Future Americas

by John Helfers

  DJ handed him an oar. ‘‘ Go in quiet?’’

  ‘‘Might as well,’’ said Xia

  They drifted out of the shadow of a parking garage and the sun came out bright and beautiful, illuminating Santa Monica’s bleached concrete bones. Xia glanced over the boat’s side. The green water was glass; he could see fire hydrants and stop signs, empty dumpsters and rusting manhole covers.

  A round stingray gliding over the zebra stripes of a crosswalk.

  ‘‘Whatever it is,’’ said DJ, ‘‘it’s got to be dangerous.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Xia, and then he dipped his oar into the water, spawning ripples that obscured the world beneath.

  The first thing Senator Callie Cook noticed when she woke was that she had a skull-splitting headache, like someone had detonated a high-yield nuclear device in her sinus cavity.

  The second thing she noticed was that she was naked.

  She was lying on a cold steel table, a sheet draped over her body. She sat up quickly, carefully clutching the sheet.

  Where the hell am I?

  She heard an intermittent buzzing, like someone’s alarm clock going off, muffled and distant.

  The room was big, its fixtures empty of fluorescent bulbs. Sunshine filtering through a picture window on the other side of the room provided the only light. The room was painted flat white, and, except for the table that was freezing her bottom, absolutely empty.

  So, no sign of her clothes.

  There was, however, a door.

  And wasn’t that just great? The first paparazzo through that door was once and for all going to put an end to the nasty rumors about her natural hair color.

  Not that she was ashamed of her body. She spent an hour a day on the Stairmaster, and she looked pretty good for 43. She’d put herself up against any woman five years her junior.

  On a good day, ten.

  But a photo of her naked self splashed across the tabloids would undoubtedly cost her fifteen points in the Midwest. (Though she certainly would make inroads with male voters, 18 to 34.)

  She shook her head. No. This was one time she definitely couldn’t afford the exposure.

  And where was the Secret Service, by the way? Bill Mercer had better hope she hadn’t been kidnapped, because if she had, her campaign was going to go up with thirty-second spots in twenty states. Let him explain how the Secret Service had lost track of a presidential candidate on his watch. A clever smile tightened her pretty face. Yes, that had real possibilities.

  She hopped off the table and wrapped the sheet securely around herself. Either way, it was time to go.

  Just then the door flew open.

  Two men burst into the room, weapons drawn. One of them was Asian, big and athletic, good looking in an obvious sort of way, wearing a dark, off-the-rack suit that screamed G-man. The other man was African American and dressed like a male model.

  ‘‘Federal Agents,’’ shouted the hunk.

  ‘‘Really, it’s about time,’’ said Callie, placing a hand on her hip and arching one delicate blonde eyebrow.

  ‘‘My God,’’ he breathed.

  ‘‘What is it, Xia?’’ asked the other man.

  ‘‘Don’t you know who this is?’’ said the first man (Shaw?) incredulously. ‘‘You should’ve paid more attention in history.’’

  History! Cook thought indignantly.

  He turned to stare at her. ‘‘This is Callie Cook.’’

  ‘‘Who did you think it was going to be?’’ snapped Cook.

  ‘‘That’s impossible,’’ said the dapper agent. ‘‘Didn’t she disappear back in the Thirties?’’

  ‘‘Back,’’ echoed Cook, ‘‘in the Thirties?’’

  ‘‘No wonder they wanted media,’’ breathed the hunk.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ snapped Cook. ‘‘Do you two geniuses think you can tell me what’s going on? And can you turn off that buzzing? My head is killing me.’’

  The two men exchanged startled looks.

  ‘‘Sounds like a countdown,’’ said Hunk.

  ‘‘Think someone might have a backup plan in case we shut down their media?’’ Dapper asked.

  Hunk jerked his arm up and fired at the window, the roar of his gun mingling with the music of breaking glass.

  Then he was running.

  He hit her like a middle linebacker, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. So she didn’t notice he’d picked her up until they were through the window, plummeting toward green water impossibly far below, her scream lingering in the air until it was drowned out by the voice of God and the world was suddenly filled with molten orange fire and concrete rain.

  In the end, the explosion worked for them, soaking up all the bandwidth the newsies, the carrion net-shows, and the xtreme sports channels could throw at it. Which meant no one had time to notice two FBI agents smuggling a dazed woman out of Santa Monica.

  Xia could’ve shut the media down, but this was so much better. The chattering classes were like children. Tell them ‘‘no,’’ and they’d want to know the secret just that much more. This way they thought they already had the story.

  The senator needed medical attention. Hell, she needed clothes. Xia commandeered a supply tent in the command post the LA Field Office had set up in a small park just off the waterfront so Cook could have a little privacy. He had a Doc-in-a-Box checking her over and a female agent fetching some clothes.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait.

  ‘‘Can it really be her?’’ asked DJ in a low voice. It seemed to be his day to ask pointless questions.

  Xia frowned. ‘‘No. It’s impossible.’’

  ‘‘You’re right,’’ said DJ. And then, ‘‘But what if it is?’’

  That thought scared Xia. What if it is?

  For fifty years people had wondered why the woman who was going to be the next president of the United States had disappeared in the middle of the 2032 campaign. Now, suddenly, she was back, no older than the day she disappeared.

  The answer to the greatest disappearance since Amelia Earhart had just dropped in his lap.

  As answers went, it wasn’t very satisfying.

  ‘‘Why would the terrorists want her here?’’ asked Xia.

  ‘‘Well, she’ll attract a firestorm of media,’’ said DJ.

  ‘‘Maybe they expect her to speak out on a certain issue.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, but what? And how’d they know where to find her?’’

  ‘‘Maybe they took her in the first place,’’ said DJ.

  ‘‘Fifty years ago?’’ Xia shook his head. ‘‘Half the terrorist groups weren’t around five years ago.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ admitted DJ.

  ‘‘I don’t know either,’’ said Xia. ‘‘But until we figure it out, we keep her under wraps. Somehow, she’s the key.’’

  ‘‘Hey,’’ said DJ, ‘‘you know who might have the answer?’’

  Xia’s stomach constricted. ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Grace,’’ DJ said enthusiastically.

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know what you have against her,’’ said DJ.

  ‘‘Absolutely not,�
�€™â€™ said Xia.

  ‘‘Because she’s sure sweet on you.’’ DJ flashed him a wicked grin.

  Somehow the stolid Xia had managed to figure out she needed to relax after her sudden explosive entry into the year 2083, so he stuck her in a small, dark tent and loosed a skittering horror.

  Yeah, real relaxing.

  The horror was a spider-thing the size of a man’s fist. It crawled across her skin, measuring, checking, and injecting, which felt just like a real spider bite.

  Cook shuddered.

  She could hear two agents talking outside. She didn’t know what to think of them. Xia had saved her life, which was a point in his favor, but then he’d left her in the care of the spider-thing, so that pretty much brought him back to even.

  She heard a grunting sound, and a man with a tent stake in his right hand rolled under the bottom of the tent. He wore a dark blue jacket over a light blue shirt, a dark blue ball cap pulled down over his face. He looked like an EMT, which explained his presence, if not his unorthodox method of entry.

  ‘‘Madam Senator Cook,’’ he said.

  He had the kind of voice that promised an instant cure for insomnia. Any young child asked to draw him would’ve depicted his face as a circle with glasses without robbing the real face of any of its subtlety. Cook supposed she should be afraid of this strange man who stood in her tent with a stake in his hand, but looking at him, she just couldn’t manage it.

  ‘‘You’re not an EMT, are you?’’ she said.

  ‘‘Don’t trust Xia and Jackson,’’ he said. ‘‘I know they’re FBI, but they’re not your FBI.’’

  ‘‘Who are you?’’

  ‘‘In fact, I recommend you don’t take sides on any issue until you understand this world better.’’

  Cook was beginning to wonder if the man could even hear her. ‘‘Look—’’

  ‘‘You’re wondering what you’re doing fifty years in the future.’’ He had an accent, but she couldn’t quite place it. Wisconsin? No. More like Minnesota.

  No, that wasn’t right either.

  The man flashed her a bland smile. ‘‘You can thank Gregory Tamerind.’’

  ‘‘The software mogul?’’ Cook couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice.

  ‘‘I have it on good authority that he kidnapped you and froze you like a popsicle.’’

  ‘‘And you work for him?’’

  The man laughed softly. ‘‘No one works for him. Gregory Tamerind died three years ago—which is why all his treasures suddenly found their way to the free market.’’

  ‘‘So you’re actually telling me that Gregory Tamerind, the richest man in the history of humanity, put together a museum of the bizarre and I was the star attraction?’’

  ‘‘Is it so surprising he’d want the most astonishing American politician since Lincoln?’’

  Cook opened her mouth and then closed it again. She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d always been sure of herself. But Lincoln?

  ‘‘Come on, after all you accomplished, you never thought of yourself that way?’’ The man chuckled. ‘‘Oh, you’re going to be perfect.’’

  ‘‘What do you want with me?’’ Cook snapped.

  But the man just smiled blandly and left the same way he’d come in.

  It was the flag that finally convinced her. Even more than the abomination the agents called an oracle or the creepy spider-thing, it was the flag that convinced her she’d somehow arrived fifty years in the future.

  After she’d been examined and had a chance to dress, they took her to the Roybal Federal Building on Temple. Outside, there was a flagpole.

  She heard the crisp snap of the flag in the wind and looked up and there it was, Old Glory. The red, white, and blue. It almost seemed to glow in the sun. She felt a sudden rush of warmth. If that was the flag, then this was still America. Still home.

  And then she realized something was wrong. What was it?

  Same red and white stripes, same blue field, same—

  It was the stars. There were fifty-four stars. She counted.

  Six times.

  Fifty-four.

  She pointed at the flag. ‘‘What are the other two?’’ Xia frowned. ‘‘I’m sorry?’’

  ‘‘Two of the new states must be Columbia and Puerto Rico. What are the other two?’’

  ‘‘Oh. No.’’ Xia shook his head. ‘‘Puerto Rico declared independence in 2043. And Washington . . .’’ His voice trailed off, heavy with grief.

  Cook’s stomach lurched. ‘‘Then . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Oh, ah, BC, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and Alberta. After Quebec seceded and it looked like Canada was going to fall apart, the western provinces petitioned to be admitted to the U.S.’’

  And that’s when Cook understood she’d been transported to an alien world, a world invisible from her native land.

  Her knees buckled, but Xia caught her before she went down.

  When she came to, Xia was staring down at her, a look of concern on his handsome face. His eyes were a pretty gray-green.

  ‘‘I’m okay,’’ Cook croaked.

  He helped her sit up. ‘‘You sure?’’

  ‘‘Water,’’ she croaked. ‘‘Could I have some water?’’

  ‘‘We can get you milk,’’ said DJ. ‘‘Or orange juice.’’ He paused. ‘‘Vodka?’’

  ‘‘Water’s fine,’’ said Cook.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ said DJ. ‘‘I can’t—’’

  ‘‘Water’s expensive,’’ said Xia, studying her closely.

  Cook sighed. ‘‘Tell me. I promise I won’t faint.’’

  Xia drew a deep breath. ‘‘Climate change means less average rainfall, coastal marshes are wiped out by the rising sea, increased evaporation leads to—’’

  ‘‘Less water,’’ said DJ.

  Xia nodded. ‘‘We value water like people of your time valued gold.’’ He paused. ‘‘Or reality shows.’’

  ‘‘And the Canucks just cut our access to the northern ice,’’ said DJ bitterly.

  ‘‘So we can’t afford to get you a glass of water,’’ said Xia. ‘‘Not on a federal salary. But if you’d like—’’

  ‘‘Vodka,’’ said Cook. ‘‘I’ll take the vodka.’’

  ‘‘Not a bad choice,’’ said DJ, ‘‘seeing as how we’re going to see an oracle.’’

  ‘‘Maybe I’ll have one, too,’’ muttered Xia.

  In his fourteen years with the FBI, Xia had seen many strange and unsettling things, but there was nothing he hated more than consulting an oracle.

  And this one was worse than most.

  Which was why Xia was very careful to look anywhere but at the thing in the chair.

  He listened to the dull rattle of the respirator, smelled the curious mix of menthol and ammonia and PVC, watched the blinking lights on the matte-black servers stacked in neat columns around the room like replicas of Stonehenge.

  Anything to avoid looking at her.

  â�
�˜â€˜It all matches: DNA, prints, retinas, anthropometrics,’’ said the voxbox in a sweet voice with just enough smoke in it to make it sexy as hell.

  Xia shivered.

  ‘‘So this is the real Callie Cook?’’ said DJ.

  ‘‘Of course I’m the real Callie Cook,’’ said Callie Cook.

  ‘‘It’s a distinct possibility,’’ said the oracle.

  ‘‘You don’t remember your disappearance in 2032?’’ asked Xia, carefully studying the texture of the paint on the wall.

  ‘‘No,’’ said Cook. ‘‘One minute I’m on a five-state swing through New England and the next I wake up in LA.’’

  ‘‘The Greater LA Reconstruction District,’’ corrected DJ gently.

  Xia frowned. There was something in Cook’s voice. Was she hiding something?

  ‘‘The med scan did show signs of cryogenic preservation,’’ intoned the oracle.

  ‘‘We can’t figure out how terrorists expect to use her,’’ said DJ. ‘‘Can you help us, Grace?’’

  ‘‘Maybe if Jason asks real nice,’’ she said. My God, Xia thought, was that a note of playfulness in her voice?

  Without meaning to, Xia looked at the thing in the chair.

  Most oracles paid their maintenance staff to surround them with human touches—potted plants, throw rugs, family pix—all to make their clients comfortable. Some of the higher functioning oracles could even unplug and pass for human standard.

  Not Grace.

  Grace (no last name, of course—Grace was a rock star) lay in a reclining chair that attended to all her body’s complicated needs, her eyes replaced by silver orbs of beryllium to emphasize her blindness, a tangle of black-insulated fibers snaking out of the back of her head.