The Year's Best SF 12 # 1994

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “I’m calling from a payphone. I hope to god you get this. Don’t come home. They ransacked the office this morning. It’s Seven Days in May. They took the files. Don’t come home. Stay where you are.”

  Other voices break into the background of the call. Eddie curses. A click, the message over. Janet sits down in a blue-flowered chair next to the telephone, rewinds the tape, and listens to all three messages again. Clever of Eddie, to use the name of an old video to tell her everything she needs to know. The army’s been in her office. Half her discrimination cases pended against various military bureaucracies. There is no doubt now who will win them.

  Her mouth is dry, her hands shake, and she feels abruptly cold, gets up to find a sweater, stares numbly round the room while she tries to remember what made her stand up, sits down again. She should call Mandi, reaches for the phone, stops herself. Doubtless they, this vast, suddenly ominous “they,” will have tapped Mandi’s phone by now. Will they go to Mandi’s flat and take her away like the files?

  “Her engagement will save her.” Janet hears her own voice tremble, continues speaking aloud just to hear a voice in the room. “She’s Army now herself, really. She’s going to marry an officer. He’ll take care of her. Jack’s a good guy.”

  Unless he has chosen to honour his sworn oath to the Constitution and refused to go along with the coup? Jack’s stationed in California, after all, named by the announcer as the one place offering any resistance. But who’s resisting? Military units? Street gangs? Libertarian and survivalist fighter packs? All of these in some patched-together coalition?

  “I’ve got to call my daughter.”

  Janet reaches for the phone, pulls her hand back. If she calls, she might implicate Mandi in … in what? Something, anything, being the daughter of a liberal, who knows now what the word, crime, may mean. They’ve taken my files. They know all about me. They know about my daughter. When the phone rings, Janet screams. She gulps a deep breath and picks it up on the third pair of rings.

  “Janet? Thank god.” Rosemary’s voice, slightly breathless, precedes her image, irising onto the phonevid. “You’ve heard?”

  “Sure have.”

  “Well, look, the maglev train runs from Cardiff to London every hour up until seven o’clock tonight. Call me once you’ve bought your ticket and I’ll arrange to have you met at Euston. It’s going to take a while, so we have to start the process as soon as possible, and of course you’ll have to declare, so you’ll need to be at my office tomorrow morning.”

  “Declare? Rosemary, wait, slow down. What process?”

  “Applying for political asylum, of course. Janet, my dear friend! I’ve just been briefed by the Foreign Office. You can’t go back. You’ll be arrested the moment you step off the plane. They’re rounding up anyone who might oppose them. It’s horrid.”

  Janet stares at the stripes, blue and white and grey.

  “Janet? Janet, look at the camera. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sure, sorry.”

  “Well, this has all been a bit of a shock, I’m sure.”

  Janet restrains the urge to laugh like a madwoman.

  “At any rate,” Rosemary goes on. “Do get packed up and get yourself down to the station. Wait, someone’s talking…” A long pause while Rosemary chews on her lower lip. “Good god! Janet, listen. I’ll have a ticket waiting for you there. They might have taken over your accounts. Your cards might not work. I’ll contact your hotel, too.”

  “Already? They might have cut people’s cards off already? Oh God, they must have been planning this thing for years!”

  “Yes, it would certainly seem so. The Foreign Office are shocked, really shocked. They’ve been keeping an eye on something called the Eagle Brotherhood, but they had no idea of just how high it reached. Well. I’ll brief you later. Just get to London, so you can declare.”

  “Of course. Should I keep an eye out for assassins?”

  “Good God, don’t joke!”

  “Okay. Sorry. I’m on my way. Oh, Rosemary, wait!”

  “Yes, still here.”

  “Don’t worry about the train ticket. I’ve got a BritTravel pass. They couldn’t have touched that.”

  “Right. I’ll just ring up your hotel, then.”

  Janet crams clothes and her bedtime book into her suitcases, checks the bathroom and finds her various toiletries, crams them into plastic bags and stuffs them into a side pocket of the biggest case. She carries the luggage down herself, reaches the hotel desk to find the clerk talking to Rosemary, writing down her charge numbers to settle the bill. The clerk pauses, her dark eyes narrow with worry, with sympathy.

  “It’s all been taken care of, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. Could you call a cab for me? Or wait, will they take a BritTravel card?”

  “They will, yes. Best of luck to you, ma’am.”

  “Thanks.”

  Janet restrains the urge to add “I’ll need it” like a character in an old video.

  On the maglev, the trip to London takes a bare hour. Through polarized glass Janet sees the countryside shoot by, clear in the far distance, blurred close to the train. Although she’s used to thinking on her feet, having practised for years in front of hostile judges, today she cannot think, can only worry about her daughter, her assistant, her sometime lover and closest friend, Robert, and all the other friends in their politically active circle, all left behind in San Francisco. I alone have escaped to tell you. She leans her face against the cool glass and trembles, too tormented to weep.

  * * *

  At Euston she hauls her bags off the train, finds a luggage cart and ladles them in, then trudges down the long platform, leaning on the cart handle for support like some bag lady, drifting through the streets with all she owns before her. As she emerges into the cavernous station hall, she sees two things: the enormous media screen on the far wall, and Jonathan Richards, wearing an old-fashioned tweed jacket flung over an old-fashioned blue shirt, hurrying to meet her. On the screen a man in uniform stands in the Oval Office next to a pale and shaking president. Across the boom and bustle of the hall the general’s words die before they reach her.

  “Hullo,” Jonathan says. “I’d hoped to see you again on a better day than this.”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Rosemary rang me up and pressed me into service. She’s afraid that sending an official car would attract too much attention.”

  Janet starts to answer, but her mouth seems to have frozen into place. Attract too much attention? From whom? Does the coup have the power to pluck its enemies from the streets of foreign cities?

  “Rather a nasty situation all round,” Jonathan says. “Here, I’ll push that cart. The wheels always stick on these beasts.” Nodding, Janet relinquishes the handle. As she follows him through the crowd she is trying to convince herself that she’s simply too unimportant to be a target, but her new book rises in her memory, and its brisk sales—Christian Fascism: The Politics of Righteousness. She thinks: You saw this coming, you’ve seen it for years, why are you so surprised?

  Jonathan has spoken to her.

  “I’m sorry,” Janet says. “I missed that.”

  He smiles, his eyes weary. “Quite understandable. I’m just abandoning the cart. We go down the steps here.”

  Books and papers heap the back seat of Jonathan’s small electric Morris. He slings the luggage in on top of them, hands Janet into the front seat, then hurries round behind the wheel. As they pull out, Janet realizes that night’s fallen. Street lamps halo out bright in a rising mist.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Rosemary’s flat.”

  “Ah. Thank you. I mean, really, thanks for coming down like this.”

  “Quite all right.”

  During the drive out to Kew, where Rosemary lives in a huge walled complex of townhouses and gardens, Janet says very little. Her mind searches for its old humour, tries to find some quip or irony, fails, trails away into wonderings about Ma
ndi and Robert. Suddenly she remembers that Robert talked about leaving the city during her vacation, about going up to her mother’s old house in the mountains. If he has, he will be safe; up in Goldust her family knows him, and they will take him in if he needs it. If he left. Will she ever know?

  “Jonathan? Have you heard if the phone lines to the States are down?”

  “It seems to depend on where you want to call. The various media have their own links, of course. The new programme that I was listening to on the radio implied that private calls are difficult, and the farther west you want to go, the worse it is.”

  “I was thinking that might be the case, yeah.”

  “We’ll get some sort of underground news network set up down at the university as soon as we can. Hackers.” He glances her way briefly. “For a respectable sort of person I happen to know a remarkable number of hackers.”

  “They’ll see it as the best game in the world.”

  When they reach the flat, Rosemary’s housekeeper lets them in, takes the luggage from Jonathan and takes it away. They wander into Rosemary’s yellow and white parlour, all slender Eurostil furniture and wall paintings. Rosemary loves florals, and on the display screens glow Renoirs and Monets, each garden blooming for some minutes, then fading to allow the next to appear. Jonathan heads straight for a white wooden cabinet.

  “Drink?” he says.

  “Gin and tonic, please. I bet Rosemary’s on the phone.”

  “She’ll be hoarse before the night’s out, yes.”

  Janet sinks into the corner of the pale leather sofa only to find herself confronted with a picture of her daughter, a snapshot she herself took on the day that Mandi graduated from college. Rosemary has had it enlarged and printed out, then framed in a yellow acrylic oval. In her dark red robes and mortar board Mandi looks overwhelmed, no matter how brightly she smiles for her mother’s camera. She is pale and blue-eyed, like her grandmother, and her long blonde hair streams over her shoulders. All at once Janet’s eyes fill with tears. She shakes them away and looks up to find Jonathan holding out a glass.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  She nods and takes the drink.

  “You must be worried sick about your daughter.”

  “I am, yeah.” She takes a sip before she goes on. “But actually. I was thinking of my mother. I’m really glad she didn’t live to see this.”

  Jonathan sighs and flops into an armchair opposite. He is drinking something golden-brown, scotch, most likely, sips it and seems to be searching for something to say. Wearing a crumpled blue suit, Rosemary steps in to the room. Her red scarf slides from her shoulder and falls without her noticing.

  “Hullo!” She smiles at Janet. “It is so good to see you safe.”

  “Thanks. Really, thank you for all the help. I don’t know what I’d have done without it.”

  “I’m sure you’d have thought of something, but I’m glad I’m placed as I am. Sorry I was on the phone when you arrived. I’ve been being courted. Rather nice, really.”

  “By the party whip, I assume?” Jonathan hands her a drink.

  “Exactly.” Rosemary sinks down into the other corner of the sofa. “Thank you, darling.” She pauses for a long sip. “This is the situation. Emergency session tonight in a few hours. Labour want to threaten an immediate boycott of all American goods and services and to call for immediate restoration of democracy. The Tories, of course, do not. Enough Labour members may bolt to make our votes important. The Labour leaders are willing to be accommodating. I pretended to have doubts about the boycott for the sake of the British middle class.” Rosemary smiles briefly. “And so you’ll get the embankment, Jonathan, to protect the Free University.”

  “Brilliant!”

  “Tremendous!”

  Jonathan and Janet raise their glasses and salute her.

  “Corrupt, actually,” Rosemary says. “But there we are.” She turns Janet’s way. “I’m having some information transmitted to my terminal for you. About applying for asylum. We’d best get that underway tomorrow. They’re setting up a board to handle the applications, you see.”

  “Do you think there’ll be a crush?” Jonathan said. “Most of the Yanks I’ve met lately will be overjoyed at the developments.”

  Rosemary shrugs.

  “The coup wouldn’t have struck without being sure of having a broad base of support,” Janet says. “They’ve been building it for years. Mostly by playing on the crime issue—you know, the need for order in our embattled streets. And of course, moral values. The so-called family values.”

  “It’s always order, isn’t it?” Jonathan says. “The excuse, I mean, for military governments. We must have order. Keep the people in line.”

  Janet nods agreement.

  “Anyway, we’ll have dinner before I go,” Rosemary says. “Have you remembered to eat today?”

  “No.” Janet allows herself a smile. “Not since breakfast. Kind of a long time ago now.”

  “Thompson will be serving soon, I should think. You know, I have no idea what sort of questions the Board will want answered during the asylum proceedings. Your books and career should be enough to satisfy them you’re in danger. I hope they don’t want an actual threat or your presence on some sort of list. How long do you have left on your tourist visa?”

  “Close to two months.”

  “Splendid! Surely that should be enough, even for a bureaucracy.”

  “Even for a British bureaucracy?” Jonathan puts in, grinning.

  Rosemary groans and holds out her glass for a refill.

  “It’s a good question, though,” Janet says. “I’ll have to have some visible means of support, won’t I?”

  “Oh here.” Jonathan pauses on his way to the liquor cabinet. “Surely that won’t be a factor in the Board’s decision.”

  “It might,” Rosemary breaks in. “The junta are bound to put pressure on our government in turn. They do have all the bombs, you know. I imagine they’ll be able to force a very strict adherence to the rules and regulations for this sort of thing.”

  Jonathan thinks, chewing on his lower lip.

  “Well, here,” he says at last. “The Free University sponsor lecture series. There’s no doubt that you’d be a major attraction, Janet. First, a series of public lectures featuring your book. Christian fascism—its roots and rise. Then a proper course for the student body: American Fascism, the historical background. I foresee no difficulty in getting the Committee to approve it.”

  “No doubt they’ll thank you.” Rosemary turns a good bit brighter. “And of course, the book! It’s only just come out here, and my god, what a publicity event!”

  Janet tries to laugh and fails.

  “But what about the money from that?” Rosemary goes on. “Does it go to your agent in America?”

  “No, fortunately. She has a co-agent here in London, and David gets all monies received and converts them to pounds before he sends them on. I’ll call him tomorrow. He can just send my agent her cut and let me have the rest. Oh my god. My agent!”

  “Oh now here,” Rosemary says. “You don’t think she’ll be arrested?”

  Janet shrugs helplessly. She has absolutely no idea which of her acquaintances might be endangered by the simple act of knowing her.

  “It sounds to me,” Jonathan says, “that one way or another you’ll do very well for yourself.”

  “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? If I don’t mind being a professional exile.”

  Although Janet meant the phrase as irony, it cracks out of her mouth like a pistol shot. Rosemary sighs and watches her, worried. Jonathan busies himself with refilling glasses.

  “Well, sorry,” Janet says. “It’s not like I have a lot of choice.”

  “Just so, darling. Do you want to try to ring Mandi? It can’t put her into any worse danger than she’s already in.”

  “Just from having a mother like me? Oh god. But yeah, I do. I’ll just go into the other room.”

  “The
green guest room. The one you had before.”

  Janet sits on the edge of a narrow bed in a pool of yellow light and punches code into the handset. Halfway through, at the code for the San Francisco Bay Area, a string of whistles and shrieks interrupt.

  “I’m sorry, but we cannot complete your call as dialled. Please attempt to ring through at a later time.”

  “Damn!”

  * * *

  Later that night, when Rosemary has gone off to the Houses of Parliament and Jonathan to his home, Janet lies on the bed in her green and white guest room and watches the late news. Footage of tanks rolling down American streets, soldiers standing on guard in front of banks, here and there the ruins of a shelled building—and yet it seems clear that the coup has faced little resistance, except out in the American west. The east, the south, and the capital belong, heart and soul, to the coup and the Christian right. Utah as well has declared for the new government, as have the southern counties of California, but up in the mountains, the Rockies, the Sierra Nevada, the rain forests of the Cascades—in the high places even the spokesmen for the junta admit that a campaign of “pacification” lies ahead of them. There are no reports at all from Alaska. All network links seem to be down. Since the Native Americans there have been sabotaging government installations for the past 15 years, Janet can guess that they’ve found sudden allies among the whites.

  It doesn’t matter, Janet knows. In the end the coup will win, because the areas that resist matter little to the economic life of the country. They can be cut off and starved out until their cities fall to the neo-fascists. Perhaps Alaska will stay free, an instant republic. Down in the continental United States, up in the mountains, a guerilla war may continue for years, an annoyance but no threat to the new government, fought by a patchwork army of libertarians, survivalists, and honourable men.

  The newscast changes to a parade through Washington, rank after rank of soldiers, Army and Marines marching through the rain. Past the Lincoln Memorial—Janet lays down the remote to wipe tears from her eyes. Yet she cannot stop watching, finds herself staring at the screen, puzzling over some small detail. She finds the close-up function, slides it on, zeroes her little white square over one soldier, clicks—and sees upon his shoulder the new patch added to his dress uniform, a white cross on a blue ground. She punches the screen back to normal so hard that the remote squalls in protest.