Aftermath

by Charles Sheffield

  It seemed like he never stopped. But if Senator Lopez—Nick—felt free to take things easy for a few hours, why should Auden be any different?

  "Well?" Nick Lopez was smiling, patiently waiting. "I'm telling you, I'll be heartbroken if you say no."

  "If you put it that way . . ."

  "I certainly do." Lopez put his arm around Auden's shoulder and steered him toward the staircase. "We'll go upstairs, have a drink and talk. We need to get to know each other—you were so popular tonight, I couldn't get near you. And there's one other thing."

  "What's that, Nick?" Travis shivered slightly at the pressure of Lopez's arm, but he did not draw away.

  "It's what we were talking about this afternoon, before we came here. My 'reputation,' as you put it."

  "Oh, that." Auden laughed. He was no longer nervous. "I'm not worried about that anymore, now that I've seen how you are with your friends. I'm not worried about anything."

  "Good. But I want to say one thing more. I value our friendship highly, for what it is now and what I hope it will become. So you have my promise: nothing will happen tonight that you don't absolutely want to happen."

  "I know that, Nick. You don't have to make me any promises. I'm an adult." Auden nestled a little closer. He wasn't merely a career, he was a man, too, with his own needs. "I think I knew how things would turn out with us even before we set out for the party."

  17

  Art woke rested and curiously at peace. He had slept through the whole night, rare for him in the past few years. It took a few moments to realize that he had been awakened by the disappearance of the warm body next to his.

  It was already full day. He turned his head, opened his eyes, and stared wearily at the dark shape outlined against the window.

  "You're a blanket hog, d'you know that?" Dana sounded as lively as he felt comatose. "I had to fight for my share half a dozen times."

  "Sorry." Art's throat and mouth felt dry, and his voice was gravelly.

  "I bet. But there are worse bedtime sins."

  "Like what?"

  "We'll talk about it some other time. You can stay put for a while if you want, I'm going to boil water."

  "What's it doing outside?"

  "The snow has tapered off, but it's deep on the ground. It looks cold—colder than it should be this late in the year. I thought the supernova was supposed to make the world hotter?"

  "On average. But mainly it screws up the weather." Art sat up, and felt the well-being that comes with a good night's sleep. "Instead of west-east patterns the winds seem to be running north-south."

  "Straight from the North Pole." Dana was fully dressed. "I'll see you downstairs. We won't let the weather stop us."

  As she went out Art pushed back the bedclothes and stood up. His knee gave hardly a twinge when he put his weight on it. There was the real answer to arthritis: find a beautiful woman and use her as your warming pad.

  He and Dana hadn't said a word since last night about Oliver Guest, but her comment as she left confirmed his own thoughts. They were going to take the risk. They would try to reach the Facility for Extended Syncope and wake up a multiple murderer—who also happened to be a telomod expert.

  When and how would they go, and what would they do if they got there? Those were separate questions, to be answered later.

  Seth Parsigian was already working the little stove when Art arrived downstairs. He must have been down to the basement and recharged it from the propane tanks. He was astonishingly grubby, but very alert. Maybe Dana was right, the man never slept. Today, though, Seth seemed preoccupied. He nodded to Art and said gruffly, "Buenos dias, hombre. We got problems. We need ideas."

  "How to find Oliver Guest?" Art accepted coffee from Dana and brought the cup to his face so that the steam could warm his nose. The room, like the whole building, was icy cold.

  "Not how to find him." Seth was already dressed in outdoor clothes. "I know where Guest was iced down, it was in the syncope facility south of Washington at Maryland Point. Forty to fifty miles from here. Unless somebody moved him, and I don't see why anyone would, he's there still. Trouble is, we got no way to reach him. Roads are deep snow. Even our tractor wouldn't make it."

  So much for Art's idea that he had the tractor well hidden. And notice how it had become "our" tractor. Dana, squatting on her heels next to Art, shook her head. "Even if the tractor would go through the snow, it wouldn't make sense to try. It's nearly April, the weather has to warm up soon. We can sit here and wait for a few days, then we can travel easily."

  "We might, except for one thing." Seth gestured at one of the room's electrical outlets. "No power, no water, no services of any kind."

  "We don't need them. We have food and warmth and shelter right here. We can manage."

  "I'm not worryin' about us, sweetie. We're snug. I'm worried about good old Ollie. If we got no services here, I'll bet some old-style folding money they got none down at Maryland Point. What happens to somebody in judicial sleep when the power goes off? I assume they just snooze on for a while. But if the intravenous feeds quit, and the drugs and nutrients don't go in, what happens?"

  "I don't know."

  "Nor do I. Maybe the sleepers all starve an' die. Maybe they wake up and head for the hills. Neither one's any good for us. If Ollie turns to spoiled beef we're out of luck. And if he's awake and out of there before we're in, you can bet your ass and hat we'll never find him."

  "Seth's right." Art warmed his hands at the little stove. "We can't afford to wait, Dana. We have too much at stake. Oliver Guest is our only shot at continued treatment."

  "So we're all agreed." Seth stood up. "We gotta go, and soon. But how?"

  "If we can't go by road," Dana said slowly, "what else is there? The monorail? I know the service is dead, but the tracks may be clear."

  "Even if they are," Art said, "they won't help much. They run southeast from here, straight into the middle of Washington. We have to reach a lot farther south."

  "On the river," said Seth thoughtfully. "Maryland Point is on the Potomac. How far are we from the river? If only we had a map of the area."

  "I have maps."

  "You do?" Seth Parsigian raised his eyebrows at Art. "You really planned ahead. You got precognition?"

  "No. But I've got friends who must have." Art didn't try to explain. He said, "Wait a minute," and headed back upstairs. When he returned holding Ed O'Donnell's old maps, Seth and Dana were arguing, crouched together across the portable stove.

  "South," Dana said. "No more than five miles."

  "I don't think so. Five miles may be right, but you go west." Seth glanced at the three maps that Art held out. "The question is, what direction leads you fastest to the Potomac? If we can reach it, we may be able to run along it all the way to the syncope facility."

  "If we had a boat."

  "We get to the river, you let me worry about that. I'm a top scavenger." Seth opened one of the maps. "This should tell us. Except it looks like it came out of the Ark."

  "The land/river boundary hasn't changed in fifty years." Dana leaned over so that she and Seth could study the map together. She touched one location with her finger. "Here we are, west of the freeway. And there's the river."

  "Then we're both right." Seth was measuring using his index finger as a rule. "The Potomac is just about as far away to the south as it is to the west. Say, five or six miles."

  "That's beeline distance." Dana ran her finger straight across the map. "We'd never make it cross-country. It's more by road. But there are no roads to the west. We have a good road south, the one we are on. We can follow Seven Locks just about all the way to the river."

  "If it weren't for the snow, we could." Seth sat back on his haunches. "You saw what it was like yesterday. If anything, the going will be worse today. If nobody took a mind to stop us—and I'm not comfortable with that assumption—you're talkin' about a full day's trek. And that's just to get us to the river. We have to go a lot farther. All right, fol
ks, who has a better idea?"

  He didn't speak like a man expecting an answer. But he offered no resistance when Art said, "Let me see," and took the map from his hands.

  "You think you got better eyes than us?" Seth said, when Art followed an invisible line with his finger. "You see a road where we don't?"

  "I think so. A sort of road." Art wasn't one to play word games, but he needed to be sure. He traced Seven Locks Road with his finger. It ran south in almost a straight line and ended just short of the river. He examined it in more detail, and shook his head.

  "We already looked at that, Art," Dana said. "The snow is the problem."

  "Not for us, it won't be." Art was sure. "The way we go won't be easy, but we'll have no trouble with snow."

  Seth showed his teeth, though it was hard to call it a smile. "You plannin' to fly, baby?"

  "No. There's more routes in the world than you'll find on a map like this. We'll use the storm drains. And though a road can go up and down, water only runs downhill. That's why you have to look at the contour lines."

  "The sewers," Seth said. "You want to run through the sewers and be knee-deep in shit? Do you know what you're suggesting?"

  "Sewers and storm drainage systems aren't the same thing at all. They use the same underground paths a lot of the time, but you keep them apart when you can. As for knowing about them, I'd say I do. It's one way I make my living."

  "Eh?" Dana stared. "Have you been lying to me? You told me you were a network and feedback analyst."

  "I am. What do you think a storm drainage system is? It's nothing but a big, complicated flow network. It happens to work with water, not electricity, but the basic principles are the same. You have line-carrying capacities, and variable loads, and peak load shunting. If you want to you can even make switches and amplifiers, through a thing called the Coanda Effect. But I won't get into that." Art spoke to Dana. "I admit I may have misled you a bit. I work with both electrical and water networks—and others, too, like oil and gas pipelines. But don't you think 'telecommunications network specialist' has a nicer ring to it than 'water and sewage network specialist'?"

  "You just didn't want to tell me you worked in the sewers." Dana smiled at Art. "But is it safe to go into the storm drains now, after the supernova? How can you be sure that everything is still working? I mean, the whole power system is down, and I'd think the storm drains would be dependent on it."

  "Not in this universe. You won't find electricity used, except here and there for maintenance. Think of it, Dana. In normal times, when is the electrical power in an area most likely to fail?"

  "When you have high winds and a bad storm."

  "Right. The last thing you want is a storm drain system most likely to fail when you need it most. The engineers don't assume electrical power is available when they design flood control and storm drainage networks. They assume the opposite—that no one will have power when the storms and floods are at their worst. Everything is controlled by the water loads themselves, through volumes and pressures and feedback to spillways and control gates."

  "You're dead serious, aren't you?" Seth had become very still. "You think we can do it this way."

  "I know we can. But if you have a better idea, I'll take it. I don't want to be Harry Lime any more than you do."

  Art didn't expect the others to catch the reference, but Dana smiled and said, "Great movie. Maybe we'll go see it when this is all over. I'm persuaded. Now tell us the snags."

  "The main thing that worries me is finding a good entry point to the storm drain system. We're not water, we need a hole big enough for us to get through. There has to be one within half a mile at the most, for service access, but it might be hidden by snow. I'll go out now and search."

  "Us, too?" Dana asked.

  "Waste of time. You wouldn't know where to look. You stay here and get things together. Once we're in the storm drains, the underground part shouldn't be hard. There are walkways—narrow and low, but big enough for a person. All we do is follow the direction of flow, and that takes us to a river discharge point."

  "After you find the entry point, how soon can we leave?" Seth stood up.

  "At once. Snow and cold weather help, because we'll find very low runoff levels. But we'd better not be down there when the thaw starts."

  "Not a chance." Seth touched the stove, snarled, and pulled his finger away. "Gotta cool this sucker off in the snow. Don't worry none about the thaw. Before that happens we'll be there and thaw old Ollie. He'll tell us what to do about the telomods, and we'll be back in business."

  Not a word about whether or not old Ollie would choose to cooperate, Art thought as he muffled himself up to go outside. Would they be able to find the man, even if they reached the syncope facility? How do you find one convicted criminal among umpteen thousand others? What did Guest look like, even before he went into judicial sleep?

  Art didn't recall the media pictures. A murderer could look like anyone.

  Even Seth Parsigian.

  * * *

  They faced tough decisions before they left the Treasure Inn. There would be no tractor, no motorbike. Everything had to be carried on foot for an undefined distance.

  Even the little stove was too much of a luxury. So was alcohol—a food of sorts, but not a nutritious one. Blankets and pillows were not heavy, but they were bulky.

  The final list almost defined itself. Clothes, as many as you could stand to wear or to carry in a single bag. One thick blanket each. Food, but only in its most compact form: dried rice, ham, bread, cheese, and dried beans. Weapons, just in case.

  At the last moment Art added a compass, candles, and the maps to his own load. He was sure to need light at some point, and the maps could fold to fit easily into his pocket along with his knife. As he packed away the first one, he noticed Seth Parsigian holding the map that showed on it the marked location of Art's house in Catoctin Mountain Park. Seth had handed it casually to Art, but the look on his face was more calculating than casual.

  Dana and Seth had their own small group of "luxury" items. In her case it was soap, a hairbrush, and the long wrench she had used to break into the Institute. Seth had his hunting knife, pliers, and a flashlight that produced electricity not from batteries but by turning a hand crank to drive a generator.

  A child's toy last Christmas—but not today. Seth used the flashlight to guide their way down the ladder and into the storm drain. Art looked carefully around. He saw debris left by recent high waters, but the level had receded a long way and the walkways were dry.

  "This is better than I expected. It shouldn't be too difficult, all we need to do is follow the incline. Flat and down are all right, but we avoid any upward slopes."

  Seth nodded and led the way. The storm drain tunnel was clammy and icy cold, but since they were all wearing extra clothes that was not a problem. After the first hundred yards Art dropped a few steps behind the other two. His knee was feeling pretty good, but he didn't know how far he might have to walk on it. He would prefer an even, steady pace, and no wasted steps. Whoever was in front had to make occasional side trips, when neither the compass nor the direction of water flow made the choice of branch clear.

  Seth didn't seem to mind being asked to lead. The storm drain tunnels added a strange booming echo off walls and ceiling, and after half a mile he began to sing as he walked. It was a dirge about two people called Saunders and Margaret, and the verse went on and on.

  "That's Clerk Saunders he's singing." Dana had dropped back to walk just in front of Art. The path was not wide enough for two, and she had to turn her head to talk to him. The tunnel was not totally dark even without the flashlight, since every thirty yards or so the narrow grille of a storm drain, blocked by snow, admitted a diffuse, pearly light.

  "It's a Scots/English border ballad," she went on. "All death and misery. First time I ever heard it with a West Virginia accent. I've never known Seth to sing before, either. He must be feeling good."

  "Look where
you're going," Art said gruffly, "or you'll be in the water." He was ashamed to say what he was actually thinking. The world had gone to hell, but he was feeling good. Better than when he left Catoctin Mountain Park.

  "I'll give you a thought that should make us all cheer." Dana ignored Art's warning and again turned back to face him. "There are two and a half million lawyers in this country. What do you think they're doing now?"

  "Trying to survive, like everyone else." Art wasn't sure she wanted an actual answer from him.

  "Sure, but doing what? Nobody will be getting divorced, or arguing over a will, or ready to pay a lobbyist. Where my sister lives the economy has gone mostly to barter—food for clothes, fuel for the use of an old car. Lawyers don't actually do anything, so they have nothing to barter."

  "You don't like lawyers?"

  "I hate the sons of bitches." Dana sounded remarkably cheerful. "One of them sued on behalf of my sister, and she won. And you know what? His fee took every cent of the whole settlement."

  "You've never dated a lawyer, then? I'd think they'd be buzzing around you, like flies round—well, like—bees."

  "That's not what you were going to say, is it?" The path had widened, and she dropped back to Art's side. "Just as well you didn't stay with your first thought, or it's you who'd be in that water."

  "I spend a lot of my time with men."

  "Oh, yes? What's that mean? That you think it gives you an excuse for crude, sexist remarks?"

  "No." Art wondered how he had got into this. He said doggedly, "I was just trying to point out that someone as attractive as you must get offers to take you out all the time, and a lot of those men would probably be lawyers. They're keen on trophy dates and trophy wives, women they can show off in public."

  "I have dated lawyers," Dana said airily. "Three of them. They're the ones I hate the most. The bastards." She eased her way around a tall concrete pillar that narrowed the walkway, ducked to allow for the lower ceiling, and waited until Art had done the same. "That's not what I wanted to talk about, though."