The Admiral faced the camera squarely. "Virus is already falling in Europe. The jet stream at higher elevations is moving samples of it eastward at two hundred miles an hour."
"My son's a meteorologist." The Secretary of Commerce interrupted. "He told me the fallout from Chernobyl reached North America in just three or four days." He paused for a moment as the full impact of his words struck home. A stricken look swept his face. "Is that all the time we have?"
"I suggest we remain calm." The Secretary of State leaned forward speaking only inches from his mike. His voice boomed from the speakers. "I understand that we recently had a breakthrough in AIDS treatment. Does that offer a ray of hope?"
The Surgeon General managed a grim smile. "Yes, the serum is effective against any virus, from the common cold to AIDS." Smiles began to appear. There was hope, until she continued softly.
"At this time we only have enough to treat one patient. It will be several months before we can produce more."
A shudder went through the room.
"So it seems we can save Adam or Eve, but not both. A sad commentary," the Secretary of State muttered dryly.
Beside Launa, Judith muttered. "In 1940 we had enough penicillin to treat President Roosevelt or Prime Minister Churchill for pneumonia, but not both. History repeats itself."
Launa found the phrase "history repeats itself" repugnant. Like a cold lump of metal in her gut, her resolve grew that this history would not be.
On screens, pandemonium broke out.
The Secretary of State again bent next to his mike. "I suggest we have been inundated with enough information. We would benefit from a break."
Three very deflated Presidents nodded and the screens went blank.
Livermore plunged into darkness as all three screens went black.
"What happened?”
“Did they forget us?" someone cried out.
Before anyone could react, one screen lit up. This one showed the White House Situation Room. Admiral Benson was coming back from the communications center, his face a grim study.
Huddled in his chair, President Lark looked like a puppet whose strings had been slashed.
"How bad is it?" State asked.
"It's spreading faster than I thought. An airliner just grounded at Kennedy that probably flew through the cloud when it left Moscow. Aircraft have been crossing Europe and Asia through that damn cloud for the last three hours."
He paused and shook his head. "Folks, we're way behind the power curve on this one."
"Does it matter," the Secretary of Interior offered bitterly, "whether we die in five days or ten?"
The Surgeon General did not say anything. The question had no reply.
Interior turned to the admiral. "You folks in uniform think the unthinkable. What's going to happen?"
The admiral screwed up his face, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then looked at the Surgeon General. "Doctor, no pandemic has ever wiped out more than half of a population. I'm thinking of the medieval plagues."
"Yes," she nodded, "but no one ever engineered so deadly a plague to strike so quickly and so broadly." She presented the facts coldly.
The admiral worried his lower lip. "Does anyone have a natural immunity to Hepatitis E?"
"Even those infected with it are subject to reinfection." She spoke her word so softly it was hard for Launa to taste the absolute finality in it.
Then the monitors faded to gray. "Wait fifteen, Livermore," a disembodied voice instructed them.
No one moved.
* * *
Slowly the reality soaked through Launa. Every hope, every dream that the human race had fashioned since the beginning of history would be in ruins before the first heat of summer.
A tear traced its way down her cheek. She felt it slowly fall, held the sensation. That one tear was her donation to the mourning of this future lost.
The rest of her was already changing, hardening into the obsidian that would carve a past regained.
13
The camera lights came back on as the mikes made a popping noise. The monitors showed a subdued cabinet.
"Are you there, Livermore?" The Admiral voice was hard, but empty.
"Yes." Judith reached out to him with a single word.
The Secretary of State turned. "Mr. President?"
The Commander in Chief shook himself. Slowly a glazed stare turned to the Secretary. "Ah, yes. You want, er, something?"
"Yes, Mr. President." State spoke softly. "We've been discussing the time expedition. We recommend you authorize its activation."
"Ah yeah." The President's eyes wandered unsteadily around the room. "You think things are that bad, Phil?"
"Yes, Mr. President." The Secretary of Defense kept his words gentle, as he might to a child.
"Well, uh, how soon can they do that thing, do you think?" The president's head bobbed up and down, like a boat that had lost its anchor.
The admiral stood up. "Livermore?"
Launa looked to Jack. His breath was coming in strong, deep drafts as he nodded to her to take the honor.
She stood to attention and saluted smartly. "We are ready now, sir."
The admiral returned her salute. After a quick glance in the President's direction, he turned to Launa. "Activate the Neolith Military Advisory Group at your earliest convenience. Be guided by the principle of calculated risk. In matters beyond your briefing, exercise your discretion."
"Yes, sir!" Launa dropped her salute.
Jack joined Launa at attention. Both snapped a salute to the admiral.
"Dismissed, troopers, and Godspeed."
They pivoted smartly and marched from the room.
* * *
Jack trailed Launa from the conference room, his gut a knot of contending passions. He was as proud as a warrior and scared as a rabbit. He felt like screaming and running in circles and taking a mountain apart with his bare hands. Was this what his Grandfather had chanted of, the ancient warrior's way?
When Launa came to a halt, he grabbed her by both shoulders. "You did good. Now we make it happen."
She nodded, as solid and cool as steel. "Yes."
Milo and Harrison, Judith and Brent quickly joined them. Emotions fled across their faces as they contended for control of their souls. They stood, staring at one another. There were no words for what passed between them.
Launa broke the silence. "Let's crank'em up, crew."
The relentless commitment that blazed in her eyes gave purpose to the civilians. Like the light of a fire, it held their fears at bay, suppressing terror while it burned, giving them purpose, at least for the moment.
Milo turned to Harrison. "Betty, let's warm up the machine. Can't keep these people waiting." They turned to the elevator.
Jack started ticking things off. "We'll need the animals and gear from the trailers."
Harrison turned back. "I had your gear brought down to the transporter when they called the meeting." She halted, embarrassed. "I guess I . . .” She ran out of words.
"Thank you." Launa saved her further discomfort.
"I'll get the horses and dogs," Brent offered.
That was Jack's responsibility. For a second, anger flared, then died as he saw the desperation in Brent's face.
The old man craved action like a drug. Jack surrendered this deed to his friend. Letting him help them would help Brent keep at arm's length the horror that awaited all those left behind.
In silence they rode up the elevator to the High Energy Unit. Brent continued up alone after they exited. Jack smelled ozone, air conditioning and hot metal. It tasted bitter.
Their bags were piled on a large scale. He and Launa walked over to it. The digital read-out said exactly 801.52 pounds.
"Damn close." Jack stroked his beard.
"We'll need to weigh ourselves after we change."
He nodded and picked up two small bags that were not on the scales. "This one's yours." He handed it to Launa.
"Does it rea
lly matter? One size fits all."
He tried to match her soft banter. "Yeah, but I'd like my own sandals."
To their left the restrooms announced "Men" and "Women." Obedient to culture, they each went to their door.
Launa stopped, her hand on the door. "I don't want to be by myself," she choked and did not look at Jack.
He turned, wondering if he could force words past the lump closing his throat. "I know. I don't either."
He followed her through the wrong door.
The room was large. Four gray stalls established their boundaries for civilization. Launa went to the far wall, where three chrome hooks awaited her uniform.
Jack took his coat off, folded it smartly and laid it on the bench at his end of the lavatory. He paused. That green uniform, with its bits of ribbon, cloth and metal, had been his life for the last ten years.
He would never wear it again.
His throat tightened. A wave of nausea swept over him. He denied it by ripping his tie off, throwing it in a corner. He tore open his shirt, stepped out of his shoes and shed his pants, underwear and socks in a single motion, leaving them in a heap.
Naked, he emptied his bag on the bench and came to a halt with a wry grimace.
It was Launa's bag.
He picked up the sandals, belt, knife, briefs and turned.
"I seem to have your gear."
Launa had neatly hung her coat and skirt on hooks. Her shoes stood side by side beneath them. She had folded her blouse and bra neatly on the counter and was half out of her panty hose.
He had to repeat himself.
When she finally turned to him, her eyes were distant. She said nothing, but pointed to the other bag. Then, folding her hose, she stepped into a stall.
He could hear her emptying her bladder and felt the need himself.
He traded clothing and moved to the furthest stall from her. Both of them might as well have been in armor plate for all the attention they paid each other.
Someday, somewhere, he would pay due homage to the sight of Launa naked and proud as a goddess. Something was wrong with a world where first anger and now emptiness left him with no appetite for such beauty.
* * *
Launa sat in the cold privacy of the stall.
In another time, the sight of Jack would have brought feelings. Today, the emptiness inside her swallowed him up unnoticed.
As she worked the cool metal toilet handle, she knew she was touching modern plumbing, probably any modern convenience, for the last time.
Quickly she walked to her gear, belted on the briefs and tied the sandals.
Jack was waiting, but she took a moment to turn back to her uniform. Softly, she ran her hands down the wool, delighting in its sheen. Her fingers caressed the sharp corners of her gold bars. For most of her life she had dreamed of them.
She had won them and now must give them up. Recklessly, she worked one of the bars from its epaulet and turned to Jack.
He nodded almost imperceptibly as she slipped it into her briefs. She felt as cold as the metal.
Twice she drew in deep breaths and blew them out. Jack matched her breath for breath. Then, setting her face, she squared her shoulders.
Jack opened the door. Wrapping herself in decision, she strode forward purposefully, whether as convicted to execution or hero to adventure, the next moments would tell.
Harrison stood beside the empty scales. The horses were laden. Launa and Jack paced off the distance to the scales together.
The doctor read the numbers and fed her hand held calculator. "You're eighty-three point four pounds short of forty-four hundred and three pounds."
Jack pointed to a satchel near the horse wrangler. "Make up the balance from there."
A technician brought it, draw out gold nuggets and leaf, and placed them on the scales. It did not surprise Launa; she was beyond feelings. A few moments later, she and Jack held two soft leather pouches with the measured weight in gold.
They moved to the animals.
Star nuzzled Launa. Windrider and Big Red greeted Jack with soft nickers. Frieda, Mist and Alert softly rubbed against their legs. This was the least rambunctious greeting Launa could remember from the dogs.
"I slipped some tranquilizers into the horses' and dogs' feed," the wrangler offered by way of explanation. "It'll wear off in an hour, but it should help them now."
He handed Launa two of the dog leashes, Jack the other.
Launa wanted no long good-byes. The numbness that allowed her to keep going might pass at any moment. She respected the tight control the Livermore crew kept over whatever demons hounded them.
Launa turned to Milo. She thought to salute him and say something historic, but the vision of herself, naked and vulnerable, trying to act like a Prussian automaton, made for poor theater. She set her jaw resolutely.
"Let's get this show on the road, shall we, doc?" She sounded like her old man did after packing the car for a weekend trip. For a moment she feared she had blown it, but the tight grin on Jack's face gave assurance.
As Milo bent to his instruments, Judith came to stand between them. "If something happens and the situation stabilizes at an acceptable level, we'll attempt to bring you back."
Launa swallowed hard. "We'll stand by the drop zone for a week, doing as little as possible. If you can't recover us, send a message canceling the mission. We'll slaughter the animals, destroy, burn or bury the gear and do the same with ourselves. We won't allow our lives to risk damage to history if things go okay here."
Launa's gut knotted at her first life and death order.
Grimly, Jack nodded assent.
Milo looked up. "We're ready. A short countdown, from five on my mark. Okay."
He looked around; no one objected. Launa took a deep breath and began tightening her muscles, legs, then stomach, then arms, preparing for whatever might come.
"Mark." Doctor Milo started counting. "Five. Four. Three."
The dogs twitched nervously, whined. The horses tossed their heads, shuffled their hoofs, fought their bridles. Launa pulled tight on the animals' leads. Remembering her parachute training, she relaxed her legs.
"Two. One. Go."
The count ended.
Launa gave a final look to the laboratory, the beige walls, the white smocked technicians, the gleaming metal and gray equipment.
Then things began to get hazy.
The End of the Beginning.
But the beginning of LOST DAYS
and the Lost Millennium Trilogy
A preview of stories coming from Mike Shepherd in the next few months.
Coming in January, 2017
Kris Longknife’s Replacement: Grand Admiral Sandy Santiago on Alwa Station
By
Mike Shepherd
21
Grand Admiral Sandy Santiago strode down the gangplank of the USS Wasp, mulling over her quick briefing from Admiral, Her Royal Highness, Kris Longknife.
I didn’t see any of that coming.
Of course, long ago the Santiagos had learned to stay fast on their feet around those damn Longknifes.
Enough of us died even with the best footwork.
As she strode along, Sandy began organizing all that had been thrown at her: an admiral pregnant, a battle fought and won, that was a lot.
She was so lost enough in her thought that she hardly noticed when a three-star admiral, tall, chiseled and graying, accompanied by a petite, young, female civilian that looked ready to explode, crossed her path. The two of them eyed each other, then, evidently experienced enough with each other enough to read the other’s mind, the young woman said, “You go first, Admiral Benson.”
“Benson?” Sandy echoed, “I thought the king sent you out here for a civilian post. Dockyards or something.”
“Out on Alwa Station, Admiral, we repair them, we build more, and then, when the time comes, we fight them as well. I commanded the Reserve Fleet under the admiral, here,” he said with a nod toward the Wasp where
said admiral was busy gestating – and recovering from one hell of a battle.
“Reserve Fleet?” Sandy said, frowning as her mine raced through the skimpy debriefing she’d just gotten from Kris Longknife. “Didn’t you just hold the last jump into Alwa against the final push by the bug-eyed monsters?”
The man’s face lit up with pure, one hundred percent pride. “That we did, ma’am. Me, and my yard birds along with any of Pipra’s factory workers, or Granny Rita’s Colonials or the odd and sod Rooster or Ostrich that we could train up to stand a watch. We got’em good.”
“Well done, Admiral. Now would you mind following me back to my flag. I think there’s some odds and ends that need tidying up.”
“That’s what we need to talk about, ma’am. Those ends, and the next set of outs. Grand Admiral, my I present Pipra Strongarm, Kris’s right arm gal running the industrial side of the show out here. She oversees the independent operators out in the asteroids that mine the stuff that’s shipped down to the moon fabricators that Pipra bosses. A lot of the stuff that comes out of them get shipped up here and me and my yard birds use it to patch together the ships the Navy dings, dints and busts up. With what’s left over we spin together some more ships, my yard and the three or four other dockyards that nice folks back home have been kind enough to ship out here. Her fabs also make the goodies that the Colonials like and the Alwans demand.”
Sandy nodded at the young woman, not sure how this all fit together . . . or mattered to her. “Fine, I’d be glad to talk to all of you, but I’ve got the wreckage of a battle to police up. I understand from Kris that she’s got a Battle Fleet out there to hell and gone, running on fumes and I need to get some reaction mass out to them soonest,” Sandy said, quick marching for her flag.
Both the Navy officer and the civilian quick marched right along beside her. “Yes, Admiral, that’s why we think you need to talk to both of us, and maybe Granny Rita and the Colonial’s First Minister Ada, too.”
Sandy gave him a gimlet eye, but didn’t quite give him the line that demanded, “If you’re so smart, why ain’t there more stripes on your coat than mine?”
Lost Dawns: A Short Prequel Novel to the Lost Millinnium Trilogy Page 13
