Darmstedt pointed to a block of information on the screen.
“Look at that. It’s a Homo sapiens. A man about twenty years old, weighs one-forty-eight, five feet ten inches tall. Brown hair, brown eyes. No weapons. He’s riding the lead stallion.”
Darkon asked thoughtfully, “I begin to see the wonder of this BDA. The old thermal imaging never would have picked him up, would it?”
“No, sure wouldn’t, sir,” David answered, staring as if hypnotized at the screen. “Hey, Lieutenant Darmstedt, can you zero in on him and get some more detailed genetic information? There’s something funny here . . .”
“Sure,” Darmstedt answered. Using the joystick, he made some slight exterior adjustment to the scanners, and pushed some more keys. Soon a readout of the Homo sapiens filled the screen.
“Look,” David said. “This man’s showing some kind of weird protease. See the anomaly warning? The BDA says he’s actually got some kind of—maybe—yeah, either bird or reptilian protein-base code in his DNA.”
“That can’t be right,” Darmstedt scoffed.
“And look at the retinal scan results! The guy’s got some outrageous readings: range, peripheral, differentiation—”
“Wait just a nanosecond,” Sergeant Valdosta blustered. “You mean that our new BDA is telling us that there’s a Lizard Man down there with X-ray vision?”
“It’s got to be a glitch or something,” Darmstedt said worriedly, leaning closer to the screen.
“But Baby BAD’s doing the right-–uh—thing,” David insisted, having already picked up on Darmstedt’s term of endearment for the BDA. “It’s giving the readouts, analyzing the results, and announcing the anomalies. If the bioscan were malfunctioning, the self-diagnostics would make Baby announce that.”
“I’m just kind of loitering around here, guys, while you wonder about Son of Pterodactyl down there,” Fong announced crossly. They’d been making wide circle passes of the galloping horses, and Deacon Fong just hated to cruise slowly. “Do you want another pass, or can I fly on?”
“Fly on,” Captain Slaughter ordered. “Darmstedt can analyze the raw data when we get back to base. Then, if we have to, we’ll get some tech-heads to look at the BDA.”
“Not my Baby,” Darmstedt grunted. “I can fix her myself, if she needs fixing.”
Sergeant Mitchell was still lost in wonder, and spoke so softly the helmet comm almost couldn’t pick it up. “He heard us. The horses didn’t. But even in the middle of that—that stampede, he looked up, because he heard us.”
They felt the helo pick up speed, though the sound was still much like that of a purring Rolls Royce engine. Vashti asked Captain Slaughter if she might open the bay doors again; she loved the air of the desert at night, even when it was rushing by at 220 miles per hour. She and Darkon took their seats on the floor again by the open doors—cautiously this time, making certain they sat close to the gunner’s straps for handholds in case of sudden stunt flying by Lieutenant Fong again.
Though the day had been sweltering, the night was cold, the stars distant and crisp. There was no moon, and no lights shone in the desolate land below. Vashti still caught whiffs of the desert perfume: the smell of hot sand and the nostril’s sting of cold, thin night air.
“What’s that?” she asked, sitting up straight and pointing.
“Kingman, Arizona,” Captain Slaughter answered. “At least, it was Kingman, Arizona. Now it’s Quadrant XJ2199 of the Shortgrass Steppe Biome.”
“Can we do a quick flyover?” Vashti asked.
Slaughter was silent.
“I’d like to see it,” she insisted.
“There’s nothing to see,” he said in an arid voice.
“We could try the BDA again,” Vashti said slyly.
“All right, Colonel Nicanor,” Slaughter reluctantly agreed.
“We aim to please.”
They flew over Shortgrass Steppe Biome Quadrant XJ2199. Once a thriving desert town of close to twelve thousand people, now it was a shabby ruin, with sagging power lines, abandoned homes, empty streets, and darkness.
David Mitchell ran the BDA, more expertly this time. It read out rabbits, coyotes, snakes, lizards, and two North American jaguars.
But there was not a single man or woman left in Kingman, Arizona.
Vashti made hot tea for Darkon Ben-ammi. It was the only semblance of servitude that she ever acceded to, and she only did it because she had such great respect for her comrade in arms. She would have done it if she were a man, she told herself, and that made her feel less uncomfortable with the taint of wifeliness. Of course, Darkon Ben-ammi had been happily married for thirty years to a woman who was Vashti’s direct opposite—soft, feminine, acquiescent.
But Vashti Nicanor wasn’t masculine—far from it. She was graceful in her movements, but not in an affected, flouncy way. At thirty-two, she was grateful she had the same body tone and curves she’d had in her twenties. The military uniforms she wore were severe, of course, but she wore them with a certain womanly dignity.
“Hot tea,” she announced, setting a motley collection of crockery that passed for a tea service in her quarters at Fort Carson. Actually, the officers’ quarters were luxurious by Israeli standards. It was just that Americans had never known how to do tea. “I had to use six of those little paper bag things,” she groused. “The first time I made tea I tore them all open, but there’s not a single tea strainer in this fort!”
“They call it a ‘base,’ Vashti,” Darkon said, squirting lemon extract from a foil packet into his steaming cup. “It was a fort a long time ago.”
“It’s still named Fort Carson,” she argued.
“But they don’t call it that in general conversation.”
“Just like Americans. They name it something, but they don’t call it by the name they give it.”
Darkon took an appreciative sip, set the cup down with great deliberation in the exact center of the mismatched saucer, and commented precisely, “It is not like Americans, Vashti. They are not that devious.”
She deflated a little, then smiled. “No, they’re not, are they?”
“The tea is very good. Thank you.” He never failed to thank her for doing him this small service, and it never failed to embarrass her.
“It was nothing; I wanted some tea, too,” she mumbled. “Why don’t you tell me your impressions of our first reconnaissance with real Americans?”
“I’m not certain that these elite soldiers can be called real Americans—or at least, representative citizens,” he mused. “But I do say they’re more real than those Tyvek cutouts we’ve been talking to for the last month in Washington.”
“So true!”
“But I would prefer that you give me your impressions first, Vashti,” he said.
“So I can make a fool of myself?”
“Not at all,” he said sturdily. “I find your point of view, and your observations, both refreshing and intelligent. You know that.”
“I didn’t do very well with Sergeant Mitchell. I thought he was going to be so easy . . . he seems like a simple every-American boy.”
“I think you mean ‘all-American.’ And do you now think he is? Simple?”
She thought for a few moments before answering. “No, not at all. In fact, of all of them, he is the least—the least—”
“Discernible?”
“Yes. Discernible,” she repeated carefully. They had decided to speak only in English while they were in America, to polish their language skills. It didn’t matter much, with the RS voice scrambler on, no one could possibly electronically overhear or record their conversations. “There’s much more to learn about Sergeant Mitchell, I think.”
“Did you know that he’s a hard-line Christian?” Ben-ammi asked casually. “Perhaps that might alter your tactics.”
“It certainly does, and no, I didn’t know that. How did you know? Don’t tell me they’ve all been coming to your quarters and telling you their secrets already, Rabbi!�
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He shook his head. “No, he just casually mentioned it while we were at the cafe this morning. I had breakfast with the noncoms.”
“I should have thought of that,” Vashti fumed. “Officers just talk about their planes, their helicopters, and their weapons.”
“True. Perhaps you will join me in the morning for breakfast in the cafe?” Darkon asked gallantly.
“It’s called a cafeteria,” Vashti corrected him, with some triumph. She had no idea that Darkon had been using the wrong word on purpose, to allow her a small win.
“Ah, yes, of course. The cafeteria. So, tell me, Vashti. What have you learned so far?”
It was a long time before she spoke. Darkon waited patiently, as he had waited for people to talk to him for the last twenty years.
“I think,” she said, with slow care, “that the soldiers hate what’s happened to this country with this insane population redistribution, and this bizarre nature worship.” She hesitated, and again Darkon waited. When she went on, her smooth brow creased darkly.
“I just don’t understand it, Darkon. I don’t think we ever will.
What’s happened to these people? They have more land, more riches, more beauty than we could ever dream of. And what do they do?
Shut themselves off in ugly titanium-and-glass cities, and refuse to even look up at the sun, or grow a tree? How can we ever understand such insanity?”
Darkon sighed heavily. “We have to, Vashti. We must come to some kind of—grip—hold—on what’s happening here. It’s so important to us, to our country.” America was still Israel’s staunchest ally in a hostile world. But the United States’ peculiar insularity had filled the Israeli government—and people—with doubt and insecurity. Yes, Americans still generously supported Israel through billions of dollars in aid, the sharing of all sensitive technologies, brisk trade, and support in the United Nations.
But where were they, the Americans? They were here, hiding, between their deserted shores, refusing to look up or around at the world anymore. The Israelis had sent ambassadors, diplomats, writers, poets, and spies to try to figure out what Americans were thinking. And so far not one Israeli could comprehend America’s mind-set, not one iota of it. It was a dark and frightening mystery to the tiny country that stood so alone in a hostile continent.
Darkon prodded Vashti again: “And what about the soldiers?”
“I think that they are highly trained, exceedingly intelligent, skillful and courageous men who have nothing better to do than play with billion-dollar toys. They have no higher purpose than that of a ceremonial marching band—and they know this too well. And I think they are afraid.”
“Yes? Of what?” Darkon asked alertly.
She took her time again before answering. “Of what America has become, and of what will happen when the time comes for the price of their folly to be paid.”
THREE
THE DYING APACHE LAY as still as if he had already crossed over into the other life. His face had a marmoreal quality, almost like marble, but there was life behind the coppery visage.
Cholani lay with his eyes closed, the light from the window illuminating his face, now shrunken so that it resembled an ancient mummy’s. His skin was creased with fine lines, the signs of a difficult life and much trouble. Beneath the thin, faded blanket his body had lost all the firm muscle and tone that had been his up until the sickness had taken him. Even wandering in the shadow land between waning life and looming death, his mind went back to the time when he led his people as chief and had been stronger and faster than any of the other young men. Now all that was past and he stood on the brink of passing into that for which he longed.
Leaning over him was a young woman with the blackest possible hair braided down into a single long braid that came below her waist. She wore a pair of faded jeans, a T-shirt stretched to capacity by her full figure, and a pair of dusty, worn half boots. She was no more than twenty and was not a beauty. Strength was in her face, however, and in her dark brown eyes, well-shaped and well-set in the sockets and widely spaced. None of the grief that flooded her heart was allowed to show. Her grandfather had been her anchor, and seldom had a day passed since she was born that she had not spent time with him.
Leaning close, she studied the still face of the one man she had found to be faithful in all the world. Only the faint stirring of the thin chest beneath the blanket gave evidence that he was still alive.
His eyelids moved slightly. Leaning over close, she whispered, “Grandfather . . . ?”
For a moment she thought she had been mistaken, but then the eyelids opened to reveal the obsidian eyes that had observed her whole life’s passage. Little Bird squeezed his hand. “Can you hear me, Grandfather?”
“Yes.” His lips worked and quickly Little Bird leaned forward to catch the words. “Yes. I am going. It is time for me to meet God.”
At the mention of the word God, Little Bird restrained a look of doubt. Her grandfather’s eyes were on her face and she knew that even in his present condition he was capable of reading her thoughts. All it took for Cholani to know the thoughts of man or woman, so it seemed, was one single look. It was as though his dark eyes bore into the brain and lay bare the secrets of anyone who faced him. Little Bird had learned as a child that there was no point in trying to conceal her thoughts. Once she had lied to him; instantly, and gently, he had laid bare her deception. Since that time Little Bird had been able to say whatever was on her heart, no matter how dark or how shameful, to her grandfather. She had had a hard life, for she was set in the modern world of 2050. But her grandfather’s mind and heart were firmly rooted back in the Old Time, and she had done her best to be there with him.
“What can I do for you, Grandfather?”
Cholani stirred slightly. He felt the warm touch of Little Bird’s hand, he smelled the thin soup that was cooking on the stove across the room. He could smell Little Bird’s scent; faint woman, shampoo, perfume, and machine oil. He was aware, too, of the sounds of the rat that was burrowing in the stucco wall, and had been for many days as he had lain there dying. From outside came the sound of two dogs barking. He knew their names and remembered when they were but pups. The sights and sounds, however, were filtered, as if covered with a thin layer of gauze. The room was dark, except for a single lamp with a twenty-five watt bulb on a makeshift table, and the hot light that filtered through the dirty panes of the single window.
But there was another light that the woman who leaned over him could not see. It seemed to grow from a deep well far off, a golden light that was becoming stronger, he knew, every moment. It had begun over a week ago and as soon as he had seen the first faint aura he had known in the way of his kind that his time on this earthly plain was approaching an end. Now it seemed to be more luminous than ever, with a piercing quality that he had never seen from sun or electric light or star.
“Go—bring me Him-Who-Touches.”
The eyes of the young woman narrowed slightly. “Do you think if he touches you, you will live, Grandfather?”
“Go. Bring Him-Who-Touches. I must . . . see him before . . . I make my journey. Hurry, Little Bird.”
For one moment Little Bird hesitated, then she said quietly, “All right, Grandfather. I’ll bring Him-Who-Touches.”
A faint flicker of something like humor came to the veiled eyes of the dying Apache. “I will wait here for you.”
Little Bird wheeled and moved quickly out of the cabin. It was not yet noon and the sun was ten degrees from being exactly overhead. As she moved there was something of the movement of the wolf or the cat. She wasted no movement and the smooth muscles of her body worked like oil and machinery. Leaping from the porch, she ran to the shed and the door creaked sadly as she opened it. Pulling the tarpaulin off and throwing it to the side, she stepped astride the ancient motorcycle that said “Harley Davidson” in faded letters on the side. Adjusting the controls, she pulled her body up and rammed her foot down. The machine coughed and grunte
d, protesting at the usage, and then startled the owls in the rafters with its deep-throated roar. Little Bird pulled a pair of goggles from a nail, slipped them over her eyes, and then with one twist of her wrist shot out of the dilapidated shed.
Little Bird left the yard, littered with cans and trash, throwing a plume of dust behind her. Reaching the road, she skidded in a half-circle, using one foot as a fulcrum. When she straightened, she opened the throttle. The single braid stood out behind her and she leaned forward, the stiff breeze flapping at her cheeks as she skillfully wove a pattern to avoid potholes and debris. The approaching death of her grandfather had done something to Little Bird that she had not anticipated. It had opened up a great gash of grief in her, an almost unmanageable sadness. Although she had not wept, even as she shot along the dusty pathway that was once a road but could hardly be called that anymore, the sorrow grew much more powerful than any she had ever known. She swallowed hard, drew her lips into a thin line, and urged the Harley Davidson on even faster.
As Jesse Mitchell reached into the hip pocket of his faded overalls, a pain shot through his shoulder and he grunted involuntarily. “Be still there!” he commanded the pain, and reaching up with his free hand, rubbed it for a moment. The pain subsided and now he easily burrowed into the hip pocket and came up with a small cylinder. Ordinarily he would have opened it at once but for some reason the old man simply stood there, holding what was an ancient silver snuffbox between his thumb and forefinger. It was past three o’clock now but the sun over the desert was still brilliant and he kept his eyes almost shut to protect against the brilliance.
Jesse had never known a time when he had not had the snuffbox, and he knew its history well. It had belonged to his great-great-great-grandfather—with, perhaps, a few more “greats” thrown in. Jesse was not quite sure about that. He recalled clearly how his father had given it to him when he was only twelve years old, saying, “This snuffbox belonged to your great-great-grandfather Lafayette. He was a Confederate, and fought all the way from Bull Run to stack his musket at Appomattox. And when he came home from the war minus a leg, he became a metalworker.
The Beginning of Sorrows Page 5
