Horizon (03)

by Sophie Littlefield

  “Only Charlie—he surprised me. He may have been the only guy I ever worked with who wasn’t a coward. He just wanted to think everything to death. How he got that far in the military I’ll never understand, because old Charlie’s response to everything was to commission studies and conduct interviews and draft plans. And he didn’t really have a taste for power, either. His heart wasn’t in it. At first he went along with what I told him to do because he was worried about his job. But as the country fell apart and we started hearing from the top brass less and less, he began to push back. He didn’t want to act, he wanted to wait. ‘Let’s see what the outlook is in six weeks,’ he’d say. ‘Let’s not respond out of panic,’ that was one of his favorites. Made me fucking nuts.

  “I guess by then I figured this was the last big job I’d have until things sorted themselves out. It might sound funny but I wasn’t too worried about my own future. I had my place in the mountains, it was well stocked because we were always having power outages up there anyway. Nobody really believed this was the end of the world back then, more like a hell of an inconvenience that might wipe out the underclass and decimate a few island nations no one had ever heard of.

  “So one day we get this order. The K734IV order, the one that went to all the bases around the country. By then I was reading Charlie’s mail before he did, confidential and otherwise. There’s about three hundred pages of scientific crap about the plant, but all we were concerned about was the flight schedule and maps. It’s a direct order, there’s no decision to be made.

  “Except that the order has an attachment for bases in California only. Says how down in UC-Colima, they’ve developed this second strain that appears to boost immunity. They’re making it available on an optional basis, recommending a seed mix that includes two percent of this strain, which has some long name with initials and numbers, just like kaysev did back then. There wasn’t time to get approval in any other state. And on the back page there’s a test schedule and you can see they haven’t done even a quarter of the tests, and the results of the ones they have are either blacked out or marked ‘inconclusive.’

  “So Charlie, he gets on the phone with the other guys, in Beale and Edwards and so forth. He wants to know what they’re thinking of doing. Now this is exactly the sort of behavior we’ve been working on for a month now, how he’s going to be accountable, immediate and decisive. A-I-D, that was his acronym, and I made him repeat it every morning when we started the workday. So when I hear him dicking around, should we do this, should we do that, I pretty much lose my shit. ‘This is where you take charge,’ I tell him. ‘This is where you come out strong, make a name for yourself.’ I ask him if he wants to go back to driving a desk in a cubicle when this is all over, or if he wants to be remembered as the guy who saved California’s ass—at least, a few more asses in his region than elsewhere.

  “And still he fights me. There wasn’t enough testing, the results are inconclusive, the blacked-out data is troubling, blah blah blah. I’m ready to deck the guy myself. We’ve got a 4:00 p.m. deadline to make the decision, and by three o’clock all the other bases have checked in as no. They all lack the balls—at least, that’s the way I see it, that’s what I tell Charlie. I lock the door to his office and I start screaming at him. I can feel this vein in my forehead standing out, I’m giving it everything I’ve got, everything in the Edward Schaffer bag ’o tricks, calling him names, questioning his manhood, and he just sits there staring at me, shaking his head. Finally, when I have to stop for breath, he says to me in this calm, tired voice, ‘Ed, the only way that call’s getting made is if you do it yourself.’

  “He didn’t mean it, of course, he never believed I’d do it. And, Cass, I’ve thought about it a thousand times and I didn’t ever think I’d do it either. I was giving him one last chance—that’s what I really believe—and I just wanted him to act, he could have punched me in the face and that would have been better than him sitting there with his dick in his hands waiting for the apocalypse and letting the inmates run the prison.

  “So I pick up his phone and all the time I’m thinking he’ll stop me, and then I’m dialing and we’re staring at each other, neither one of us blinking, and the guy comes on the line and I say, ‘Benson here,’ and he says, ‘Yes, sir,’ and still I’m waiting, I give it an extra-long pause and the guy on the other line is like, ‘Sir, sir, are you there?’ and Charlie, he does something that— He gets out of his chair and he goes to the window and he turns his back on me. He turns his fucking back on me, and I tell you Cass, every cell in my body turned into the bully I’d failed to make him into and I remember thinking I’d show him, I’d show him what it means to lead, and I gave the order.”

  Smoke was perspiring as he came to the end of the story. “After that I went home. It was the last time I ever saw Charlie, actually. After—later—I tried to find him. But you know what happened to the base and…well, I didn’t try all that hard. After a week or so it didn’t matter anyway. And by the time I realized what I’d done…”

  Cass listened, horrified, as Smoke’s voice trailed away.

  This was it. The thing Smoke had done for which he could never forgive himself, the sin that he would spend his whole life atoning for, putting ahead of everything and everyone else—including Cass.

  And she knew how he saw it: Smoke believed he had single-handedly unleashed the Beaters. If he hadn’t made the call…if the mixed seed had never been loaded into the planes alongside the otherwise fine kaysev seed…if the first blueleaf had never sprouted…

  “But you can’t believe it’s all your fault.” The words burst from her before she had a chance to think. “There were a thousand parts to play in what happened. The people who developed it, who were supposed to test it, Charlie’s commander…”

  But she realized that Smoke wasn’t really listening. He was looking off into space, reviewing the story that would never leave him.

  She wanted to make him see, to shake him, scream at him, until he finally gave up his steadfast determination to suffer. But Smoke wouldn’t even listen.

  Anger bubbled below the surface of Cass’s sorrow. It was a terrible waste, throwing his life away like this, over something he could not change, a mistake he never intended.

  But what was worse—he’d thrown away more than his life. He’d discarded their love the day he left the Box, abandoned it as though it was worthless. It was no wonder, Cass realized, that she’d felt so hurt. Because even though his error had terrible consequences, even though it had changed him irrevocably, it still was not enough. Not enough to trade her for. Not enough to have made her feel so small, so hurt—to have driven her into the arms of another man.

  But no. That was wrong. She would not blame Smoke for that. When she went to Dor, she went willingly, and when she loved him, she loved him fiercely.

  Cass held Smoke’s hand for a while longer, considering and eventually abandoning her anger, forgiving a man who did not seek her forgiveness. Finally it was time to leave the darkening little room. By then Cass finally understood why Smoke had to leave her back in the Box, why he would always have to leave her for one justice quest after another. He could never fully give himself to her, because he’d already given himself over to the job of punishing himself, forever, one agonizing day at a time.

  Chapter 45

  TWO MORNINGS LATER, she was the last to linger at the foot of the trail, watching the small party ride up the incline through the binoculars she’d borrowed from Bart. Bart had stayed back to tend to one of the horses who had picked up something in his hoof and been favoring it all day; he was worried that a trip to the settlement and back would be too much for the horse. Besides, three men were more than enough to do the reconnaissance.

  There were only two possible outcomes. The first was that the settlement party had reached Salt Point, and were now in some state of construction. The first wave would probably not be thrilled to see them, but the new council had put a lot of effort into how to present
their case, and even Cass had to admit that it was a compelling one, focusing more on the skills and resources they brought, and less on the challenges they presented. Though no one voiced the thought out loud, they’d lost their weakest members; they would not have to beg passage for their elderly or injured.

  The other possibility nagged at her no matter how she tried to force it from her mind—that no one waited for them at Salt Point, that there was nothing there besides beautiful scenery and spring snows, a plot of land perfect for a well-supplied, well-rested party with the luxury of a plan and the means to implement it. But the Edenites had come with only what they could carry, enough food for another week. They had children and old people; they were demoralized by loss and lacking clear leadership. Cass was certain that, if nothing waited for them but bare land, they would lose more people before the summer came.

  Still, the little advance team seemed to lift everyone’s spirits as they took off at a brisk pace up the mountain. Dor and Smoke had become competent riders. Bart had been training them for the past week, after they determined that Smoke and Dor and Nadir would ride ahead. Smoke had lingering stiffness in his hip and leg, and getting in the saddle presented a challenge, but by the third day he had mastered the move. Dor tended to impatience with the animals, but once he started riding Rocket, who had been Mayhew’s mount, it went more easily; Rocket was as stubborn and headstrong as Dor himself.

  Nadir was the key to the group’s cohesiveness. Smoke and Dor spoke mostly to—and through—him; Cass didn’t miss the way the men avoided each other. If one walked by, the other would step out of the way, or pretend to be engaged in some small task. The few words they exchanged were brief and barbed.

  It made Cass melancholy to remember their old friendship in the Box. True, Dor had been Smoke’s employer, but they’d worked as partners from the start. They talked for hours, trained together most mornings, fought and worked side by side. Now, after so much had passed, she finally knew the secret Smoke had confided in Dor, and forgiven him for choosing to share it with him instead of her. Dor had never told anyone about the thing Smoke had done, and she understood that the secret would stay with the three of them and someday die with them.

  At first she’d thought that the secret should be enough to bind them all, its terrible weight a burden they could only bear together. But now she understood that loving her had driven the two men apart. They were both proud men, both passionate, loath to compromise. Now that she’d separated herself from them both, she saw the way they drove themselves harder than ever. Smoke’s regimen of healing left him spent and exhausted each night, but he didn’t rest until he’d done a full share of work. Dor often seemed to be everywhere at once, consulting with the new council, helping anyone who asked, and throwing himself into the manual labor of breaking camp, splitting wood, hauling water, anything to burn off his endless supply of glowering humorless energy.

  Paradoxically he seemed more and more at home, the farther they traveled from civilization. This was an inhospitable part of the country, far from any mountain pass or even an improved road. Dor was undaunted by the lack of commerce, power lines, any evidence of community. They’d been following the map the Easterners had laid out and found this final camp exactly where it had been marked, eight miles down mountain from Salt Point on what had been an old stagecoach road many years ago and in recent decades had served only the most intrepid sportsmen: cross-country skiers, backpackers and fishermen.

  On the map the camp was not named, but a note scrawled in the margin read, “5 cabins, well water, no elec.” There was no sign of a well anywhere and only three cabins remained standing, one reinforced sometime in the last decade with repairs to the board siding and a new handrail, the other two in sorry shape. Elsewhere the remains of other cabins were stacked haphazardly. On the positive side, there was no evidence of Beaters anywhere in the camp. Cass, who had been on the lookout for the whole journey, had not seen a single blue leaf in at least a week. Perhaps it was true, that it could not tolerate the harsh winters of the north.

  Best of all, neatly parked in a row at one end of the camp were three empty flatbed trucks, and the trail leading up the mountain was deeply rutted. The logical conclusion was that the first wave had arrived and used a compact tractor to take load after load of supplies up the trail.

  Last night they’d built a celebratory bonfire from discarded lumber and kept it going all night, and since there was no threat of precipitation, almost everyone slept on the ground near the fire. Volunteers took turns feeding boards into the flames, an extravagance they’d think twice about if anyone expected to be here more than a single night.

  In the morning there was an atmosphere of subdued cheer—of hope. People stirred from their fireside pallets, pushed themselves up on elbows, sat up in tangles of blankets. The wood was damp, the fire smoky, but people leaned in close nonetheless, warming their hands. They pushed back their hoods and combed disheveled hair with their fingers and looked at the sky, gasping at the beauty of the mountain face illuminated with the rising sun. There were murmured good-mornings, gentle inquiries as to how the night had passed.

  For breakfast there was fresh-caught fish, as much as anyone cared to eat, grilled over the fire. The teens took over the serving and cleanup duties, unasked; a couple of the boys tossed a tennis ball with the little kids.

  Not everyone was holding up well. A handful of Edenites sat apart, morose and uncommunicative. The circles under some of the older folks’ eyes had deepened, and they weren’t eating. Post-traumatic stress, Cass figured, but there was little she could do for it now. She brought food to Ingrid, took her turn holding Rosie. Across the clearing, Valerie glared at her while she helped with the horse; Cass turned away.

  Dor, Smoke and Nadir were surrounded by well-wishers when they took their leave, a spirit of cautious optimism pervading the group. Cass stood near the back and watched Dor hug Sammi, and then search her out in the group. For a tense moment she felt both Dor and Smoke watching her, and she looked away, turning toward the path they’d climbed the day before, and focused on a hawk that soared lazily above the valley below.

  She waited until they were off, the ground reverberating with the horses’ hoofbeats, before she busied herself with cleaning up from the morning meal.

  Now, with Ruthie asleep on a cabin porch with Twyla after a long and unseasonably warm day of playing at the edges of the stream, and everyone else either fishing or napping or strolling, taking advantage of their first day of rest in weeks, Cass slipped away from the camp, following the trail where the men had ridden this morning. She wanted to be the first to see them return. She was still looking for clues and, having failed to find any in the mirror the night before, thought she might find them now. Two men had ridden away with Nadir this morning; both had loved her, but she wasn’t sure if her future lay with either of them. For several days she’d felt that the answer was tantalizingly close. Perhaps the feeling was nothing but the imminence of the journey’s end, but Cass thought it had to be something more.

  The horses had navigated the steep incline and thick forest growth well, but Cass had difficulty walking the rutted path. As she ascended the mountain, the air grew colder and thinner. Here and there, in the hollows of rotting stumps, in the loamy soil layered with leaves from seasons before, there were pockets of grimy snow, flecked with debris and slick from melting. Once or twice, Cass saw shoots poking through the snow, pale green fronds tipped with tight-rolled leaves, plants whose delicacy belied their hardiness. Cass wasn’t sure exactly what the plants were—checkerbloom, perhaps, that would soon grow tiny pink blossoms—but whatever they were, she counted their presence a hopeful omen.

  The notes said that after a couple of miles the path evened out, and crossed a broad plateau before arriving at the river gorge. Salt Point was on the other side, a heel-shaped promontory that had been carved by a bend in the river, when prehistoric waters rushing westward down the mountains met the volcanic rock face and turne
d south. Beyond, Mount Karuk rose sharply to the highest peak for many miles.

  There were two ways to the point, the longer of which took switchbacks up the eastern incline and featured steep drop-offs and a waterfall that made the path impassable later in the spring when the snowmelt was at its highest. The other was the bridge, built in the late eighties by the developer whose planned resort never materialized after cost overruns on the early development killed enthusiasm for the project among its backers.

  It took Cass an hour to ascend to the plateau, but it was worth the effort for the spectacular view alone. The path hugged a drop-off down to the roaring river, a few pines clinging valiantly to the earth at the edge above the sheer rock face. Hundreds of feet below, the water coursed over boulders rising from the bed of the river and formed deceptively placid pools here and there along the banks.

  But the falls that fed the river were even more astonishing. Droplets misted Cass’s face from all the way across the gorge; its roar was thunderous. Rainbows arced above, glittering against the blue of the sky, darkening the rocks with water. Birds dipped and soared, suspended far above the water, between the walls of the chasm, and it was dizzying to watch their aerial play.