Aftermath

by Charles Sheffield

" 'In the long run, we are all dead.' That takes on a new meaning. Could it wipe out life on Earth?"

  "Oh, I very much doubt that. Single-celled and oceanic forms will presumably survive. But it might make life impossible for humans."

  "Actually, that tends to be my primary concern. Sponges and oysters will have to look after themselves." Saul turned to Grace Mackay. "See if you can find Dr. Vronsky, would you, and ask him to join us. And, Yasmin, tell the people waiting for me that I have to cancel."

  "They include the French Ambassador, sir. You know what he's like. He will not be pleased."

  "Life is tough all over. Give him a bottle of California wine, that should silence him one way or another. Dr. Oldfield, you paint a bleak picture. Is there anything at all that can be done to prepare ourselves for what's coming?"

  "Many things. And fortunately, we have plenty of time. If you are interested only in human survival, dirt and rock provide excellent protection. It's not much of an answer, but we could follow Pearl Lazenby's example and move underground."

  "Triumph of the Mole People. 'Then will I headlong run into the earth.' I don't like that answer at all, it didn't work for Faust. What else?"

  "I don't like it, either. The best solution is to stop the particle storm from hitting us."

  "How would you propose to do that? Move the Earth?"

  "No. Build a shield. Out in space."

  "Wait a minute, Wilmer." Celine could see he was getting fired up, and the President's eyes were popping. Another man, a heavily built stranger with prominent brow ridges, had entered the room with General Mackay, but it was not the time to stop for introductions. She went on, "You never talked about this to any of us."

  "That's because nobody ever asked me what we might be able to do." Wilmer turned again to Saul. "It sounds impossible at first, because the shield would have to be so big—about ten thousand miles across, and placed right between Earth and Alpha Centauri. But it's not nearly as bad as it sounds. You wouldn't make a solid shield. The good thing about the particles on their way here is that almost all of them are ionized—they carry charges. So you can divert them with an electromagnetic field. The shield I'm talking about can be a mesh of superconducting wires, thin as gossamer but carrying currents. Shape it correctly, and the rain of particles slide right around the lines of force. They don't hit the shield, and they don't hit the Earth."

  The man by the door said, "What about momentum transfer?"

  Wilmer nodded. "A valid question. I don't know the answer, but maybe we could balance it against gravitational forces."

  "I think the forces would sum rather than cancel. Maybe use solar radiation pressure?"

  "Dr. Vronsky," Saul interrupted. "Are you saying that this idea is technically feasible?"

  The newcomer frowned. "Technically feasible? Assuredly. Admittedly, there are a thousand details to be worked out, but the technical problems are not the difficult ones. Engineering is another matter. A shield of this kind would require a space construction effort many thousands of times greater than has ever before been attempted."

  "And thousands of times more expensive."

  "Assuredly. It would call for global cooperation, and global resources."

  "That's my department. I'd like you and Dr. Oldfield to begin at once with the 'engineering details.' " Saul stood up. He held out his hand to Wilmer, and then to Celine. "You've not had much of a welcome to Washington. If it's any consolation, no one in my whole life has ever given me as much to think about in so short a meeting. I will feel honored if you can have dinner with me at the White House tomorrow."

  It was a dismissal, no matter how cordial. Somehow Celine was outside the door, with Wilmer at her side.

  He said, "I didn't get the chance to tell him about the other possible ways you could protect from the supernova particle storm."

  "No, you didn't. And I'll tell you another thing, you're not going to talk about them tomorrow night. How often do you get a chance for dinner with the President?"

  "And the other thing, about Supernova Alpha."

  "The fact that it's impossible, according to current theories? I don't think you'll get far with him on that one. You don't get far with me."

  "You don't understand. It's not just close to impossible or marginally impossible. It's flat-out, throw-away-all-of-physics impossible."

  "So what are you suggesting?"

  "That it wasn't a natural event. That something gave Alpha Centauri a helping hand."

  "Wilmer." Celine sighed. "Let's put our problems in a stack. First priority: try and get the world here back to normal. Second priority: worry about what will happen fifty years from now. And you know what? There's only room in my stack for two problems at a time."

  "If somebody or something could cause a star to go supernova—"

  "Not today, sweetheart. Not with me, at least. Try it on Dr. Vronsky." Celine went to the window. "As for me, I'm going outside there. Want to come with me?"

  "Sure. But the President told us—I mean, Dr. Vronsky is probably keen to begin work. I mean—"

  "That's all right." Celine stretched up to give him a kiss on the cheek. "I was just checking, to see if you were back to normal. You are. You go play games with Dr. Vronsky."

  "But what about you?"

  "I'll be fine. I'm going to walk in the sunshine, and I'm going to daydream that I'm safe home on Earth, and I'm going to imagine that all my responsibilities are over. And then I'm going back to being the same insecure, nervous worrier that I always wanted to be."

  * * *

  Yasmin hung back when the others left. Saul gave her an odd look, but he didn't tell her to leave. Since the night at Indian Head they had yet to redefine their relationship.

  "I suppose it's none of my business, sir. But I wondered what you did with the information about Tricia Goldsmith."

  "Do you honestly believe that it's none of your business?"

  "I suppose I don't. Or I wouldn't dare ask you."

  "In that case, I'll tell you. I haven't done a thing—not even run a check on why Crossley and Himmelfarb went out of business. But I've thought about it more than you would believe." He stared at her steadily. "You're smart, and hardworking, and ambitious, Yasmin. You may have what it takes to go all the way in politics. Would you like to find out if you do?"

  "Yes, sir. Unless I have to do something, well, you know—"

  "Nothing illegal—though in politics it wouldn't be a first. You told me you'd like to learn all I know. I'm going to give you that chance. There will be a meeting, here tomorrow afternoon. It's probably going to be the most difficult session in my life."

  "Do you want me to attend it?"

  "You can't. That would be an absolute impossibility. I want you to watch and listen, and we'll talk about it afterward. I'll have a secret camera here in this office."

  "Won't whoever you meet with expect that?"

  "I'm sure they will. It won't make any difference. I'll be the one making the pitch, they'll mostly be listening."

  "Very good, sir. Is that all?"

  "Send Auden in. I need to have a word with him, too."

  "Yes, sir." Yasmin began to walk out, but she hesitated at the door. "You know, if there's any way that I can help you to deal with Tricia, I'll do it gladly."

  "Don't tempt me." He smiled. "Not yet, at any rate. There's too much going on."

  "It's an open offer." Yasmin walked through to the outer office. Auden Travis stood by his desk with a distressed expression on his face. He was holding a telcom receiver. She said, "Are you all right, Auden?"

  "No, I'm not. I was, until half a minute ago. I just got a call. The President's mother died twenty minutes ago. I'll have to tell him."

  "He wants to see you anyway. Shall I tell the crew at Andrews to prepare Air Force One?"

  "Better do that. Say, for a takeoff in half an hour."

  Yasmin looked after Auden as he left. She was upset by the news, as he was, but her first shameful reaction had been a diff
erent one. I hope Saul gets back by tomorrow afternoon, so I can be in on that special private meeting.

  Is that what it takes to go all the way in politics? Ambition first, everything else back in the pack?

  And if it is, would any sane human want to have what it takes?

  42

  Auden Travis had been in a huge hurry. He stared at Art and Dana as though he had never seen them before in his life. Then he frowned and said: "Oh, yes. On the street south of the White House. Be there by eight forty-five. There's a small change, but they're expecting you. You'll have to tell the driver where you want to be dropped off, I wasn't sure."

  Art and Dana had been up since seven, but couldn't find Auden or anyone else until it was past eight-thirty. They rushed away at once. By the time they passed the White House checkout points and were through the south gate, a far-off church bell had struck the quarter hour.

  They surveyed the street. A dozen vehicles were parked there, but nothing remotely like a cement truck. Dana was saying, "Do you think it went without us?" when a frail, birdlike man in a dark green uniform and peaked cap came up behind her and said, "You the two for Harrisburg?"

  He looked as though a random gust of wind would be enough to send him airborne. Dana turned. "Yes. Except that we want to be dropped off near Thurmont."

  He pointed his sharp nose at her and cupped a hand to his ear. "Eh? Damned implant don't work no more." "We want to be dropped off near Thurmont."

  "Eh?"

  "THURMONT. WE HAVE TO GET OFF AT THURMONT."

  "Ah. You are the ones, then. Let's get moving. There was a change of plans, see, I'm supposed to be up in Harrisburg by midday. In a pig's ear."

  He led them to a long, sleek limousine with tinted windows.

  "This?" Art said.

  "Eh? Oh, yes. I know it's old, and it drives like a barge. But once we're out on the open road you'll see it goes just fine."

  "This is luxury," Dana said. "We thought we'd be riding in with a load of cement."

  She and Art climbed into the back. The wall between the rear compartment and the driver had space for a bar and entertainment unit, now both long vanished. The seats were comfortable, but the brown fabric covers were old and worn.

  So, it seemed, was the engine. They moved away in a cloud of blue smoke that a year ago would have made the pollution monitors of the city's AVC system spring into action and turn off the offending vehicle's engine. Today the limousine rolled on unimpeded. The only obstacles to progress were the traffic cops, unused to controlling with hand signals a flow of improvised methods of transportation that ranged from handcarts to bulldozers. Art noticed that every driver of a motor vehicle seemed to be eighty years old.

  The weather had become bright and pleasant after the storm of the previous night, and the gusty wind had little effect on the heavy car. But the signs of recent devastation were everywhere: burned-out buildings, shattered storefronts, hulks of useless vehicles waiting to be towed away, ominous body-sized areas marked off on roads and sidewalks. In spite of everything, people were on the streets in increasing numbers. It was enough to suggest that, in this area at least, the worst effects of Supernova Alpha were over. Recovery was finally on the way.

  Art and Dana sat, side by side and silent, all the way through the northern suburbs and up onto I-270. Finally she sighed and said, "All right, I know I talked too much last night. I shouldn't have gone on and on that way, and I'm sorry."

  Art turned and stared. "Do you mean about your son? I didn't mind at all. I knew how hard it was for you to tell me what he did, and why he's hiding out down south under a false name. But it just made me feel closer to you. I liked that. It wouldn't be fair if you had to listen to me, and I didn't listen to you. And I did my own share of talking—more than I ever have to anyone."

  "But now you're wishing you hadn't."

  "I'm not."

  "I think you are. You haven't said two words to me in over an hour. And your face says you're upset."

  "I am. But it's not with you. I thought last night was wonderful, all of it. I'm worried about today. What will happen when we get to Catoctin Mountain Park?"

  "I've been relying on you to answer that. I've never been there, and it's your home ground. You don't think Seth and Oliver Guest will already be up there, do you?"

  "I doubt it. They would have to have traveled awful fast. But even if they're not there, we have to answer some questions. I guess I'm having second thoughts. When we were at the Treasure Inn, it seemed obvious. We had to wake Oliver Guest, so he could tell us how to continue our treatments. I hope he does that. But suppose he comes through, and we get what we want. What are we going to do with Oliver Guest afterward?"

  "I don't know." Dana looked forward. The glass partition between the front and back of the car was intact, and the driver was unlikely to hear her even if she screamed. Even so, she lowered her voice. "We can't just let him go. We'll have to turn him in to the authorities."

  "I agree. But what will Oliver Guest have to say about that? He must have thought about it. He knows that whether he helps us or not, his only real hope is to escape and hide. We can't protect him forever. He may be crazy, but he's not stupid. I'm beginning to think we were crazy, waking him up."

  "So what do you want to do?"

  "A couple of things. First of all, I don't want you there when I go to my house. Suppose that Oliver Guest went there with Seth, then found some way to overpower him? He could be there now, waiting to dispose of us, too."

  He knew before he finished speaking that he had made a mistake. Dana's face changed from concerned to furious.

  "What century do you think you're in, Art Ferrand? You've got this poor helpless little female, so the big strong man has to make sure she stays out of danger. Is that it? Well, your way of thinking was old-fashioned before I was born—before you were born. You're not Sir Galahad, and I'm not the Lady of Shalott."

  "Sir Lancelot. You're mixing knights."

  "Fuck the knights. You know what I mean. I had as much to do with pulling Oliver Guest out of cold storage as you did. If there's danger ahead, I helped make it."

  "All right." Art held up his hands. "I surrender. It's just that I care what happens to you. I've got a personal interest in seeing that parts of you don't get damaged."

  "That's fair. It works both ways. I'm not finished with you, either. But it doesn't mean you protect me. It means we share dangers, and protect each other."

  "I think it means we try to avoid danger. When we can't, you want to be in with me every step of the way. I accept that—even if I don't really like it. But I still don't want to head straight to my house. We might find out when it's too late that Oliver Guest has killed and eaten Seth and has a booby trap waiting so we can be dessert."

  "So what's the answer? Do you have one?"

  She was much calmer. Art risked a hand (friendly, not protective) on her knee, and it wasn't smacked away. "Funnily enough I do have an answer, though I didn't two minutes ago. We don't go straight to my house."

  "Where do we go?"

  "Somewhere close by. And we enlist reinforcements."

  * * *

  Joe Vanetti and Ed O'Donnell were surprisingly restrained in their reactions. Joe, at one point in Art's description of his actions over the past two weeks, said, "You dumb shit." Ed confined himself to shaking his head and staring at Dana's calves. They were spattered with mud from the mile walk along a sticky dirt road, but Art didn't think that the mud was the main object of interest.

  He was almost done with his story—minimizing the dangerous and experimental nature of the telomod therapy itself—when Ed's wife, Helen, appeared. She greeted Art, was introduced to Dana, and rounded on Ed. "They've been here an hour, and you've never offered them a bite to eat?"

  "They've got a drink."

  "And you think that's the same thing, you drunken Irish sot? Come on, dear"—to Dana—"we'll be through to the back kitchen, and leave these daft devils to talk. They're worse than a
nimals. When there's women around the men won't feed themselves, and if we don't feed them they turn on us."

  Ed waited until they were gone, then said, "That's it. Your friend's in for the third degree. By the time Helen's done with her, Dana's back teeth will be counted and numbered. She won't have a secret mole or birthmark left."

  "He knows where those are already." Joe nodded toward Art. "Look at the man. Did you ever see such a picture of mindless sexual satisfaction?"

  "Ah, don't be hard on him. It's been a long time coming."

  Ed and Joe, not for the first time, spoke as though Art were not in the room.

  "Only he's trying to make up for it all at once," Ed went on. "It's a miracle he's not gone blind."

  "She must be the blind one."

  "Not only that, you can see that it agrees with him. He looks healthier. How long's it been since you had your leg over, Art?"

  "What do you think of Dana?" Art, with mass murderers half a step behind or maybe ahead of him, interrupted with a more important question.

  "She's great," Joe said. "Sweet and sexy and sensible. Just what you need—what you've needed for all these years. Though I can't think what she's doing hanging around with you." Ed nodded agreement, and Joe went on, "And why you'd talk a nice, sane woman like that into the maddest scheme I've ever heard of, that's beyond me. Oliver Guest, for God's sake. And by the sound of it, your friend Seth Parsigian's as bad or worse. Why didn't you go the whole way and take Frankenstein along to wake up Dracula?"

  No point in telling Joe and Ed that Dana had been as keen on the idea as he was—or that Seth had pushed both of them. No point in mentioning that nothing in the past couple of weeks had been normal, not even here. On the trek up to the house, Art had noticed three ominous crosses on top of piles of dirt, a few hundred yards off the main road. Catoctin Mountain Park seemed quiet, but Supernova Alpha had left its marks of violence everywhere, not just in the cities.

  "All right, so I was an idiot." Art refused the offer of another drink. "I can admit that, and it doesn't help me. Here's my problem: I don't know if Seth and Oliver Guest are dead or alive. I don't know where they are, and I don't know what they're doing. What I do know is that Seth has my address. He got that, and the location of my house, from one of the maps I had. I want to go to my place and find out if they're already there. If they're not, I'll stay in my house—"