After the Zap

by Michael Armstrong

  Somebody grabbed my ankle and yanked me into the hangar bay up and then someone else—somebody real smart—cranked the doors shut and I was safe and alive and I wanted to hug Levi and then punch his lights out for giving me such a scare. But I couldn’t; he was somewhere down in that storm-tossed sea. I let go of Levi’s braid and got up.

  Doc North came over, took my arm, and led me over to the first aid kit. I looked down at my hand and then looked away. The doc put some kind of gunk on my palm that made it sting and then made it seem like it wasn’t there.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  I could feel the Wonderblimp rising. I looked out a porthole and saw more gray and more storm and more snow. Ruby sat in the corner, hunched against the wall, knees against her chest. She had picked up the wig and was stroking it like a cat. Ruby stared straight ahead with those old-young eyes, and made a low moaning sound.

  “You jettison cargo?” Nike’s voice was shouting from the intercom.

  Ruby got to the intercom first, tapped the on switch. “Yeah,” she said. Her voice quavered, like someone was pounding her on the back, pounding and pounding. “We jettisoned cargo, you asshole. We lost Levi out the hatch.”

  “Damn,” Nike said. He was silent for a moment. “Everyone else okay?”

  She looked around at us. Doc was fiddling with the first aid stuff. I was staring at my bleeding hand. Ruby’s eyes were turning very wet. Doc went up to her, put an arm around her, and spoke into the intercom.

  “Yeah, we’re okay,” he said.

  “Good. Go ahead and pump all your helium in the ballonet and then dump the tanks. We’re going to have to ride this storm out and get as high above it as we can.”

  “Aye,” Doc said. He put an arm around Ruby, gently pushed her toward me. “Bandage Holmes up for me, okay?”

  She nodded. Doc looked at me, shook his head. I took her, watched as Doc started turning valves on the helium tanks. Ruby held me, then looked at my hand.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  Ruby took the first aid kit from Doc and started to bandage me up. I stared at her and hoped there were some things memors could forget.

  CHAPTER 4

  We got up above the storm and coasted with the lighter winds until the storm broke. After we had dumped all the gear we could spare and emptied the helium reserves, Nike told us to get some sleep. I had a hard time getting to sleep. I kept seeing Levi fall through that hole and kept feeling the cable slide through my hands and kept seeing that look on Levi’s face when I lost him. Lucy came into my room, though, crept in through the door, and with fingers and hands and braid and a few other choice parts of her anatomy eased me into a semblance of slumber. We woke into cool calmness, about ten miles out of Kachemak. The Wonderblimp battered and bruised, and the crew tired, we came to do what Lucy said we were going to do: trade some nukes.

  A long finger of land crooked out into the mouth of Kachemak Bay. Two knuckles out and at the finger tip was a bunch of gray wood buildings with garish painted roofs. The bright roofs against the blue and white and brown of Kachemak Bay made the buildings look like splatters of paint spilled in the dirt. I wondered if the town of Kachemak had some grudge against the bay, or if maybe bright colors kept the boredom of winter from oozing madness into the souls of its citizens.

  The south edge of the bay disappeared behind us, a crinkly coast draped with glaciers. The north edge of the bay looked like a big wall, as if the Ultimate Creator had taken a chain-saw and cut the rolling green hills off at the base, gently sloping beaches probably not being fashionable 100 million years ago.

  There was another cluster of colored roofs at the base of the finger of land, and a hunk of buildings on a flat piece of land between the finger and the hills. There the hills did slope down, down into flat estuary, a lake, and some dry land. Little ponds of overflow dotted the lake, and other patches of ice were swept clean and shiny by the wind. There was an airfield with lots of dead planes on the edge of the lake; some of the planes had little pontoons on them—I guessed they had swept in too low over a canoe race or something.

  The Wonderblimp flew along the finger of land and over the lake and to the airfield. From the promenade deck outside our cabin, Lucy and I watched the land slip below. Our big black shadow seemed to suck people out of their homes. The blimp would pass over a house, the thrum of our props rebounding off the hills, and as we came over a knot of people would spill out the front door, pointing up at the blimp and waving.

  When we had descended and hovered fifty feet over the old airport, there were probably two hundred people running onto the field, some on skis, some on dog sleds, some on horses and a few in cars that resembled cars only in that they had four wheels. One car had a big draft horse in front. But the people didn’t look like the people I’d seen down in Kodiak, or even down south.

  “Verts,” Lucy said. “Crazy Verts.”

  Verts was what they called themselves, Lucy explained, “Vert” meaning “truth” in one tongue and “green” in another, sort of. Green was a good word, for it seemed to be the color they liked best. God knows they didn’t like brown or tan or gray or black.

  Their hair didn’t seem to be any color that nature had intended except maybe red, and the redheads there were a red that was far from auburn and closer to orange. The Verts had hair that was blue and purple and pink and puce and silver and white and mostly green, green more than any color, green like fire trucks, green like leaves just uncurling from winter, green like life and hope and all that stuff.

  They wore clothes that seemed to do only one thing in common, and that not really well at all: cover the body. Most of the Verts wore tights of some sort, and some sort of shirt or sweater, and boots of all shapes and colors, but draped over that basic arrangement were vests and blouses and capes and shirts and pants and kilts and all manner of clothing, all colors except brown, all styles except plain.

  They milled around on the field below us like dots in a kaleidoscope, but the Verts left us an open field to land on. In the center of the open field was a narrow pyramid-shaped log structure about fifty feet high. It looked something like an oil derrick, like derricks I’d seen—where had I seen oil derricks? I asked myself. Somewhere, yeah, somewhere.

  Lucy and I walked down to the hangar deck and helped Bron assemble what he called the cone, which was exactly that: a four-foot-long cone on a round swiveling base about six feet in diameter, with the open end of the cone vertical to the base. The idea was that the cone would fit on top of the derrick, and a drogue on the nose of the blimp would fit into the open end of the cone and dock. Bron said the Wonderblimp had been passing messages up the memor line telling folks how to build landing towers for Wonderblimp, and the Verts had built one for us.

  “But the jerks can’t follow instructions,” Bron said, staring out the port at the crude log-derrick the Verts had put up. “Still, I guess it will have to do.”

  Lucy cranked the hangar bay doors open while Bron and I hooked the cone up to a cable hanging overhead. We snapped our monkey harnesses to the cable and jumped on the cone. Up on the bridge Nike steered the blimp over to the Verts’ derrick, then Lucy maneuvered the cone—and us—to the top of the derrick. Bron signaled Lucy to gently lower the cone on top of the derrick, and then the base of the cone settled on the flat top of the derrick. To Bron’s surprise, the base fit. Bron unhooked the cone from the cable, pointed at me to hook my monkey harness up to the derrick.

  Bron took out a big bit-and-brace and started drilling holes through the rough-cut lumber of the derrick. He handed me a wrench and these funny-looking bolts, told me to bolt the cone on. When all the holes were drilled and all the bolts tightened, Bron turned the cone around on its base. The open end of the cone pointed out, and moved smoothly around the top of the derrick. A thick cable of wires came down from inside the cone, and Bron hooked a wire each up to little holes in the bolts.

&nbs
p; “What are the wires for?” I asked.

  “Explosive bolts,” he said. “In case we have to blow the joint in a hurry. Don’t want to leave our cone behind, do we?” Bron jumped up and down on the derrick, nodded. “She’s solid enough,” he said. “Climb on down and we’ll bring the Wonderblimp in.”

  We went down the derrick, using a ladder the Verts had thankfully built into the structure. At the bottom Bron walked around the base, made sure it was staked securely to the ground. The Verts stood around us, staring, but said nothing. Bron looked up at the blimp, held his arms straight up.

  The Wonderblimp swung around, nose pointed straight for the cone on top of the tower, and then rammed into it, a perfect mate. The bottom of the nacelle was ten feet off the ground. Lucy cranked the gangplank down; the end hung short about three feet. Bron shrugged. I pointed to a group of Verts wheeling something up to the gangplank. It was a small platform, with steps in front and a rail all around. A tall man with a bright yellow wool cap stood on the platform. When the gang of Verts got the platform up to the gangplank, the platform fit perfectly. Bron smiled. The Wonderblimp was docked.

  * * *

  MYERS was stitched on the wool cap of the Vert on the platform. He stood, arms folded across his chest. Bron and I walked up the platform behind him, shoved our way by and up to Lucy. Lucy was at the top of the gangplank, waiting for Nike to come down.

  The Myers guy was about six-foot-five, but thin, though his neck muscles had that tough-corded look that meant thin, yes, but not weak. Curly red hair poked out from the edges of his cap, and he had a big beard down to his chest that matched the hair. I squinted and realized that that was his natural color— the only Vert around with real-looking hair. His clothes were simple, too: olive drab wool trousers, faded green canvas boots like Lucy’s, what she called mukluks, and a bright orange anorak with fur trim dyed green. Strapped to his hip was a gun about the size of Bron’s hand, a Japanese gun, Mitsubishi or Nissan or Subaru, they all looked the same. Hanging from his neck was a blue plastic whistle.

  The Vert walked up to us, stopped about two feet away. He took the whistle and blew it, hard. The Verts had been milling around and talking and being basically unruly, but when that guy blew the whistle they shut up and stopped right there. Dead silence.

  “My name’s Myers,” he yelled. “And I have come to get my nuke. Who’s givin’ out nukes?” Myers walked up to me, stopped.

  He looked right at me, brown eyes that could probably burn holes through lead. I looked back, then down at my feet, idly thinking about snow and how my sneakers were getting a little damp and stuff like that. Myers laid a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, so I looked up. I smiled.

  “You a nuker?” he asked.

  I held up my hands, left, right, so he could see that I didn’t have the glove. “Uh, not really,” I said, “But I—”

  “No, you’re not,” he said. He looked at Lucy, and got this big grin on his face. Okay, I could understand that grin. He took her gloved hand, stroked it. She smiled back. “You’re a nuker.”

  “Sure,” she said. “You want a nuke?” Her braid slid around her waist and over to Myers’s belt.

  Myers turned around, looked at the Verts. “Do I want a nuke?” He pointed at himself. “Do I want a nuke?” The Verts chuckled. “Damn straight I want a nuke! You think we asked you here for a tea party? Sure, I want a nuke.”

  “Then get your damn paws off me,” Lucy said. The braid whipped up to her hand and Myers looked down at what was poking his belly: his gun. He got a look on his face like a dog had just peed on his foot, then his mouth broke into a big grin. Lucy turned the pistol over, handed it back to him.

  “Cute,” he said. “Real cute. Uh, you the person who gives out nukes?”

  Lucy nodded. “One of ’em.”

  “Okay,” he said. “What do I have to do to get a nuke?”

  She smiled. “Come with me.” She turned, walked into the blimp. Myers followed. Lucy stopped, looked back at me, and motioned with her left hand. “You too, Holmes.”

  * * *

  We went up to the galley, where Nike and Bron were sitting around a table. In the middle of the table was a coffee thermos crudely painted fluorescent orange. Nike had a long form with all sorts of words on it. We made our introductions, shook hands, then sat down.

  “So you want a nuke, eh?” Nike said to Myers.

  Myers grinned. “You betcha.”

  “Okay,” said Nike. “This is how it works. You get a nuke under certain conditions. Holmes, read ’em.” He passed the piece of paper to me. I cleared my throat, read. I was kind of proud of the document—I’d written it the night before the storm, dredging up all the things I could remember about contracts and stuff like that.

  “Agreement to Take Possession of One Small Nuclear Device,” I read. “Whereas the party of the first part having been determined to have definite security needs, and the party of the second part having been determined to be able to provide for those needs, it is hereby—”

  “Skip that crap, Holmes,” Nike said. “Read the conditions.”

  “Aw, Nike, it’s the best part,” I said. I thought so, anyway.

  “Skip it,” he said.

  I bit my lip, looked down. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Um . . . The aforementioned recipient agrees to take possession of said nuclear device under these conditions:

  “One: Recipient will provide the Order of the Atom with one non-functional nuclear device, a so-called knapsack nuke, or ten kilograms of gold or cocaine, whichever is more available.

  “Two: Recipient agrees that the use of said nuclear device will be limited to defense of life and property of the recipient’s group and that the said nuclear device will not be fired in aggression.

  “Three: Recipient agrees to comply with any and all security procedures imposed by the Order to prevent the untimely or unlawful use of the nuclear device.

  “Four: Recipient will release to the Order a temporary hostage—any direct blood relative of the Recipient—for a period of twenty-four hours, to ensure that adequate security measures are followed.

  “Five: Recipient will also provide the Order with five hundred gallons of combustible fuel, either methanol, gasoline, or ethanol.

  “That’s it,” I said. “There’s some lines here for signatures.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Holmes.” Nike turned to Myers. “Do you have any questions about these conditions?”

  “Yeah. What’s this about a hostage?”

  “Well,” said Nike, “When we release the nuke to you, we keep one of your direct blood relatives hostage for a day, just to keep you from trying any funny stuff.”

  Myers nodded. “You don’t hurt them?”

  Nike shook his head. “Oh, no, of course not.” He smiled.

  “Okay,” Myers said. “You sure you don’t hurt them?”

  “Never.”

  “All right, I guess. What about the fuel?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, I mean five hundred gallons. That’s a lot. It will take us a few days to come up with it.”

  “What do you have to do?” Nike asked. “Shovel a little more shit?”

  Myers nodded. “You got it. We’ve got a batch of methanol cooking, but it will take some time.”

  “A week?”

  Myers shook his head. “Longer.”

  “A month?”

  Myers nodded. “Maybe sooner.”

  Nike shrugged. “Okay. My crew could use a little leave. Three weeks. But sign the agreement now.”

  “All right. Three weeks,” Myers said. “Where do I sign?”

  “Put your chop right here,” I said, pointing to a line at the bottom.

  I handed Myers a fountain pen. He scrawled a mark—a large M—and then Nike handed me the paper to witness. I wrote “Myers” under his signature, and “His Mark,” then signed my name on the line below. Nike scrawled a symbol that looked like a check mark. I wrote “His Mark, Nike, Captain, the Wonderblimp,
and Most Reverend Brother, Order of the Atom” underneath his signature, tore off one copy of the agreement, and handed it to Myers.

  “Okay,” Nike said. “Three weeks. You deliver the fuel, and then we’ll set up the delivery of the nuke.”

  Myers stared at the coffee thermos. “Is that the nuke?”

  Nike nodded. “That’s the baby. Works like a dream.” He waved at it. “Go ahead, pick it up.”

  Myers grinned, put his hand around the thermos, lifted it, then set it back down. “Nice,” he said. “Nice.” He nodded his head, and grinned harder, till it looked like his lips would creep into his earlobes. “Yeah, real nice. Okay, guys. See you in a few weeks.” He left with Bron.

  I stared at the thermos. That was the knapsack nuke? I thought. A coffee thermos? Lucy noticed me staring.

  “What’s the matter, Holmes?” she asked. “Haven’t you ever seen a knapsack nuke before?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I mean, I guessed it was small . . . but a coffee thermos?”

  She nodded. “Clever, eh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Who built it?”

  “I did,” she said. “My design. Oh, other people helped, but that nuke is all my work.” She smiled.

  I smiled. Like hell she built that nuke. But if that was her delusion, who was I to burst balloons?

  Bron came back in with Doc North. Bron was carrying a little box about the size of a paperback book.

  “Lucy personally assembled every knapsack nuke ever made,” Doc said. “She knows them backwards and forwards.”

  Right, I thought. “And that one works?” I asked.

  “With some slight modifications,” Lucy said. “You’ll see.” She glanced at Nike; he nodded.

  “It’s time, Holmes,” Nike said.

  “Time?”

  “Time for your induction into the Order of the Atom.”