Blackout

by Edward W. Robertson

  One morning, back in the valley, they got together the usual breakfast of poi, fruit, and spiced fish from the day before. After, Walt sat back from the table.

  "So," Carrie said. "What do you want to do today?"

  He laced his fingers behind his head, taking in the sun on the sea. "I'm not sure."

  "Want to go for a swim?"

  "What, here?"

  "Or up north. Or we could surf."

  He wiped pineapple juice from his mouth. "Go on, if you want."

  "What are you going to do? Just sit here?"

  "Sitting's not so bad."

  She stared at him. A slow smile crept across her face. "Oh my god. You're bored, aren't you?"

  "Define 'bored.'"

  "Disinterested in the opportunities before you."

  "All that stuff's cool. I just don't want to do it right now."

  She leaned forward, inspecting him. "Serious question. Do you want to leave?"

  "Why would I want to leave? This is paradise."

  "Maybe that's the problem."

  He stood to gather their plates. "How's that?"

  "You're not some guy who sits around his house, goes for a swim, and kicks back on the lanai for a nap. You're you."

  "Me being?"

  "The guy who drove out the Dovon. Not once, but twice. And in between, you fought two other wars between humans."

  He stopped in the doorway of the hut, plates in hand. "You're coming to a point?"

  "This might be paradise. But it might not be paradise for you. I want to know if you're happy here—and if not, where you will be."

  His annoyance receded. He set the plates on the table, pacing across the shack. "You're right. I am bored. I shouldn't be, but I am."

  Carrie was smiling at him. "You miss the action."

  "Maybe."

  "I'm sure new countries are springing up all over the place. Surely you could find a conquering army somewhere."

  "Ha ha. I've never been one for conquering. Besides, I definitely don't miss almost dying every day."

  She rested her elbow on the back of her chair. "What do you miss?"

  He gazed out at the ocean at the edge of the valley. "Feeling my heart beat."

  "That's a start. What will get it beating again?"

  "What's it matter?"

  "Because I want you to be happy, dummy."

  He laughed, leaning over the bamboo railing of their lanai. "It's close to a year since the Swimmers left. I bet they're going to throw a bitchin' party in L.A."

  "Want to go back, then?"

  "We could at least check it out. We've got enough supplies banked up to last us for months." He tapped his nails against the railing. "If there's nothing going on there, do you suppose the Panama Canal's still working?"

  * * *

  Three months after the aliens had left, with the Dunemarket humming along more busily than ever, and with the refugees returned to Catalina or settling into their new plots in San Pedro, Mia tracked down Raina at the docks beside the corroding battleship.

  "I've been thinking," Mia said. "We're rebuilding. Right out in the open. Because we know it's safe to do so."

  Raina glanced her way. "Is there something illogical about that?"

  "Not at all. But we're not the only survivors out there, aren't we? I think it's time to let the others know that it's okay to come out of the woodwork."

  "Perhaps."

  "In my experience with authority, 'perhaps' is just another word for 'no.'"

  Raina snorted. "Are you more concerned with the word being spread? Or that you're the one to ride out and spread it?"

  Mia folded her arms. "This is one instance where my desires coincide with the common good."

  "The other survivors deserve to know. But spreading word of what has happened in Los Angeles might draw attention we're not ready for. Before we can tell the others that they're free, we must make sure our lands are secure. Give me more time to build our walls, grow our crops, and tighten our defenses. Then I'll give your mission my blessing."

  Mia bobbed her head. "Deal."

  The rains of spring turned to the fogs of early summer, then the humid, stifling heat that even the coastal winds couldn't seem to dislodge. Mia spent many nights in the inn, entertaining travelers with her stories and guitar.

  On most of those nights, Mauser showed up too, smiling at her from across the room as he drank with his friends and associates, hammering out the thornier details of the Dunemarket's fledgling government. They seemed to be trending toward some anarcho-capitalist thing, with feudalistic embellishments. Once upon a time, when Mia had lived with her husband Raymond in a house they couldn't afford in the midst of a recession where he couldn't even find a job, the new politics would have troubled her. They were awfully every-man-for-himself.

  But those had been different times. The concerns of an age when there'd been so much wealth that it seemed offensive not to redistribute some of it to those who were struggling.

  Now, though, it wasn't about mortgages and car payments and student loans. It was about feeding yourself. Collecting enough firewood for the colder days of winter. Foraging through the ruins or setting aside enough of what you made to trade with those who'd started to craft, weave, forge, harvest, and hunt.

  She knew the old days had been better. Once upon a time, they could cure almost any disease. Educate children to become doctors, or to invent smart phones that revolutionized business, or develop the games that allowed those smart phone owners to be entertained every second of every day. Fly across the country in a span of hours. Touch the moon. Build the kind of weapons that could hurt the Dovon.

  But simplicity had its appeal, too. She saw it in the faces of the people farming their homesteads. In the gregarious bartering of the market and in the laughter of the patrons at the inn. When their kingdom grew more complex, the laws could grow more complex, too. In the meantime, let people worry about nothing more than next season's crop, and how much they had left over to trade.

  Anyway, what choice did they have?

  Months went by. Walls sprung up on the roads to the north and west, opening at dawn and closing at dusk; the northwest was protected by the hills, the east and south by the seas. Some of the former warriors became sentries or joined the town watch. Others adapted to lives as farmers, fishermen, carpenters, merchants, or messengers. As always, the Dunemarket was the center, the communal space where citizens and foreigners traded goods, news, gossip, and stories. Watching it grow was like watching a child learn to walk, talk, and think for itself.

  Even so, it was only one place among many. She was getting a serious hankering to see what the rest of the world was up to.

  Eleven months after the aliens had left, Raina began preparations for a celebration. Despite Mia's protests that it was a terrible name—completely at odds with the coming togetherness of a holiday—Raina insisted on calling the one-year anniversary of the Dovon's departure "Alone Day."

  Despite the awfulness of the name, the party was a smashing success. A giant cookout of beef on the beach, roasted in chunks on spits and hot coals. Queen Georgia and a hefty contingent of San Diegans showed up to mark the occasion. As Mia circulated through the crowds, telling stories and playing songs on her acoustic guitar, she saw, to her disbelief, that Walt was there, along with his wife and Sprite, the one member of the fabled submarine crew who was still around to talk about their exploits. She sidled up to their group, coaxing stories from them over shanks of beef and copious moonshine.

  When Mia judged the moment was right—Raina was neither too sober nor too drunk—she intercepted the chieftain as she strode between two bands of citizens on the sands overlooking the ruins of the first ship.

  "Pretty good party," Mia said.

  Raina looked about herself with the special dignity of someone under the influence. "They seem to be enjoying themselves."

  "If we're secure enough to throw a shindig like this, I think we're secure enough to alert the world to what's h
appened."

  Raina may have had a few drinks, but hearing this, her eyes went as sharp as needles. "You still want to go forth and spread the word."

  "I still think they deserve it." Mia ducked her head subtly. "Besides, the more people who know about the Dunemarket, the more business we'll get."

  "Do you truly think it's that vital? Risking your life on the road to tell stories in boozy, smoky inns?"

  "You're the hero of the stories. You don't need inspiration from outside because you've got so much of it within." Mia tapped her heart, then gestured to the warriors cavorting on the dark beach. "Neither do they, because they've been inspired by you. But most people? They grow up knowing nothing more than what's in their own heads. The people around them, like themselves, are just trying to make a living. They might want something more, but they're not quite sure what it is—and they definitely don't know how to get it."

  Raina's eyes softened. "But you show them. What to want. And how to stand up and take it."

  "I do my best."

  "You may go. With my blessings. But I've listened to a few of your stories myself. When you tell them what's happened here, and what we did to achieve it, don't exaggerate. Let the truth be enough."

  Mia bowed her head, then went to find Mauser, which wasn't hard, considering how loudly he was holding court above the tideline. She waited for him to finish expounding his theory of the curse of human consciousness, then drew him aside.

  "You remember how I told you I wanted to travel? To tell everyone that the war is over?"

  "Sure." He swirled his glass of moonshine and took a swig. "I also remember that Raina thought it was a bad idea. Unwanted attention for the Dunemarket and all that."

  "She's changed her mind. She's given me permission."

  He squinted, tilting back his head. "And now you're here to seek mine?"

  "This needs to be done. And I'm the best one to do it. If you have any objections, I'm here to hear them."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "Months. I'll go through the South through the winter, then up the East Coast. I'll make my way back across the Midwest during the summer."

  "That would be the smart way to do it." Mauser arrested his cup halfway to his mouth. "Hang on a minute, Rolling Stone. I know how this story goes. You're going to get out there on the road, telling your stories, singing your songs. Then, somewhere in Topeka or Galveston, you're going to meet some hot young thing with a granite chin and train-track abs. And I'll never see you again."

  "That won't happen. Because you're going to come with me."

  "Am I?"

  "Sure." She gestured to the east. "While I'm tomming, you can write that book you're always talking about. The one about the meaning of the Dovon arrival—and our response to it."

  He took a drink, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. "That would be a good time for it. But answer me this. Do you still miss him?"

  "Miss who?"

  "Raymond. The last time you were out there, it was to search for him. What are you hunting for this time?"

  Her mouth twitched, almost smiling. He was a bit of a lush, and too good by half at rationalizing, but Mauser was quite possibly the smartest man she'd ever known. "Myself."

  "I think you're right here." He reached for her hand. "But if this is what you need, then I'll be there with you."

  Once Raina sobered up, she insisted on sending the two of them with a guard. Bryson volunteered, as did Shana, one of the knife-girls who'd grown up in Raina's long shadow. Mia resented the extra company, but two days later, as they struck out from San Pedro on the long, blank roads beyond, she couldn't deny the comfort of two experienced warriors by her side.

  There wasn't much out there. As they crossed the sand and sage of the Southwest, her audiences were often no more than a married couple, who listened to her stories and then directed her toward shelter for the night. Sometimes, though, whole villages turned up to hear her tales. No matter how long she talked about the Dovon and the battle against them, the faces in the audience were as rapt as if she were bringing them a new Bible.

  As soon as she stopped each night, the crowd exhaled together, leaning back, anxieties forgotten. It didn't last long, of course. Most times, as the audience filed out, they were already talking about tomorrow's troubles.

  But she was on the road again. And she loved it.

  * * *

  As always, as dusk appeared, and the flies came out, the fish rippling the surface of the Lower Saranac, Ellie put her pack on her back, her rifle on her shoulder, and walked down the southern road.

  As always, she felt slightly foolish. There hadn't been any trouble in the lake district in nearly two years. Anyway, nothing more serious than the occasional squabble between neighbors. For most people, the kidnappings, gangs, and violence of the city felt like ancient history. By all appearances, they were right.

  Then again, if not for her resistance and that of people like her, they might all be in labor camps in Central Park.

  She moved beneath the trees, glancing behind her to make sure Dee wasn't on her way to the house. If Ellie was caught, she had plenty of excuses at the ready—she wasn't getting any younger, and needed her exercise; she thought she'd heard a bear; it was the perfect summer evening for a stroll—but she knew that, even after everything, her daughter still thought she was paranoid.

  Maybe she was. But her paranoia had kept them alive.

  The upstate air was starting to get humid. She soon grew sweaty enough to stop, peel off her jacket, and stuff it in her pack. She moved on, her footsteps on the cracking asphalt accompanied by the crickets and nothing else. After a lifetime split between New York and D.C., she was still in awe of the silence of the forest.

  Leaves crackled down the road. She stepped onto the shoulder and got behind a tree, unslinging her rifle. Four of them. Bicycles. She put her rifle to her shoulder. "Stop right there."

  Bike tires squeaked to a halt. One of the men drew a rifle, peering into the darkness. A young woman—she looked to be Dee's age—nocked an arrow to a bow.

  A man in his thirties strolled forward, hands held high. His dark hair hung past his ears like a rock singer or one of the heroes of the fantasy novels Chip had used to read.

  "We mean you no harm," he called. "If you wish, we'll turn back. But if you'll hear us out, we've got a story that might just change your life."

  Ellie stuck close to the tree, smelling the bark, the damp of its leaves. "Who are you?"

  "My name's Mauser. We're from Los Angeles."

  "You're a long way from home."

  His laughter hung in the air. "Tell me about it. And given the humidity on this side of the country, I'll never leave home again. As long as we're here, though, you might want to hear that the aliens are gone for good. Every last one of them."

  Ellie removed her finger from the trigger, but kept her eye to the scope. The man used a lot of words. Words were more often used to lie than to do any good. Four on one. Not great odds. But she knew—and so did the handful of rangers she'd trained—that the only way to keep the peace was to head off threats the instant they reared their heads. That was what it meant to be on the front lines. Safety was kept through the promise of blood.

  "Put away your weapons," she said. "Then we can talk."

  To her mild surprise and greater relief, they followed her orders. And when they told her what had happened out west, she knew, at last, that her years of vigil had been worth it.

  * * *

  Randy did his best to close the screen door without letting it slam, but Lowell had made a point of not oiling the hinges. Even if he hadn't been awake, their squeal would have yanked him out of sleep.

  No point torturing the kid. He extracted himself from his leather recliner and walked toward the front door, where Randy was taking off his shoes so he wouldn't creak the boards walking to his room.

  In the dark house, Lowell leaned against the hallway wall. "Where have you been?"

  Randy j
erked up his head. He dabbed the sweat of summer from the back of his neck. "Out. With some friends."

  Lowell chuckled a bit. "Despite appearances, I'm not your dad. If it was a girl, say it was a girl."

  "Okay. It was Sarah."

  "And how's Sarah?"

  Randy hopped on one foot as he tugged off his sock. "She's fine."

  "You don't sound like it."

  The boy extracted his sock, dropped it in a wrinkled heap, and looked up, eyes guarded. "I like her. Okay? But I don't know if she likes me."

  Lowell reached for a stick of gum he knew wasn't there. Girl problems. Hell of a thing. It had been a year and a half since the aliens had left. There had been no more wars. No fights between tribes. No more tactics and strategies. No more sussing out what the enemy was up to before the enemy knew it for themselves. It was almost boring. But there were silver linings. Like that he no longer had to bear the guilt of such decisions.

  At the same time, that meant it had been a year and a half since he'd truly felt useful.

  "Could be she likes you," he said. "And could be she doesn't."

  Randy stuck out his jaw. "I suppose you're about to say that the only way to find out is to ask her."

  "She'll respect you more if you do."

  "Will she?"

  "You feel bad because you're too scared to ask. If you want to be the kind of person she wants to be with? You'll need to have the balls to take your chance."

  Randy stared at him, then laughed. "You're right. You're not my dad."

  Lowell blinked, refusing to let the sting show on his face. "Oh?"

  "Nope. My dad would have called me a pussy. And I would have believed him."

  Lowell's face twitched. Not a grimace. A smile. Sure, the wars might be over. But maybe he was still useful after all.