you. The other half are crapping their pants at the thought of all the good you can do for the agency with your mind and Galen’s working together.”
“That’s a lot of crap. Where does the director fall?”
“Definitely the latter. She’s an optimist.”
“And you?”
“Do you have to ask?”
He didn’t.
“So, how do you feel?” Byron asked. “There was some worry around here that once we had the countervirus in us, our bodies would reject the organs.”
Frank shook his head. “The countervirus merely stops the replication. It doesn’t reverse it. My DNA matches Galen’s now, so the heart has no reason to reject it. Dolores is the same. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me?”
“The virus didn’t spread completely through you. Otherwise the chip on your brain stem would have been triggered.”
“So some of me is Galen and some of me is myself?”
“Only genetically,” said Frank. “You still have your mind. Be glad of that.”
“So if you were to stick around, you might be able to get rid of the Galen in me?”
“Is this an attempt to make me take the job?”
Byron laughed. “No, this is purely selfish. Even if you don’t take the job, I want to be made right again. You can set up a lab at my apartment if that’s what it would take. Then again, it’s not a very big apartment, so yeah, you taking the job would be preferable.”
The car reached the loading dock, and Agent Hernandez was at the platform to greet them. “Good to see you, Frank.”
She took them inside T4. All was orderly. There were no agents on the floor with darts in their backs. In fact, Frank recognized a few people they passed as those he had seen sedated that day. It was a little inspiring—these were people who had dusted themselves off, cracked their knuckles, and got back to work.
“Well, look what the cat drug up,” said Peeps, coming out of an office to greet them. “Riggs, come look who decided to grace us with his presence.”
Riggs came out, and they exchanged pleasantries. “Sorry we missed all the action that morning.”
“I’m not,” said Peeps.
“Irving had sent us on some search-and-rescue op, said he had gathered new intel on your location. It was all to get us away from the building, of course.”
“So I heard,” said Frank. “Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much.”
“Maybe we’ll see you around here more often,” said Peeps, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe,” said Frank.
Peeps and Riggs said their farewells and left them.
Byron and Hernandez then took Frank into Level 2, where Dolores was staying. She was sitting up in her bed, eating a plate of fried chicken.
“You look awful,” she said.
“It’s raining out,” said Frank.
“Then I’m glad I’m in here. The only thing worse than a cold sidewalk is a cold, wet sidewalk.”
“They feed you well, I see.”
She took a bite of a drumstick and smiled. “It ain’t Kentucky Fried, but it ain’t half eaten either. At least I’m not pulling it out of the trash.” She finished the drumstick in two more bites. “They told me you might start working here on a permanent basis.”
“Word travels fast, apparently.”
She frowned. “Don’t seem fair to me. I get a hospital bed, and you get a job. Where’s the justice in that? You’re just as crazy as I am.”
He grinned. “More so, I think.”
“They also say you might be able to help me get of rid of, you know, the old man’s memories.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“The sooner the better, I say. Byron says he’s going to help me get my own place once I get out of here. Might even be able to h
elp me get a job. Said he’d be a reference for me.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Frank. “I’ll be a second reference if you need one.”
“Good. I need at least three, I’m told.”
“We should get going,” said Hernandez, moving toward the door.
Frank squeezed Dolores’s hand. “It was good to see you,” he said.
“You say that like this is good-bye,” she said. “But you’ll be seeing a whole lot of me in the near future.”
“I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be,” he said.
She blushed. “That’s a lie, I know, but I sure do love a good lie every now and again.”
He patted her hand and followed Byron and Hernandez out. They went to Level 3 next, where all Galen’s recruits were being housed. Frank was surprised to see Lichen sweeping the floor—he had assumed that the Healers would be incarcerated somewhere, under lock and key, as Carter had been.
“Shouldn’t you be in a cell?” Frank said coolly.
Lichen stopped sweeping and looked to Hernandez for permission to speak. Hernandez nodded. “I’m being cooperative,” Lichen said.
Frank felt relieved, partially to see Lichen unhurt and partially to see a Healer trying to rectify what he and the others had done. But Frank was bothered by his feelings. The part of him that was happy to see Lichen was the Galen part of him, the part that crept so subtly into the real part of him that it was impossible to distinguish at times. Galen had a presence in his thoughts and feelings, and Frank cringed at moments like these.
“I have made grave mistakes,” Lichen said. “I believed I was doing good, but I was not. It is only right that I try to undo the damage I’ve done.”
Had anyone else said it, Frank would have written it off as a lie, a criminal playing nicey-nice in the hopes of special privileges. But this was Lichen, a man who didn’t lie, a man who was never insincere. He truly hoped to correct a mistake.
“He’s tagged,” Hernandez said. “If he tries to leave the room, he’ll get a rather large jolt of electricity through his body. It’s as good as any cell.”
“It’s unnecessary,” Frank said. “He’s not going to try to escape.”
Hernandez looked as surprised as Lichen did.
“Thank you, sir,” Lichen said, bowing his head slightly.
Frank then took a quick tour of the holding cells. The Turner girl was recuperating in one of them. Her father was with her. There were others Frank recognized as well, including Deputy Dixon and Wyatt’s nanny, Rosa. They were all alive, at least. That was something.
“They’re waiting to have Galen’s obedience drug removed from their system,” Byron explained. “It would be your first assignment if you decided to stick around. We’ve got them on some medication that’s keeping them stable, but they need a lot more than that. They need someone who can help them, someone who understands what it was that Galen gave them.”
“You’re really building your case, aren’t you?” said Frank.
“The BHA needs Galen as much as it needs you, Frank,” said Hernandez.
“That rest home is a nice pile of rubble,” said Byron. “That should make you happy. We confiscated all of Galen’s and Yoshida’s equipment first, of course. That wasn’t destroyed. It’s all in Level 4. You’d have access to it.”
“Under heavy surveillance,” said Frank.
“Very heavy, I’m afraid,” said Hernandez.
“Beats unemployment,” said Byron.
Frank nodded. It did indeed.
“Think what this is, Frank,” said Hernandez. “Galen had some wonderful ideas. If even half of what he started is possible and can be done safely, it will change everything. You have a chance to do things right, help a lot of people. Think about that.”
Monica’s house was easy to find. The address was listed.
Frank hadn’t called first. He probably should have, he knew—it was the gentlemanly thing to do—but he wasn’t a phone talker. Phones were awkward.
The doorbell had a nice ring to it, one of those multitoned half-songs. A rich person’s ring.
A middle-aged man in a bathrobe answered the door. “Can I help you?”
Frank suddenly wished he had called first. “I’m Frank Hartman. I’m not even sure if I’m at the right house. I’m a friend of Wyatt and Monica Owens.”
The man looked embarrassed. “Of course.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Victor Owens. I’m Wyatt’s—”
“Daddy, who is it?” said Wyatt, squeezing his way past his father and coming out onto the porch. “Frank! You came to our house.”
Frank wished he hadn’t. “Yeah, I hope that’s okay.”
Victor took Frank’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you for helping Monica and my son. They told me everything. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
This was going from awkward to extremely awkward. Every response Frank could think of felt contrived, so he merely smiled and let the man shake his hand, which went on for far longer than Frank would have liked.
“Wyatt won’t stop talking about you,” said Victor. “Frank this and Frank that.”
Frank looked down at Wyatt, who if he grinned any wider might split his cheeks. “Well, I have plenty to say about him as well,” said Frank. “He’s a very brave young man.”
“Yes he is. Please won’t you come inside?”
“No, thank you. That’s very kind. But I was just passing through. I can’t stay. I just wanted to say hello.”
“Monica will be sad she missed you.”
“Yes, tell her that we all said hello. All of us. There were a few of us involved, you know. Not just me.”
“I’ll tell her, yes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re leaving?” said Wyatt, looking crestfallen.
Frank squatted to his level. “Yeah, I’ve got to get going. It was good to see you, though.”
“When are you coming back?”
Frank stole a glance to Victor. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m a busy guy these days.”
Wyatt looked over Frank’s shoulder and brightened. “Mom’s home.”
Frank turned around to see Monica’s SUV pull into the driveway beside his rental car. Why oh why hadn’t he called first?
She got out and put her sunglasses on top of her head, holding her hair back.
“Mom, look who’s here!”
“I can see that,” she said. “Hello, Frank.”
“Hello.” He didn’t know if he should go to her or wait there on the porch. What he wanted to do was dash to his car and peel out of the driveway.
She reached into the SUV and came out with a sack of groceries. “Victor, there are a few more bags in the back. Do you mind?”
Wyatt’s father hopped to it. He grabbed the sacks, then disappeared back into the house.
Monica paused at the porch. “Did Victor not invite you inside?”
“No, he did,” said Frank. “I told him I had to get going. I only came by to say hello.”
She looked disappointed. “Oh. You sure you don’t want to come in?”
“No, I don’t want to intrude. I was just in the neighborhood.” He had forgotten how striking her eyes were.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” she said. Before Frank could object, she passed Wyatt the sack of groceries. “Take that inside, will you, squirt?”
“See you, Frank,” said Wyatt, hefting the sack and leaving Frank and Monica alone on the porch. They walked toward the driveway.
“I’m glad you came by,” she said.
“I should have called first.”
“You don’t have to. Come by whenever.”
“That’s nice of you. Thank you.”
“Wyatt would want to see you.”
“Yeah. I would like that.”
They stood by his car. “You look good,” she said. “I didn’t see you after everything. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Same. I was glad to hear you both checked out okay. You know, virus free.”
>
“Yes, that was a relief. And you as well.”
“Right. No more virus.”
She sighed. “Listen, about Victor. This whole thing really shook him up. The thought of losing Wyatt . . . he hasn’t stopped spending time with him since we got back. It’s more time than he’s ever spent with him, actually. He even insisted on sleeping here a few days so he can put Wyatt to bed and get up before he wakes.”
“That’s great. A boy needs his father.”
“I just didn’t want you to think that he and I, you know . . .” She searched for the word. “We’re not getting back together or anything. I mean, not that you care, but he has his girlfriend at his house.”
“Oh. Well, that’s great that he wants to spend time with Wyatt.”
“Yes, I only hope it lasts.”
“Me too.”
“But that doesn’t mean that Wyatt won’t want to see you, of course. He would. That is, if you’re not leaving town.”
“No, I’ll be here now,” he said.
“Permanently?”
“For now, anyway.”
She nodded. “Good. So we’ll see you again, then.”
“Yes.” He got his keys out of his pocket and fiddled with them until he found the one he needed. When he looked up at her again she was smiling, not a neighborly, polite smile but an I-enjoy-your-company smile. Or at least that’s what he hoped.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“For now,” she said.
He unlocked the door and got inside. She watched him pull out and away, waving twice before his car disappeared down the hill, heading back into Los Angeles.
AFTERWORD
by Orson Scott Card
Back in 1976, I was working as a staff editor at The Ensign magazine in Salt Lake City, where fellow editors Jay Parry and Lane Johnson and I ate lunch together and talked through our ideas for science fiction stories. I had shown them my short story “Ender’s Game,” which I had recently revised and sent off to Ben Bova at Analog, and we were all excited by the possibilities that science fiction offered to us as writers.
Then came the day that I came to work brandishing Ben Bova’s response to my second pass at “Ender’s Game”—a check for $300. Suddenly it wasn’t just a dream—one of us had actually sold a story. Everything seemed possible. And the ideas we talked about began to seem like they might lead somewhere in the real world.
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