"If I can. If not, we'll have to run the horses to death and go from there. I will not be late for their return. Do you understand me?''
Running a horse to death would not accomplish the clean's desires, but Ketchum only inclined his chin as if in agreement. The wind spoke to him as it snapped tent ropes, making them sing quivering notes, while branches rattled and dust peppered the hides of those unwary enough to be outside. The wind would stop blowing when ii willed. It would take a prophet to know when that would be. It would take a prophet to keep the dean from being late.
But Ketchum did not believe in prophets and kept his tongue silent because the dean did.
The plot room on the Challenger was empty except for Sun and Dusty. Dakin rubbed his eyes. He'd gotten lined in the last eight years, she thought. She pushed away the remnants of a birthday cake—hers—she'd celebrated two actual years of wakefulness, making her all of the ancient age of twenty-seven. She slouched back in her chair and waited for him to speak.
At last he tapped a fingernail on his folder. "It's not pretty," he said.
She looked at the surveillance file. Most of the personnel aboard the ship had been banned from the surveys. After what happened to the Maggie, Dakin wanted no talk, or even thought, of mass suicide, no matter what they faced on the earth below. Without thinking further, she reached for the folder. Her sister had been in Pasadena, near the JPL facility. Silent, all these years, in spite of what they'd been molded for and promised.
Dakin let her slide the folder from under his slender hand. She opened it and hunched over it on the table top.
Dusty looked at it and felt as though she'd gone blind. She stared a moment, then looked up at her commander.' 'I don't understand."
Dakin reached out and shuffled photos. "Look at the computer enhancements and reproductions. They're better."
An auburn hair drifted down from her shoulder and lay curled across the photo, a crimson line across an aching crater. "What is it?"
"Four strikes. Meteors of incredible size. Two in North America, one in Asia, and one in Europe. We guessed as much from the probe Chandler sent out, now we know. The dust cloud raised must have shrouded the earth for nearly a century.''
She stared at a landscape that reminded her of early lunar photos. "This. ..." her throat felt dry. She tried to swallow. "This is the farmbelt. Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, Illinois. ..."
"A dust bowl. The Mississippi runs through mudflats. The wind has stripped away most of the topsoil. It could be reclaimed, now, if there were enough people with know-how. But the people are gone, too."
"Animal life?"
"Some. Mainly close to the riverbanks. Vegetation and trees on the fringe areas."
Her hands were shaking. "California. What about California?''
He guided her to the photo. "The strike was in Nevada, but there was a—a bounce, I think you'd call it— in the L.A. basin."
Her sister, dead. Not silent all these years, but dead. Dusty put her hand to her mouth and felt sundered. Alone for the first time since her birth. She sensed, rather than felt, Dakin's hand sheltering hers.
"You knew it. You had to have known it."
"I thought. ..." Dusty choked. "There was a bunker. Another lab below. I hoped, maybe . . . God," and she rocked in her chair. "I don't know what I thought." She caught her breath. "All those people, dead."
"Actually, Peg was right. They might have made it, even with the dust, but there were some nuclear strikes in the third world, accidents probably, set off during famine rioting—and then there was all the pollution and no longer the technology to continue cleaning it up. We'd made a start. We just weren't around to finish it up." He moved his hand. "We've got everyone covered, all the land masses." He started shuffling out photos, but Dusty put her hand over her face.
Muffled, she asked, "Is there still an England?"
"Near as I can tell. A lot of snow cover. I'd say the earth is pulling out of what might be termed a nuclear 'fall,' or maybe even a nuclear spring. We've seen some massive rainfall in the L.A. basin over the last two years as we've pulled closer. It's mostly lost to run off."
"Orange County is an aqueous basin," she said, dredging up long ago memories.
"What?"
"I mean ... the water is there, if they know how to drill for it."
Sun added somberly, "And if they can keep it clean. Anyway, we've got definite signs of civilization south of the L.A. area and around the perimeter of the strike. There's some minor sign in the San Francisco Bay area and quite a bit in Vancouver-Seattle. Also, near what used to be Portugal. England, perhaps—Dusty, there're out-croppings all over the world. We're not extinct. We hung in there."
She closed the file folder. "When?"
Dakin looked up, startlement crossing his Asian features quickly, like lightning. "What?"
"When do you think it happened?"
"Well . . . that's a tough one. Judging by when you lost contact with your sister, maybe seventy-five years out. We can't really tell because your telepathy experiment was strictly experimental." He smiled thinly. "Fantastic ESP power is still part of science fiction."
She did not let his comment sting her. She'd faced that all her life. She sat back in the chair again. She looked up at him. "What are you going to tell the others?"
"Everything I've told you. We've got a fix on our recall beacon and we can put a shuttle down at Edwards, on the dry lakes airstrip, as soon as the weather dies down. There are other strips we can use and the communication from Edwards is strictly low-level. But they're the only ones to have responded at all. The feeling is a gut-level one, but we'd like to put down in the U.S.A., if we can."
America, reduced to villages and vast stretches of ruined land. All the trees they'd planted since the turn of the century . . . Dusty sat in memory.
She swept the file away from her. "We've got quite a job ahead of us."
Her gaze flickered. "What?"
He smiled. "We have the know-how. We can do it."
She felt a yawning emptiness inside of her. "Can we?"
"If it's hospitable at all. Just because they can live there doesn't mean we can. They may have mutated, adapted to a hostile environment. We won't know until we send a team down. Marshall and I will be presenting this tomorrow, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything until then. It looks bleak at first."
She stood up. "I'll say. Who's on the assignment to go down?"
"We're not making assignments. This survey is strictly on a volunteer basis." Sun's almond eyes did not reflect any emotion.
Dusty suddenly sensed there was more he had to say to her. She dropped back down in the chair. "What is it?"
"We're beginning to experience some mechanical failures. And, because of the nature of the base we're landing at, anybody who goes down can't come back up. We don't think we can effect a shuttle relaunch. The survey team is on a one-way trip, Dusty. I can't order anybody to do that. It has to be volunteered," Dakin finished.
"What kind of mechanical failures?"
"The stress of maintaining an orbit, of maintaining the Challenger ... we may be faced with the same kinds of problems the Magellan faced. We don't want that to happen. I'd like for us to have the option of leaving orbit and returning, eventually, to the habitable planets we scoped. That's virgin territory where we already know we can colonize successfully. We may want to go on, instead of trying to stay here."
"An option," Dusty repeated.
"The more we have, the better off we are."
"And whoever volunteers for the survey team loses all options."
He nodded.
Dusty shook her head. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, Dakin."
"Me neither." He smiled. "Heredia is laying back with the Mayflower. She's agreed to let us do all the initial surveying."
"Agreed? Who'd she have to kill for that privilege?"
"She beat me in chess." Dakin stood up, tucking his file under his arm.
"I'm going." The wor
ds burst from her before she'd thought about it. Dusty looked into Sun's shocked expression.
He made a negative sign.
"You said it was a volunteer survey."
"That decision is to be asked for tomorrow! And we don't need to finalize it for several days. No matter who volunteers, we'll need a balanced team."
"I can shoot. I'm one of the best drivers you've got. And I know the territory," Dusty said wryly.
He scratched an eyebrow thoughtfully. "That you do," he answered slowly. "I can't argue with that. Dusty, you're our oldest living crewmember—"
"I'm everyone's oldest living crewmember."
"I don't know if we can let you go."
Her redhead temper began to flare. She felt her skin tingle, knew her face blushed.
"On the other hand," Dakin continued coolly, "it doesn't look like it's going to be easy to make you stay. Let's see what tomorrow brings."
She would have to be content with that.
"It's the wind," Blade said. "Makes everybody testy." He put a hand to his throat scarf again. His gills had warned him: dry and chafing. If he'd asked Drakkar, the boy would probably have told him as well. November, and the Santa Anas came in earnest. Mules planted their hooves firmly to the ground and refused to go out in it. The eucalyptus trees were losing branches everywhere, their brittle drought-parched limbs giving way to the onslaught. The jarcaranda trees were the same and even the vast oleander shrubs were bent near to the ground. The ocean could barely be seen from the panorama of the Warden compound. A brown haze curtained it from view. Dust, Thomas thought. Good topsoil, blown to hell. They'd have weeks of this. It would let up for a few days and start all over again. "We'll never get a DWP appointed in this."
"Thomas, don't start looking for excuses," Lady said. She took him by the elbow to draw him inside the schoolroom.
"I'll go in when I'm damn well good and ready."
Her mouth quirked. "You're the one who's testy."
"Have a right to be. Teal's been at me all night. He wants me for DWP and he's not about to take no for an answer."
"He'll just have to," Lady said firmly. "I have in mind Gray Walton or Irlene."
The tall, elegant governor came to mind. "I thought you didn't like her," he said vaguely.
"Her? Whatever gave you that idea." Lady drew him along. "Of course, I remember telling her that if she looked at you in that suggestive way of hers one more time, I'd scratch her eyes out."
"Oh?"
"Quit grinning, Thomas. They're waiting for us."
Actually, less than a third of those concerned had seated themselves inside the main lecture hall of the school, but it was obvious Lady was using diplomatic tactics that seemed obscure to Thomas as she managed seating arrangements. He perched, rather than sat, on the edge of the lecturer's desk, and thought of Gillander and how many times he'd been called in for troublemaking or malingering in this room. Those student days were less than a dozen years ago, but he felt as if it had been a lifetime.
He did not feel comfortable making a report on the College Vaults expedition, but he hadn't much choice. He thought of the charts he'd brought back as well as Charlie's papers. He'd kept the charts from Lady for reasons he could not define except that they bore both a truth and a lie and he wanted to keep them to himself until he could discern which was which. And the beast haunted him. Was it an ancestor of the same one which had marked him instead of slaying him? And if so, why? For what purpose had it been created? What had the nesters made of it?
It was hot in the classroom. He took a slow look over his shoulder. Lady Nolan was preoccupied. He took the chance to make good his escape and stood in the windy breezeway. Drakkar bumped into him.
"Have you seen Shankar?"
"No, not today." Blade looked the Mojavan up and down. "Good God. What have you been into? You look and smell like you've been rolling in pigeon shit. You didn't make dinner muster last night."
"No," Drakkar said. "I didn't. And yes, this is pigeon shit."
"I think," Thomas added, "you'd better hit the bathhouse and then come back as soon as you can. If they ask, I'll need you to corroborate the expedition."
"Shankar—"
"Can wait."
There was a burning look in Drakkar's eyes. Abruptly, it went out. The boy's jaw squared off' before he answered, "Very well." He turned abruptly and left. Thomas watched him speculatively. Where had the boy been and into what?
As he turned back to the classroom, Lady threw him a disapproving look through the open doorway. He smiled in return. The wind gusted up again, filling his teeth with grit. Lady ducked her face away in amusement as if knowing what had happened.
Drakkar had returned before the lecture hall filled. On his heels came Art Bartholomew and Boyd, with Two-handed Delgado on Boyd's heels, guarding him. They exchanged glances, the driver's one of apology. His passage by was swift, but not before Blade had counted no less than four strategically placed weapons about the man's body.
He wondered what Art Bartholomew feared in this crowd.
Drakkar smelled damp. He cleared his throat for Thomas' attention. "Where's Alma?" he asked when he saw he had it.
"Bed. She's not feeling well."
"Her ankle?"
"No, not really." Thomas gave Drakkar his full attention. "Why?"
"Just, ah, wondering. What is it?"
"I'm not sure," Blade answered. "We think it might be breakout fever. Alma's always been a touch fey, though not really powered to any extent. But we could have awakened something with what we went through. You do have breakout fever among your—ah—" He stumbled on the word 'kind' and Drakkar supplied, "sensitives."
The Mojavan continued, "Yes. It's quite common. It can be deadly.''
"Stanhope's sitting with her."
Drakkar's plumage rustled. "Good," he said, and looked away as if unconcerned.
Thomas let the remark go by. He could not fault Alma for Drakkar's interest. Since coming home, the girl had been a virtual recluse. No, she had not led Denethan's boy about.
The room stilled suddenly. Thomas took the time to reenter and sit by Lady. Shankar oozed into the room, grabbed a shadowy corner and stayed there. Thomas saw Drakkar's cross look. He wondered what kind of bad blood was between the two Mojavans. What had Drakkar been up to last night?
Lady nudged him for attention as Quinones came to the podium. The man looked visibly nervous. He smoothed a wing of hair back with a palm that was undoubtedly damp. He blinked several times and looked about.
"Ladies and gentlemen. It has only been a few months since the ceremonies. Most of our repairs necessitated by the raid have been effected. We've called you because of matters that require your immediate attention. Sir Thomas Blade has asked to speak to you."
Thomas took a breath, got to his feet, and moved forward.
Alma woke with a jerk and a shudder, gasping for breath. It took a moment to recognize her own little room. It took another moment to realize her limbs were free, her voice audible, her nightmare behind her. She gave another convulsive shudder.
Stanhope's hand covered her forehead. "Fever?" the young healer asked.
"No. Dreams. What are you doing here?"
He smiled. "Lady asked me to sit with you."
Alma felt guilt and shame that she should be diverting Stanhope from his tasks. "Go on," she said quietly. "I'm all right." She plucked at a loose thread on her quilt.
The healer sat down on the three-legged stool pulled close to her elbow. He shook his head. She saw farrow lines across his dusky forehead. "I don't think so," he answered. "Nausea, dizziness, bad dreams. What Sir Thomas put you through could start breakout fever. Or you might just have picked up a bug. Many a trade caravan has been sidelined by outbreaks of dysentery."
Alma laughed in spite of herself. "Stanhope! I'm fine. I just . . . feel a hundred years old."
"Stress and depression. Stefan's leaving. ..."
"Maybe." She closed her eyes, not wanting to see her
reflection in the healer's eyes.
The stool scraped the floor. "Or maybe," said Stanhope eagerly. "You could even be pregnant. That would bring Stefan back.'' Before she could stop him, he leaned over her, laying his palms on the coverlet over her stomach. His eyes half-closed in concentration.
"Oh, Stanhope. I haven't been with Stefan for months. He ... he couldn't—" Her voice ground to a halt. She could feel the tension in Stanhope's hands. His warmth felt like two coals burning into her. His eyes snapped open. He looked at her.
"Then who?" he said. "Who is the father of your child?"
She did not remember screaming, "but her throat ached raw and the doorway of the tiny barracks room filled with children, all curious, all looking in. Stanhope shooed them away and kicked the door shut after long moments while she practiced the basics of breathing again. In, out, in, out.
Stanhope approached her cautiously. Alma wrenched herself upward in her bed, bracing her back against the wall.
"You don't know," she said wildly. "You can't possibly tell that way."
"Some of us can. There are tests, if you're far enough along. I think you are. Seven, possibly eight weeks. You should be able to tell me.''
Her flesh had been so bruised, so torn. Her system, always irregular, and the trauma. . . . She hadn't thought anything at first. She grabbed for Stanhope's hand. "You can't tell anyone. You can't."
"But, Alma—"
"Promise me."
His dark eyes mirrored his reluctance. "All right," Stanhope answered. "But this should be good news."
"I have to find a way to tell the father, first. Then, we'll let the news out." Alma's thoughts raced ahead of her words. Rape. A child of rape. Bile burned at the back of her throat. "Let me take care of this," she got out.
Stanhope's worry softened. "All right. But you go to Lady as soon as you can. You're going to need to change your eating and sleeping regimen. We want a healthy baby!" He got up and moved to the door. "I'll let you sleep."
She felt numb. Like a stone. Like someone had planted a stone inside of her. "All right," she repeated. "I'll take care of it. "
Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall Page 21
