Aftermath

by Charles Sheffield

  They were on the second floor, and their wandering had brought them to a big window with dusty sunlight streaming through. Art walked to it and ran a finger down one of the panes. It left a streak.

  "My dear, it's so hard to get good help these days. Even if you're President." Art was feeling giddy, too, if that was the word for it. He had slept wonderfully last night, he didn't have an ache or a pain anywhere in his body, and he would be in a real bed again tonight. He gestured outside. "Look at that. Auden Travis was right, and I was wrong."

  They were facing south. On the right Art could see the east end of the Reflecting Pool, dazzling in the sun as its shallow waters broke into whitecaps. Straight ahead was the Monument, its solid bulk able to withstand the strongest wind. Far beyond, a dark line of clouds crept westward along the horizon. And much closer, within the White House grounds, trees bent and swirled and shivered.

  It was pleasant to watch, and to know that you were snug inside; until Dana said softly, "I wonder where Seth is? I wonder where he and Dr. Grisly will spend tonight."

  Art hoped for Seth's sake that it would be somewhere comfortable—and nowhere near Catoctin Mountain Park. His friends there were tough, and they were wily; but Ed O'Donnell and Joe Vanetti would be no match for Seth Parsigian and Oliver Guest.

  He and Dana turned from the window view, with its first signs of approaching Hurricane Gertrude. The mood had changed. Dana's question had depressed both of them, and without speaking they headed down to the lower level. Art asked a guard how to reach the tunnel to the Old Executive Office Building. It must have been a standard question because the woman rattled off directions without thinking.

  Though it was long past a normal lunchtime, the cafeteria was crowded. They walked by the long service counter, examining the choice of food.

  "Auden Travis must be a lot pickier than I am," Dana said. "This all looks good except the pastry. But the ambience. I guess they don't want people staying too long when they have work to do."

  The place was like a dungeon, plain gray walls and ceiling, dull black floor and tables, gunmetal chairs. They loaded their trays, paid—a surprise to Art; he had somehow imagined that a White House cafeteria would be free—and searched for an empty table.

  There was none to be found. They were forced to sit with another couple: Scott and Jenna Fredden, according to the name tags on their government badges. The pair ate steadily and spoke not one word to Art and Dana or to each other. Art and Dana followed their example, until finally the two stood up—in unison— and left.

  "Charming," Dana said when they had gone. "What do you think? Man and wife, or brother and sister?" She was not expecting an answer because she continued, "I'll tell you something odd. I've known you for three years. But until this morning, I never knew you had that scar on your belly."

  "No reason why you should. I've got plenty more. You probably have some, too."

  "Me? I'm a regular road map. But I don't think I'd inflict myself on the President of the United States. You've got nerve."

  "He didn't seem to mind."

  "It's his job to be diplomatic. Do you know what upset me most when I learned that I had cancer? I'll give you a hint, it wasn't the prospect of dying."

  "If you're anything like me, I bet it was this." Art held up his fork. "See, I do this without thinking about it. My body is completely under my control. Talk, sing, dance. I could catch a ball or button a shirt. Then one day those things became irrelevant. I learned there was a whole lower level of activity going on inside me. Not only couldn't I control it, I didn't even know about it. I only found out what it was doing when it started to hurt."

  "Exactly." Dana was staring at the fork, still upheld between Art's thumb and forefinger. "Until I got cancer I hardly knew that I had individual cells. Cells were weird little crawly things I'd studied in school, amoebas and junk like that. And chromosomes, I never gave them a thought. But all of a sudden, a test showed that there were these bits of me, and they copied themselves. My own cells were out of control, they were going to keep making copies until they killed me. The first time I saw a blowup picture of one of my own cancer cells, I wanted to scream, 'What are you doing, you stupid bastard? You're me, don't you know that? You're the same as I am, my own flesh. You shouldn't be trying to kill me.' "

  Dana paused and looked around to see if anyone else was listening. They were. Three people at a nearby table got up and left. She took a deep breath. "Sorry. Do I sound crazy?"

  "Not to me you don't." Art put down the fork. "I didn't have a big reaction when I received my diagnosis of cancer. My moment came later, when I was accepted into the telomod therapy program and told how it was supposed to work. I was pretty far gone, down to eighty-five pounds and in a whole lot of pain. So I didn't understand most of the details. But when they dripped the telomerase inhibitor into me through an IV, I knew the idea was to stop the cancer cells rebuilding the bits at the end of their chromosomes. I knew it was going to be hard on me, too. My own fast-dividing cells would be hit, and I was going to be red-raw ulcers all the way from my mouth to my ass. I didn't care. I lay on the Institute cot, and I watched that drip go in, and I said, 'Suck on that, you fuckers. You're not me anymore, you're traitors. Either you win, or I do; but it won't be both.' "

  It was his turn to look around. The cafeteria was still fairly full, but nearby tables were conspicuously empty.

  Dana picked up her tray. "Come on. I find this fascinating, and so do you. But Lazarus Club members are in the minority here. We should go."

  "In a minute. Take my tray, would you." Art hurried back toward the cafeteria entrance. When he returned a couple of minutes later he was holding half a dozen wrapped packets. "Just sandwiches. But I thought if the weather gets too bad to go out, and this place closes . . ."

  "Smart thinking." Dana stared at the packages. "You know what would go really well with them? Beer. I'm dying for a beer. You don't suppose—"

  "Not a chance. You're in a government building."

  "I know. But I'll bet the White House—"

  "That might be different. You heard Saul Steinmetz. Rank has its privileges."

  "Why don't we go back, find out from Auden Travis where we'll be sleeping—"

  "And see what else we can get out of him? Great idea. You want to go right now?"

  "If you're done interrupting my sentences." Dana helped herself to a big handful of napkins and handed them to Art to take along with the sandwiches. "On the way, let's see if we can reach the outside and get back in without going through a guard post. I'd like to take a firsthand look at the weather. People are saying that we're at the tail end of Supernova Alpha, that the worst is over. I'm not sure I believe it. Even if we are, a scorpion has its sting in its tail."

  * * *

  It was hardly necessary to go outside. Art and Dana stood under the shelter of an arched doorway on the west end of the White House. Even with partial shelter, the wind ripped at their clothes.

  Two men in Air Force uniforms came out and stood next to them. Dana asked, "Do you know what time it is?"

  The shorter officer turned to her. "Sixteen hundred hours, going on midnight. Four o'clock. Did you ever see it so dark so early?"

  "I bet we'll get to Andrews just in time to be told all flights are grounded," the other man said.

  "Better that than fly in this." The short officer turned up his collar. "Well, as my grandmother always said, worse things happen at sea. Come on, the longer we wait the wetter we'll get." He ducked his head and moved out to receive the full force of the wind. His companion gave a theatrical groan and followed.

  Art grabbed Dana's arm as a stronger buffet threatened to knock her over. "It's ridiculous to think of going outside when the weather's like this. Let's find Auden Travis and see where we'll be sleeping."

  "All right." Dana allowed herself to be steered back inside. "But don't forget beer. Unless he comes through with that, I'm ready to brave the storm."

  35

  Aud
en Travis did not lead them to beer or anything else. He could not, since he was not in his office. When they got there a note was pinned on the locked door: BACK AT SEVEN-THIRTY, BERUTZ/FERRAND: SECOND FLOOR, ROOMS 225-226.

  "Which settles that," Dana said. "It's going to be a dry evening."

  While they were on the way upstairs, thunder and lightning had started outside. The building had switched to an emergency lighting system, steady but dim.

  "I suppose they have other things on their mind," she went on. "All right, let's see where they've put us. I've always wanted to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom."

  Room 225 turned out to be nondescript but adequate, with an adjoining door leading through to Room 226. It faced north across the city, currently the scene of a staggering lightning display. Art left Dana testing the springs of the double bed and went on through to the other room.

  The difference was striking. Room 226 was four times the size, with ample room for its king-sized bed, sofa, end tables, armchairs, desk, and standing wardrobes. A kitchenette led off it, with refrigerator, oven, and breakfast table. On the table Art saw a basket, with a note from Yasmin Silvers: He said the sight of your bare belly made his day. It made him think of the old pictures of Lyndon Johnson showing off the scar of his gallbladder operation. Inside were crackers, bread, cheeses, an iron-hard salami, and butter. Some of them had come from an old government stockpile—the date on the cheese was 2020. But the bread was fresh, and next to it stood the main prize: two bottles of wine and a box of assorted fizzes. Yasmin had even included a corkscrew and glasses that looked like antique crystal.

  Art wandered back to the other room, where Dana was emerging from the bathroom. "Loads of hot water," she said. "I'm going to shower forever. I was too tired last night and I didn't have time this morning. What's the other place like?"

  "I suppose it will have to do. I've only got one complaint."

  "What?"

  "The red wine is all right, but the white wine is at room temperature. It ought to be chilled."

  She was heading through the connecting door before he finished speaking. When he came to her she was cuddling the bottle of red wine to her chest.

  "Next time I see President Steinmetz, I'm going to kiss him. How do you work this crazy corkscrew?"

  "Pressure. The needle on the end is hollow. Stick it through the cork and pump. No, not like that. Let me."

  While he opened the bottle, Dana examined the fizzes. "Elevs, holds, dorphs, and morphs. Good stuff. Didn't the President make a speech last year, deploring the use of fizzes?"

  "I'm sure he did." Art was drawing the cork with care. "No problem for him—he's not a user."

  "How do you know?"

  "Too old." He handed Dana a half-filled glass. "Same as me. It's a generation thing. We did pot and booze the way new-century youth does snap and fizzes. Bring the basket and a knife."

  Art picked up the bottle and his own glass and carried them through from the kitchenette. He settled onto the sofa, pulling an end table in front of them. Dana followed, but she made a quick detour to examine the bathroom.

  "There's a bathtub," she said as she sat down next to him. "A huge one. You can wallow in it, probably even swim in it." She held out her glass for more wine. "Pour, and sit still. I want to look at something."

  "You're supposed to savor it, not guzzle it." But Art sat obediently still as she came around the back of the couch and bent to examine the top of his head. "I don't know what you're looking for, but I won't be surprised if you find it. We've been living pretty dirty."

  "Not head lice, if that's what you mean. But I found what I was looking for." She came around to the front again. "One more thing. Let me have another look at that scar, the one that pleased President Steinmetz so much."

  Art had his mouth full of bread and salami. It was easier to obey than to argue. He opened his shirt and lifted his undershirt. Dana bent low and examined his chest and belly.

  She nodded in satisfaction and sat down. "I thought so. I've noticed that you've been looking at my hair a lot. What do you think of it?"

  "I love it. It's lighter. As though the sun is bleaching it."

  "What sun? We've only had a few bright days in two months. Do you know what I thought, when you arrived through the snow at the Treasure Inn? I thought, he's been using protos on his hair. It's fuller and darker than it was before."

  "I have not." Art was indignant.

  Dana laughed at his expression. "It's a generation thing. You think that using conditioning protozoans in your follicles is one step away from head lice. But then I asked myself, where could he have got them? The supply of follicle protozoans dried up when Supernova Alpha hit. I know, because I did use them after I started to gray. They only live forty-five days, then they have to be replaced. Without them, my hair should be growing out gray. I looked in the mirror this morning at Indian Head. Not a sign. My hair is growing in the color it was when I was twenty. And there's this."

  She leaned forward and ran her finger along the line of Art's scar. He jerked forward. "That tickles!"

  "I bet it wouldn't have two months ago. It was scar tissue, with no feeling in it. Did it used to be a sort of purple-red?"

  "Of course it did. It still is." Art craned forward. It was impossible to get a head-on look at his own belly without a mirror.

  "No, it isn't. It doesn't look like a normal scar anymore. I thought so in the President's office, but it wasn't the time to mention it. Take a peek at this." Dana put down her empty glass, stood up, and removed her jacket. She pulled her blouse clear of her pants and opened it at the front.

  "Here." She squatted in front of Art and pointed to a vertical scar running from between her breasts to two inches above her navel. "Describe how that looks. Touch it, and tell me how it feels."

  Her face was averted. Art ran his finger gingerly along the line of the scar. "It's soft. And it's about the same color pink as your lips."

  "It didn't used to be. They carved a malignant tumor the size of a banana out of there, and because they wanted to be sure to get it all they didn't use microsurgery. The edges used to be rough. The color was an ugly purple. I hated to look at it. Now I don't mind at all. Feel your own scar. You can't see it properly, but put your hand on it. Isn't it the same as mine?"

  Art closed his eyes and ran a finger along the familiar line. "It's softer than it used to be. But not as soft as yours."

  "That's because I'm a woman, with a woman's skin. Take a look at this one. It used to be even worse."

  Dana stood up. She slid the waistband of her pants down until it was at the level of her hips. The revealed scar ran horizontally, below her navel and across the full width of her belly.

  "The Grand Canyon, I used to call it, rough and jagged and hard. Not anymore. Feel." She took Art's hand and ran it along the length of the scar. "New skin. The Institute doctors said to me, We'll give you a telomerase inhibitor. That will kill off your cancer cells because they can't reproduce when their telomeres become too short. Fine, I said. What happens after that? Well, we'll have to give you telomerase boosters, otherwise none of your cells will be able to divide and you'll develop progeria symptoms. All right, I said, and after that? What else will the stimulators do? Will they rejuvenate me just at the cell level? Or will there be effects on my whole system? Might I regress sexually to childhood? Might I get cancer again, all over me? Those were questions that nobody could answer. I remember Dr. Taunton telling me, 'We're not allowed to experiment anymore with animals; so I'm afraid that our experimental animals have to be humans.' That's you and me, and Seth, and Morgan Davis, and Lynn Seagrave, and all the rest of our therapy group. We are the test hamsters.

  "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

  Art was staring at the curve of Dana's belly. His fingers had run the length of the fading scar three times, stroking more than feeling. He blinked, and leaned back to look up at her.

  "I don't believe this." Dana pulled her clothes into position. "Look at you down t
here. You're horny as hell."

  She was right. Art couldn't deny the evidence. "I didn't mean—" he started.

  "You are one sick guy, do you know that." Dana dropped onto the sofa next to him. "I sashay into your room at the Treasure Inn, and all I have on is my shortest slip. I've always been told that I have sexy legs. So hint, hint. Result: nothing. Well, maybe you were exhausted from your journey. I come into your room the next night. We snuggle up together under the blankets. I curl up against you. Hint, hint—I mean, I'm in bed with you, what more could you ask? Result: you fall asleep. I wonder what's wrong, with me or with you. But today you get one finger on my scars, for Christ's sake, and it's whoosh, rocketship time."

  Telling the truth had worked this morning. Maybe it would work again. "Dana, I've always thought you were terrific—looks and courage and personality. I knew you must have young studs after you all the time. You said, since you were twelve. And here's me, a lot older, hobbling around with a bum knee. I thought I didn't have a chance."

  "I hate young studs. And you don't know how old you are. Neither do I. We might be on the brink of immortality, or we could have less than a year."

  Art stood up. He took Dana by the hands and lifted her to her feet. "Come on. I may be an idiot, but I'm not that big an idiot. Tell me something four or five times, and I usually get it. You look gorgeous." He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck. "And you smell wonderful."

  "I thought you were famous in your family for having no sense of smell? It's a good thing, too. I haven't had a shower in a week. Where are we going?"

  "We're regressing to sexual childhood, and I'm halfway there. We're going to the bathroom. Then I'm going to fill that giant tub, and I'm going to put you in it. And I'm going to soap you all over."

  "Ooh. That's more like it. What then?"

  "I'm going to rinse you and dry you and powder you."

  "And what happens after that?"