Alternities

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  He accepted the silent invitation and caressed the pleasantly full roundness there, traced the crease between the cheeks. He tried to tug the hem of the nightdress upward seeking bare skin, but the garment was held too firmly beneath her.

  Edging closer, he kissed a bare shoulder. His free arm snaked around her waist and found the buttons at the bodice. Patient fingers released one, two, three buttons, and then sought her right breast, cupping its softness, teasing the nipple to crinkly firmness. He hoped she was dreaming, hoped that she would awaken from pleasant fantasy to even more pleasant reality. She had once given him that experience, his mind soaring through trancelike erotic vignettes as her mouth and hands pleasured him.

  With her eyes still closed and a drugged slowness to her movements, she snuggled back against him until his erection was pressed flat against her buttocks, the nightdress still intervening between his skin and hers. He planted nibbling kisses along a line from her shoulder to her neck, gently blew a tangle of hair away, and continued the kisses up to her earlobe.

  A hint of a smile appeared on her lips, and she turned lazily onto her back, consciously or unconsciously allowing him freer access to her body. He seized the collar of the nightdress in his teeth and pulled it back, baring her right breast. His mouth sought her nipple. He nibbled it tantalizingly with his bared teeth, teased it with his dancing tongue.

  His hand moved down slowly across her belly until it rested lightly above the apex of her thighs. Fingers walked the fabric of the nightdress upward, upward, until the hem reached her hips, repealing her thighs and silken mound. He touched her there and her legs parted for him, her wetness betraying her desire. She made a happy cooing noise deep in her throat as his fingertips found the swollen bud of her clitoris.

  Then she seemed to come fully awake, and everything changed. She had been moving easily with his touch, creating an intimate rhythm together. Then she seemed to go rigid, not with pleasure but with resistance. She pushed his hand away and pulled him atop of her, guiding his hardness between her thighs and deep inside her.

  But her motive seemed not to be desire, but impatience. When she moved, there was something false about it, as though she were trying to hurry him to his orgasm. Half-asleep, she had been there with him, sharing, the distance between them zero. Awake, the chasm opened again. She was submitting to him, enduring rather than enjoying. He was doing to, instead of doing with.

  The change of tenor robbed Wallace of much of his own desire, though pride would not let him acknowledge it. He moved against her dutifully at first, then with increasing anger, as though anger could replace the urgency lost with the disappearance of passion. Fighting to maintain his erection, Wallace simplified his thoughts, chasing away demons of doubt, trying to call down the memories of other couplings, of fantasies yet untested.

  Suddenly there was a thump and a cry from beyond the bedroom door. “It’s Katie,” Ruthann said, pushing him roughly away and rolling out of bed. The nightdress fell back to its normal below-knee length as she moved toward the door. It seemed to Wallace an exclamation mark on her declaration of indifference, a visual denial that she had been locked in a sexual embrace with him.

  He waited, wondering if she would come back, wondering if he wanted her to. Experience had taught them to treat Katie’s interruptions as a game, a challenge to desire rather than an obstacle. They hid under the covers when she came uninvited into their bedroom, giggled together and started again when she was gone.

  But this was different. And before long, the sound of running water and dishes clanging in the kitchen sink made it clear she wasn’t coming back. Wallace decided in the moment of realization that he was glad. And as he showered, the good intentions of the morning, abraded by the frustrating encounter, hardened over into a callus.

  He saw what was happening. She accepted his caresses without answering them, absorbed the energy he focused on her without returning any of her own, and in doing so somehow managed to make him feel as though he were the one being unfair. More of it would only make him feel worse, not better.

  It would be up to her to initiate from now on; he would not volunteer for such treatment again.

  Washington, D.C., The Home Alternity

  Tackett wished Robinson had chosen another room. This was a meeting better suited to dark alleys, candle-lit catacombs, the back seats of black cars with tinted windows. The West Wing was too public, the Cabinet Room too proper. From above the fireplace mantelpiece, Thomas Jefferson stared down at them. At the other end of the room, American and presidential flags kept each other company.

  They had met here instead of the Oval Office because of the contents of his briefcase, because they would need the conference table’s several square yards of leatherette and fine wood. But the table was too large. There were fourteen places along its racetrack perimeter, fourteen leather-covered armchairs with brass plates on the back denoting their “owners.” The empty seats made Tackett pointedly aware of who was not there.

  The Vice-President was conspicuous by his absence. Tackett did not wonder at that; Jessie Barstow had been forced on Robinson by the party, and he had repaid the party by making Barstow an outsider, a smiling ribbon-cutter so far separated from the real power that not even Barstow himself could pretend he mattered.

  But there was no one from the congressional leadership, not even from Robinson’s own party. No one from NSA. No one from the Justice Department, not even the Attorney General. Only two of ten Cabinet members. Closely held indeed. Everyone would take their own notes today.

  The five men who were at the table constituted Alpha Prime. Robinson’s new inner circle. Endicott, the NRC’s diligent friend on the hill, there because he knew too much. O’Neill, who knew everything about the threat and nothing about the promise. The Secretary of State and the CIA director, both largely in the dark. And Rodman, Robinson’s loyal lieutenant, a brooding man who made a point of knowing everything.

  Five men, and two of them already on the inside.

  They had gathered at the far end of the table, ignoring the nameplates, oblivious to Jefferson’s stare. “Hello, gentlemen.” Robinson called out to them, angling for an empty chair. “Hope you all have your thinking caps on today.”

  While further pleasantries were exchanged, Tackett took a seat across the table from the President, pushing aside the ashtray and pad of paper to make room for his briefcase. By the time he ran the combination and checked the contents, Robinson was looking expectantly in his direction.

  “I’m ready whenever,” Tackett said.

  Robinson nodded. “Fine.” He shifted in his seat so that he faced the others. “I asked each of you here individually, without telling you who else would be here or why I wanted to see you. And now that you know the who, you may still be wondering about the why.

  “Well, if you look around this table, you’ll see the six men that I trust the most. Of all those who serve or claim to serve this country, you are the six men whose loyalty I know I need not question. And you are the men I’m counting on the most to help put things right, to restore this country to its proper place on the world stage.

  “I won’t give you a lecture in balance-of-power politics. I don’t need to. You know all the mistakes of the fifties, from the Korean sell-out to the surrender of Berlin. I want to focus on where we are now.”

  Robinson was rolling now, and Tackett had to smile to himself. Was there ever a President who worked an audience better, who mixed praise, patriotism, and old-fashioned town-hall persuasion with such irresistible effect? Watching it was like watching a master stage magician perform.

  “I don’t like saying it, but I’ve got to be honest. The Soviets have so little fear of us that their submarine commanders feel safe playing tag with freighters inside our territorial waters. No wonder that countries that once were our allies have so little confidence in us. It’s a miracle that Canada and Mexico have held as firm as they have.

  “We’re under siege, gentlemen, and the kids
now in high school can’t remember it ever being different. We saved the free world in the forties, and then turned our backs on it. A penny-pinching isolationist government—yes, a Republican one, more to our shame—and a public who just couldn’t see the point to American boys dying in Seoul or Manila. That’s what cost us the chance to shape a world to our liking.

  “It’s gotten a little better these last five years. We’ve made a difference. But not enough. My father was a plain speaker, and I know how he’d have said it: We’re still up shit creek. We’ve been there so long the color of the water’s starting to look good to us.

  “But by God, we’ve finally got us a paddle. And we didn’t have to break up the boat to make it.” He gestured toward Tackett. “You all know Albert. You know that the National Resource Center has been a big part of the recovery we’re seeing domestically. But most of you are still in the dark about what’s really going on up there in Boston, and just how much it means to us.

  “At least, I hope you are. Because what’s really going on up there makes the Manhattan Project look like… like a bunch of Boy Scouts building crystal radios.”

  His tone became less convivial. “You’re going to hear some things today that would be hard to credit if you heard them anywhere other than here or from anyone other than Albert and me. I expect you to deal with your doubts and get past them without a lot of hand-holding.”

  He looked hard into their eyes for confirmation of their understanding. Finding it, he turned to Tackett. “Albert?”

  Tackett nodded and leaned forward. “Santa and his elves,” he said with no trace of a smile. “I know that’s what you call us. The question is, where do the toys come from? I can guess what you think—that we’ve got a bunch of pampered geniuses up there turning out ideas as fast as hens lay eggs.”

  There were chuckles from Robinson and Endicott, and an uncertain smile on the face of Dennis Madison, the CIA director.

  “I hate to shatter illusions,” Tackett said. “But the truth is, we don’t make our toys. We steal them.”

  Ignoring the explosion of puzzled expressions, Tackett reached into the briefcase and retrieved an oversized hardback book with a familiar burgundy-colored binding. Keeping the spine turned away from the group, he reached out and dropped it in the middle of the table with a thump.

  “When I was a kid and I wanted to know something, I’d walk down to the little branch library above the five-and-dime and look it up in the Encyclopaedia Britannica,” Tackett continued, retrieving a sheaf of paper from his briefcase. “It represented absolute authority as far as I was concerned. I bought one for my kids years before they could read well enough to use it.”

  “I thought I was the only one who’d done that,” O’Neill said with a friendly smile.

  Tackett dealt them each a single piece of paper from the top of his stack. “That’s a copy of a page from the Chronology section of a 1976 Britannica yearbook, specifically November—”

  Secretary of State Ernest Clifton had been the first to receive the paper. As he scanned it, he abruptly started laughing.

  “Problem?”

  “What is this, Albert? ‘In the closest popular vote in American history, National party candidate Daniel Brandenburg narrowly defeated Republican incumbent Roland Maxwell,’ ” he read. “Shoot, even I wouldn’t vote for Rollie. But who the hell is Brandenburg?”

  Robinson sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “As the paper says, he’s President of the United States.”

  Grinning stupidly, the Secretary of State looked to Robinson. “You mean you’re not?”

  “Not where that book came from,” Robinson said quietly.

  Clifton’s grin widened momentarily, then collapsed as he took in Robinson’s meaning. “Look, there’s only one President of the United States—”

  “There are at least six,” Tackett said, “not including General Betts, a military dictator who sometimes claims the title.”

  The Secretary of State’s mouth worked as his thoughts spun. “Well, all right, sure, there’s probably a hundred people who think they’re President. Like they think they’re God or Napoleon. But there’s only one United States—”

  “There are at least seven,” Tackett said, “counting our own. There may be more.”

  Clifton had reached a point of total cognitive block. He blinked as though there were something in his eye, shook his head, and looked for help to the others.

  “I warned you,” Robinson said bemusedly.

  “You understand what he’s talking about?” Madison demanded of Robinson.

  Robinson nodded. “Yes.”

  The Secretary of State had found his voice. “Where exactly are these other United States supposed to be?”

  “I’m going to try to tell you,” Tackett said calmly. “Please, E.C., Dennis, everyone, relax. I know it’s hard, but sit on your questions for a little while. We’re not crazy. The truth is, the world’s a little crazy. We were just a little late discovering it.”

  The props helped. They always did. The Guard had learned that lesson early: Things were more real than words. You could bounce words off someone’s forehead for hours and still not put a dent in their denial. But give them something tangible to hold in their hands, and more often than not their self-assurance dissolved like sugar in hot water. And then you could talk to them.

  For the Secretary of State, it was the currency kit—three green Washingtons with slightly different designs and very different signatures, one green Eagle, one oversized red-white-and-blue sheet that looked more like a baby stock certificate than money, and a square silver coin the size of a quarter. All dated 1977, all with a face value of one dollar.

  He spread the samples out on the table in front of him, stared, rearranged them. He talked to himself, held the bills up to the light, grunted, frowned. He borrowed a “real” dollar bill from Endicott and compared it with each of its kin.

  For O’Neill, it was the yearbook—He rested it at an angle against the edge of the table while he paged slowly through it, like a guilty student trying to hide forbidden reading material in his lap. His expression never wavered—somber, even troubled, from title page through to the index. “Left at the first star, and straight on till morning,” he murmured at one point.

  For Madison, it was a glossy catalog of small aircraft for sport and pleasure flying—high-wing float planes, aerobatic biplanes, swept-wing canards, fragile-looking gliders. He studied each photograph with the critical eye of an intelligence expert, the knowledge of a former Army pilot, and the heart of a boy who had dreamed of flights to the moon.

  Tackett gave them time, but not too much time. Wait too long and resistance would start to build again, he knew. Tackett was a veteran of what the Guard called the cold shock interview. While they were grasping for answers, he supplied them, explaining Endicott’s role and his presence, describing concisely the general state of the world lying beyond each of the six known gates, providing a simple understanding of the functioning of the gate.

  And by the time he was done, he knew that they believed.

  “If I can have those things back, we have other matters to talk about,” Tackett said.

  A thoroughly chastened Ernest Clifton gratefully slid the currency along the table, glad to be rid of its disturbing presence. By contrast, O’Neill was reluctant to surrender the book. Only the CIA director seemed to have found equilibrium.

  “There’s nothing you’ve shown us that couldn’t be a fraud,” Madison said, handing the catalog across the table.

  “That’s true,” Tackett said. “Does that mean you think they are frauds?”

  Madison frowned dourly. “Truth is, I’d really like to believe that. I’ve sat here trying to figure out what your game was, and how you’d conned the President.”

  “I don’t con easily, Dennis,” Robinson said.

  “I know, sir. So maybe the world is a little crazy.” He hesitated, frowning. “Do you seriously think you can keep thi
s a secret?”

  “We have so far, including from your people,” Robinson said. “Is there someone at the table you don’t think can be trusted?”

  The director scowled. “No, of course not. But what about when more people know? And how do you know what the Russians know?”

  “The cover is solid,” Tackett said. “There have been fourteen attempted penetrations of the Tower by the KGB. We intercepted most and steered the rest into a controlled environment. As far as the Soviets are concerned, the Tower is a think-tank, plain and simple.”

  “Thank you, Albert. I’ll take it from here,” Robinson said. He pushed back his chair and ambled to the other end of the room, stopping before the flag to study it. “When we started a couple of hours ago, I said I wanted to restore this country to its proper place. You all knew what I meant by that.

  “When I was in my twenties, ours was the greatest nation on this earth. Our Navy had friendly ports around the globe. Our soldiers were the heroes of Europe. Our products were in demand the world over. An American citizen could go damned near anywhere and know that his passport protected him. We had power, and we had respect.”

  He turned to face them. “What we’ve lost has become even more clear to me from reviewing NRC reports on the various alternities. Somehow, in some of those Americas, we capitalized on opportunities that we forfeited here.

  “This is the world we made, and we have to live in it. But we don’t have to accept it the way it is. Because new opportunities are always coming along, and this time we’re going to make the most of them.

  “The Soviet Union is an old alley cat that’s grown fat and lazy sleeping in the sun. They still think they’re champion of the street, when the truth is that they’re a couple of steps from the pet cemetery. Whereas we’re the tame little kitten that grew up lean and mean while no one was looking. And the street is going to belong to us.

  “But we have to stop thinking like a kitten to make it happen. We have to take chances. We have to assert ourselves. We have to make our claim, and then we have to make it stick.