He turned down a side hall, passed a pair of guards, and returned their brisk salute. He came to the elevator and pushed the button to go down to the basement lab where the President had been iced. It wasn't like the old girl hadn't asked for it. You can't expect to work against The Families for long without drawing fire. Especially not now. Word was that their timetable had been scrapped and that they were preparing for an all-out assault. The Grid must have changed everything. That and the Life's disappearance. They did not need a wild card like Linda Travis mucking things up at this point. Not when they were so close. She had to be replaced or controlled. That was where Project Changeling came in.
The elevator came to a stop and the door slid open. McAfee headed down the hallway to the left, thankful for how cool it was below-ground. He had never expected to see the fruition of The Families’ centuries-long project. He wasn't sure he fully understood what the fruition would be. And after Rice's failure and the sinking of D.C., he was not at all sure he'd be one of the chosen. But all bets were off now. Seems that Spud had forced their hand. Hence the Crash. Hence the Quietus. Hence the need to go online with Changeling, glitches and all. Maybe, just maybe, if he was smart, and if they pulled this charade off with no more mistakes, Aidan McAfee would get his ticket stamped after all.
The Colonel passed through the final checkpoint and swiped his wrist over the iDent reader to get into the viewing room. There lay the President, just as he'd left her a few days ago, her body encased in a glass container that sat on a black pedestal. The blinking lights and beeping monitors told him that all was as it should be, even though he didn't fully understand what any of them meant. Liquids still dripped into her chilled body through an IV in her arm. Soft blue lights still slowly scanned her naked body from head to toe. He did not know if she was still scheduled for destruction. That was not his concern. He just knew that she was still alive. That was his concern.
He yawned, noting that three hours of sleep was not enough, and promising to himself, yet again, to lay off the alcohol. He stepped to the touch-pad on the operator panel and took control of the camera. With the awkward, jerky movements of one who had only done this a few times, he flew the camera in for a close-up. After two attempts, he was able to fill the screen with her head. He adjusted the focus and whistled softly in wonder. Her mole really was on the left side.
3.5
"Hi, Sweet Pea," said Ness as she stepped into Mary's room. Mary rolled onto her back as Ness came to her bedside. Ness leaned over and gave Mary a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She looked around the room. "Where're the kids?" she asked.
"Hi, Ness," said Mary with a tired smile. "I haven't seen them." Her eyes felt crusty and dull. There must still be sedatives in her bloodstream. "Did you guys come to pick me up?"
"Sure did, love," said Ness, settling her tiny body into the chair at Mary's feet. "Just waiting on the A-Okay from the doc." Ness raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the door. "You sure the kids didn't come in?"
Mary frowned, an expression that highlighted the faint scar on her forehead. "I've been right here, Ness. They didn't come in." She pushed herself up onto her elbows and pulled herself around, propping her back on her pillow. She took a moment to smooth her hair, a short bob of dark brown that sometimes fell across her eyes. Something felt off. "Is Keeley here?" she asked.
Ness rose and went to the door, shaking her head. "She was here most of the night, hon," she said over her shoulder as she stepped into the hall to watch for the kids. She turned back to Mary. "She's home now getting some sleep."
"Any sign of 'em?" asked Mary. Her face had darkened to worry. The image of Iain falling appeared in her mind and then faded away to fog.
"I'm sure they're fine," said Ness, returning to her chair. "This place is locked down tighter than a Supermax. They're probably raiding the vending machines."
"There's nothing in the vending machines," said Mary. She reached over to grab the button that would buzz for the nurses. "I'm going to have... security... find them and bring them here," she said. These children were her responsibility.
Ness rose and walked to the door again. "They're probably right outside," she said, hopefully. The door swung inward before Ness could touch the handle. Ness took a step back. In walked the morning nurse and a soldier, a tall, blonde, black-skinned private with a piece of paper in his hand. A tag with the name "Curtis" was stitched above the left shirt pocket of his fatigues.
Private Curtis ignored Ness and walked to Mary's bedside. "Are you Mary Hayes, Ma'am?" he asked. "In charge of the President's children?"
Mary nodded. "I am."
"We have a problem," said Private Curtis. He handed her the paper.
Mary read the note, inhaled sharply, and read it again out loud. "Dear Mary. Alice has returned and is going to help us find Linda. She came in a wok and took us away in it so don't try to find us because we are long gone. And don't worry because we're fine. Alice will take care of us and you know Alice is good. Tell Ness we're sorry we had to ditch her. We'll be back as soon as we can. Iain, Emily, and Grace." Mary closed her eyes for a moment to take a deep breath, then looked up at the private. "You've already started a search?" she asked.
"They're the President's children," answered Curtis, his tone saying "of course." He glanced at Ness with a puffed-up expression of disdain, as if the military had already passed judgment on the woman who had allowed the children to "ditch her." He returned his attention to the President's Senior Advisor. "The perimeter has been locked down," he explained. "The CO says-"
From outside the hospital came the piercing whine of an ambulance siren. The morning nurse's pager beeped and she excused herself and hurried out the door. Private Curtis nodded respectfully to Mary and followed the nurse, stepping into the hallway to see what was going on.
There was a distant slamming of doors and a shout. Mary threw back her covers and rolled slowly to a sitting position. Feeling no dizziness, she slipped over the bed's edge to touch her feet to the ground. She stood up to grab her folded clothes from the corner table and then sat again to pull on her jeans.
"I'm sorry," said Ness, still standing near the door, shocked into immobility by the Private's glaring eyes. "I don't know-"
"Please don't take that on," said Mary as she pulled her silk blouse down over her head. She regarded Ness with understanding eyes. "It's not your fault and you know it." She reached down for her shoes and pulled them on.
"But I was supposed to be watching them."
Mary stood, walked over to Ness, and wrapped the tiny, older woman in her arms. "Our responsibility now is to find them," she said softly. "We don't have time to indulge our old wounds." With a quick kiss to Ness's cheek, she pulled away and headed toward the door.
Out in the hall, an orderly pushed a gurney through a set of double doors near the nurse's station. A small crowd of medical and emergency personnel followed along, calling out vital signs, opinions, and orders. On the gurney lay a middle-aged man in a business suit, heavyset and balding. His cheeks and forehead were flushed with pink. Through the crosstalk, Mary could just make out his soft mutterings. "My love," he said, his face calm and beatific. "Alas... alas."
3.6
The morning sun highlighted the many smaller rocks and boulders that littered the plain around her, casting dark, sharp shadows and igniting the rust-red sand and yellow dust to a dull glow. Were it not for the strange colors of both ground and sky, Linda would have thought herself lost in some desert on Earth. But this was Mars. The tiny sun and the strange moons confirmed that. Somehow, some secret group of humans on Earth had figured out a way to get here. The realization brought feelings of both helplessness and excitement. Once again, there was much more going on than she had ever imagined.
"I've no intention of leaving you here for the duration, Madam," said the Fisherman into Linda's left ear. "Not in this 'lobster tank,' as you call it."
Linda swept her head back and forth but saw no one. "You're back," she said warily, s
urprised and yet already tired of surprises. A night of fitful sleep had left her irritated and intolerant of games. He wanted something from her. Linda could feel it. If it were simply a matter of keeping her safe, he could have done that as easily on Earth as on Mars, couldn't he? The cost to bring her here must have been staggering. There was too much he was not telling her. "Can we get down to business now?"
The Fisherman chuckled softly. "To business," he repeated. "As if the establishment of relationship and trust were naught but distasteful appetizers to be choked down before the real meal begins." His voice moved from Linda's left ear to her right as he spoke. He was circling her. Stalking her.
"I want to know why I'm here," said the President. "I want to know how long I will be kept here. I want to go home to my family."
The Fisherman exhaled softly. Linda imagined that she could feel his breath on her neck. "And that would be our business, then?" he said. "You wish to have a plan? You want to know the end of this?"
"I want to go home," said Linda again, her voice tight and pitched with frustration and loneliness.
When he spoke again, the Fisherman's voice was at Linda's feet. "It is your longing, Madam President, which will fuel our work together. I am glad to see how powerful it is."
Linda closed her eyes and focused on her breath. In their own way, the bright, rusty landscape and yellow-pink sky were as confining as the dark, alien cell in which Agent Rice had kept her in Ottawa. The vast distances of desert on all sides and the lack of air were as effective as any walls could ever be. She was thoroughly trapped, held in control by this invisible man who calls himself the Fisherman. He had tugged on his line and reeled her in, just as he had threatened to do three years before. And now here she was, lying on the dock at his feet, gasping for air, and wishing desperately to flop back into the water of her life from which she'd been dragged.
Seeing no real choice but to accept her situation, Linda asked another question. "So what is our work together?"
The Fisherman paused for a full minute before responding. Linda opened her eyes and gazed out over the landscape. The sun had risen high enough to reveal some detail on the distant mesa that she had first noticed: a deep sunken area, and a rise in the center. She had a vague feeling of having seen this hill before, through the windows of a plane flying overhead. Perhaps she'd seen something similar from Air Force One. She'd certainly spent more than her fair share of time in the air.
The Fisherman cleared his throat and spoke into her left ear. His voice rose barely above a whisper. "The mass of humanity is destroying the planetary ecosystem, Madam. You already know this."
Linda sighed. "That seems to be the case," she agreed.
"What you may not know is that it is possible to dramatically decrease the number of humans on Earth quickly and painlessly. Such an action might allow some small portion of humanity to survive. And it may give the remaining lifeforms an opportunity to recover."
Linda inhaled sharply but did not speak.
"The choice to do so I put to you, Madam President," the Fisherman said. "It is my mission to prepare you for this task. When you are prepared, you will be returned to your home."
It seemed as though the sun itself darkened. Linda's heart pounded: furious, horrified, stunned. She remembered her friend, Obie, explaining the thinking of the Inuit group into whose care they'd fallen, and how they'd regarded her. In their opinion, he'd said, the survival or extinction of the entire human species rested on her shoulders. Linda had scoffed at the notion. How could any one person hold that much power, or shoulder such a burden? And yet here was this man, this Fisherman, with an offer of just that: a way to quickly depopulate the Earth.
Linda's voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. "Why have you put this decision on me?" she asked.
The Fisherman's playful grin was evident in his tone. "Well, that's just the thing, Madam President. You see, I can't trust my own judgment in the matter."
"And why is that?"
"Because I am not a human being," explained the Fisherman.
3.7
"We got nothing?" asked Stan, his face puffed and red under his graying shock of hair. He looked at the others assembled in his State House office: Cole Thomas, Capitol City Green Zone CO Colonel Francis Westwood, Deputy Chief of Staff Mike Portnoy, Press Secretary Stendahl Banks, and Vice President Albert Singer. Cole seemed calmer than Stan had expected, given the circumstances. There was a slack, vacant expression on the First Gentleman’s face.
"We've got nothing so far," agreed Mike Portnoy, wiping the sweat from his thick glasses. "Nothing on the security cameras. Nothing on infrared or radar sweeps. No sightings. No UFOs. No bodies. Nobody stepping forward to claim responsibility. We've got military, police, and FBI scouring the state. Nothing. They're just... gone."
"You scanned for their chips specifically, I assume."
"Of course. Again, nothing."
"No change to the Grid?" asked Stan, turning to Westwood.
"None that we can tell, Sir," said the Colonel.
"And there are no security cameras inside the hospital?"
Westwood squirmed a bit in his chair. "Interior coverage has been down for a few weeks, I'm sorry to report." He glanced at the Vice President before returning his attention to Stan. "Awaiting repairs."
"May I ask where Ms. Benedict is?" asked Singer, cutting in. "Surely she should be here." His warm, rich, grandfatherly voice and ruddy, square face - he had the air of a wise and good-hearted football coach - conveyed the impression that everything would turn out okay in the end.
Cole turned to Singer. "Keeley's not feeling well this morning, Mr. Vice President."
"And Secretary Lowell?" drawled Singer. "Any sign of the General since yesterday?"
"Still missing, sir," said Portnoy.
Albert Singer nodded and relaxed into his chair, as if satisfied that he'd added something important to the meeting.
Stan Walsh pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "So what the hell are the kids thinking?" he said. He looked at Cole. "I mean... do they just think they can hop aboard a space ship and land at the Squirrel Island facility? And did they somehow miss the part about the President's infectious disease?"
Stendahl Banks, trim and handsome and expensively dressed, leaned forward in his chair to intercept the question. "You have to remember, Stan, that these are intelligent, resourceful children." He glanced at Cole, who sat staring at his hands. He turned back to Stan Walsh. "They've seen things few others have. They've been inside one of the alien ships. And they lived with the human-alien hybrid, Alice, for some months, before she disappeared. We have no real idea of the aliens’ role in all of this: in the Grid, in the President's disease and confinement, or in the kids' disappearance."
Stan smirked and shook his head. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asked Banks. "Because it doesn't. Especially coming from you."
"It makes me feel better," murmured Portnoy, avoiding Stan’s gaze.
Stan Walsh turned to Portnoy with one raised eyebrow. "Really, Mike? Why is that?" He snapped the notebook on his desk shut and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.
Portnoy cocked his head and frowned. "Not sure," he said. "It's just... well, I mean, think of the past few years. Remember how screwed up things are out there, beyond this little compound of heavily armed peacefulness. Remember it's only March and it feels like August. In North Carolina! Remember last summer, the almost ice-free Arctic, and how little ice came back this past winter, and what we're seeing in Greenland right now. Remember the riots, the plagues, the famines. We've got the four horsemen breathing down our necks, gentlemen." He looked around the room at Cole, Singer, Walsh, and Banks, who were all listening carefully. "I, for one, hope to hell these whatever-the-heck-they-are aliens are involved in all of this. I don't think we can solve this stuff on our own." Portnoy stopped. His face reddened, as if embarrassed by his own speechifying.
Stan shook his head. "So you think they're here
to help," he said, his voice tinged with scorn. He pointed toward the sky. "Billions of tiny woks circle the planet and they just sit there while everything goes to hell down here and you think they're here to help." Stan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Portnoy opened his mouth to respond but then stopped.
Singer shifted in his chair to stare out the window.
Stendahl Banks shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. "I love those kids," he said, his voice low. "I think we all do. And I'm worried for their safety. But..." he gestured toward Portnoy with a vague wave of the hand, "I think I agree with Mike on this one. Whatever is going on here, if the kids are with Alice and the aliens, then I for one am going to hope that they are now playing some important role in a plan we cannot fully see or understand. I wish it wasn't so. They're... they're just kids, you know. But..." Banks stopped. Singer was pointing at Cole. Stendahl Banks turned.
There sat Cole Thomas in his armchair, his eyes closed, his face slack. His hands rested on his knees, palms up. From the center of his hands flared tiny bursts of light, like miniature fireworks or fountains of fire.
3.8
Mary's sobs wracked her curving spine and heaving chest as she struggled for breath, uncontrollable convulsions that felt like they might rip her to pieces. Here, in Keeley's arms, back in the safety of their own bedroom, she could let loose the pain that squeezed her heart. "I screwed up!" she shouted into Keeley's breast between sobs. "I screwed up. I screwed up. Oh Keeley, oh... oh... I screwed up so bad!"
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 8
