Ancient Shores

by Jack McDevitt

  “I don’t know if it’s going to have any kind of impact up there. I was afraid—”

  “Where’s the boat now?”

  “They’re outside loading it onto a trailer.”

  “Wells?”

  “No. It’s government money. These guys are from the Treasury.”

  Deputy U.S. Marshal Elizabeth Silvera served the court order on Adam Sky. She was in her late forties, tall, rangy, impersonal. Her black hair was just beginning to show streaks of gray.

  She was accompanied by Chief Doutable.

  Adam’s office in the security station was small and cramped. Its walls, which until yesterday had been bare save for a tribal drum and a framed picture of his wife, were now covered with weapons. Bows, antique rifles, Adam’s old service revolver, whatever he’d been able to find had been put on display.

  Silvera extracted a document from her jacket. “Mr. Sky,” she said, “A federal court order requiring that this premises, the Roundhouse, and everything in it, save personal property, be remanded into the custody of the federal government.

  “The action is necessitated,” she continued, “because the area has been determined to be a public hazard.”

  When the security chief made no move to accept the court order, she laid it on his desk. “You have until midnight tonight to comply.” Her tone changed, as if she were offering friendly advice: “The sooner you clear the site, Mr. Sky, the better it will be for all concerned.”

  “We won’t be leaving,” Adam said coolly.

  She met his eyes. “You don’t have that option. You can’t defy the court.”

  “This is our property. If you come back to take it from us, come armed.”

  Silvera’s eyes hardened. “I am sorry,” she said. “You have until midnight.” She turned, walked to the door, and paused. “Under the circumstances I should remind you that resisting a federal court order is a felony. I have no discretion here, Mr. Sky. I have no choice but to enforce the order. By whatever means necessary.”

  Walker had been waiting for the call from Adam. When it came, he listened intently to the security chief’s narrative. When he asked for instructions, the chairman hesitated. “Adam,” he said, “how far are you prepared to go?”

  “I do not wish to accept this.”

  “Are you prepared to defend the ridge?”

  “Yes. I’d prefer not to. But I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “But,” said Walker, “armed resistance will not produce a victory.”

  “Then what do you suggest? That we give in again?”

  “The real question is whether we can find a way to keep our hold on the wilderness world.”

  “If the federals are prepared to come against us in force, I think not.”

  “So,” said Walker, “we can take our money and end it here. Or we can fight with no hope of victory.”

  “Yes,” said Adam. “Those seem to be our choices.”

  The chairman glanced around his office. The walls, the battered windows, even the fireplace seemed somehow mementos of captivity. “I agree. We must fight.”

  “Will you send us help?”

  “I will come,” he said. “But the police will not be so stupid as to allow your brothers and sisters to join you. Talk with those who are with you. Find out who will stay.”

  “I will talk to them now,” said Adam.

  “Good. I’m on my way.” He hung up and stared at the phone.

  It rang again.

  He picked it up. “Hello?”

  An unfamiliar voice asked to speak with James Walker.

  “That’s my name.”

  “James, I’m Walter Asquith. I’ve heard what’s been happening.”

  “I don’t think I know you.”

  “No matter. I know you. Listen, not everybody in this country’s getting stampeded. I thought maybe you could use some help.”

  As Asquith talked, Walker recalled one of Jason Fleury’s remarks. You have more friends than you know.

  “And you are all going to stay?” demanded April.

  “Yes,” Adam said. “We will defend the ridge.”

  Max was shocked. “Does the Chairman know about this?”

  “The Chairman ordered it.”

  “My God, Adam,” he said, “you’re talking about shooting it out with United States marshals?”

  “That’s crazy,” said April. “You’ll all wind up dead. What we need to do is talk to a lawyer.”

  “I don’t believe,” said Adam, “that talking to a lawyer would accomplish anything. Anyway, it’s not my decision.”

  Her eyes got very wide. “Adam,” she said, “the Chairman would not ask you to do any such thing. There’s a misunderstanding here somewhere.”

  Adam showed no emotion. “You can ask him when he comes,” he said.

  Max could not believe he was listening to this conversation. “What do you think this is,” he demanded, “some sort of kids’ game? You can’t tell the federal government to take a hike.”

  “We’ve had some experience doing just that,” said Adam.

  “Like hell. Your grandfather, maybe. Not you.” He looked through the window at Dale Tree, who was talking with a group of visitors. “Or anybody else here, for that matter.”

  Adam looked directly at Max. “We are now at a point where we have to ask ourselves what we really stand for. Everything is about to happen again, Max. We’re not going to allow that. If we have to stand our ground and make them kill us, then that is what we will do.”

  29

  Where can I go

  That I might live forever?

  —Omaha poem

  “Testing, one, two,” said Andrea.

  “That’s good.” Keith sounded excited. “Listen, we aren’t going to lose you up there tonight, are we?”

  “I hope not.” Andrea thought she sounded confident. Completely in charge.

  “Okay,” said Keith. “We’re doing a special lead-in, and we’ll be cutting away to the network before we actually go over to you. So you’ll be on right from the top.”

  “Good.”

  “As far as we can tell, you’ll be the entire media show. No one’s being allowed up the road.”

  “Well, I guess this is my night to become famous.”

  “I hope so. And listen, Hawk, take care of—” Static erupted.

  Andrea switched to her alternate frequency. Same problem. The sons of bitches were jamming her. Unbelievable.

  She picked up a telephone. And waited for a dial tone that never came.

  Joe Rescouli had been driving for almost twelve hours when he and Amy and his sister-in-law Teresa turned north onto Route 32 to travel the last few miles to the Roundhouse. They had come from Sacramento and had covered the ground in three days. Teresa was a particle physicist. Although Joe wasn’t sure precisely what that meant, he knew she had a good job and did not have to work hard. He admired that. “She gets paid for what she knows,” he’d told his friends down at the bottling plant. Joe, on the other hand, had never seen a day when he did not have to slave for every nickel.

  Teresa had talked for months about nothing but the Roundhouse, and her enthusiasm had so overwhelmed Joe and Amy that when she started thinking about flying up here to visit the site, they’d all wanted to come, and it was a lot cheaper to drive.

  So they were here, and Teresa was saying how she thought they should stay on the ridge until it got dark so they could see the structure glow. Amy was all for it. Amy was always in favor of anything her sister wanted to do. Joe understood that his wife entertained more than a few regrets about her marriage. She never said anything, but he could see it in her eyes. Had she not married Joe, she might also have been working at a place like Triangle Labs, with her own office and a doctorate and a sense of really going somewhere in the world.

  It was already getting dark in the shadow of the ridge, and a fierce wind beat against the ancient Buick. He knew about the hairpin access road and didn’t much like having to navig
ate at dusk with this kind of wind blowing. But the sisters were excited, so there would be no peace until they’d seen what they’d come to see.

  “There,” said Amy.

  A board had been erected by the side of the highway. It had a big yellow arrow on it, and it said The Roundhouse. But someone had drawn a line through the middle of the sign and printed Closed on it.

  “That can’t be,” said Teresa. “It’s supposed to be open until sundown.”

  Just around the bend they came across the access road, but it was blocked by a barrier. A police cruiser was parked to one side, and a line of cars was being waved on. Joe eased in and rolled down the window. A policeman gestured impatiently at them.

  “What’s wrong, Officer?” Joe asked.

  “Please keep moving, folks. It’s shut down.”

  “Okay,” said Joe, trying to hide his gratification. “What time does it open in the morning?”

  “It won’t. It’s closed permanently.”

  “Closed permanently?” said Teresa. Joe could hear the disbelief in her voice. “Why? Officer, we’ve come a long way.” Her voice was getting shrill.

  “They don’t tell us much, ma’am. The courts have ordered it shut down. Safety hazard.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll have to ask you to move on.” He stepped away, waiting for them to pull out. Another car drifted in behind them. The policeman sighed.

  At that moment a black 1988 Ford, coming from the north, pulled up to the barrier. The driver was alone. An elderly Indian, Joe thought. Then he watched indignantly as they opened up. The Ford went in, and the roadblock was replaced.

  “Hey,” said Teresa. “What’s going on? How come he got in?”

  “Official vehicle,” said the cop.

  Joe glared, but the cop didn’t seem to care. He looked at Joe and pointed to the highway. “Somebody’s going to get a letter,” Joe said, then rolled up the window and hit the gas.

  Walker had anticipated trouble at the blockade. All the way over from the reservation, he had been certain they would deny him entrance. Maybe even arrest him. But they had let him through. And as he started up the access road he understood. He was old, and they were hoping he could rein in the more aggressive spirits at the Roundhouse. In any case, wherever he was, they did not see him as a threat.

  Cautiously he negotiated the curves, noting a liberal supply of police scattered along the road. The trees thinned out after a while, and he emerged finally on top of the ridge. There were only a half-dozen cars parked in the lot.

  The Roundhouse glistened in the fading light. It spoke somehow to the spirit. Its lines were curved and uncluttered, and he knew that its designers had loved the world as it was then, as it still was on the other side of the port. He would have liked to speak with those who had traveled so far to sail virgin seas. It seemed almost as if they had known what the condition of the Sioux would be and had left the woodland as a gift.

  Adam stepped from the security hut and waved.

  Walker parked the car and got out. “Good to see you, Adam,” he said.

  “And you, Chairman.” Adam started to say something but hesitated.

  “What is it?” asked Walker.

  “The site is not easily defensible. Not with a handful of people.”

  “Would you prefer to withdraw?”

  “No,” he said. “I am not suggesting that.”

  A helicopter drifted in low and kicked up dust from the excavation ditches. “Photo recon,” said Adam.

  Walker nodded. “They’ve sealed off the access road. What are you suggesting?”

  “That we take the initiative. That we not wait for them to hit us.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  They’d reached the security station and hesitated by the door. “We could start by dropping a few trees on the access road. That’ll at least slow them down.”

  “There are police stationed along the road.”

  “I know,” said Adam.

  And Walker understood. The police did not look as if they believed any serious deployment by the defenders would take place. This was, after all, an area where people traditionally did not shoot each other. A simultaneous series of ambushes could clear the road. And a couple of well-positioned snipers might hold it if some trees were dropped. It might work. “No,” he said.

  “Chairman, we cannot sit here and simply wait for the attack to come.”

  “And if you kill a few policemen, do you think the end will be any different?”

  Anger rose in Adam’s dark eyes. “If we are to travel beyond the great river, we should not go unescorted.”

  “No,” Walker said again. “Spill blood once, and there will be no end to it until we are all dead. I prefer a better outcome.”

  “And how do you hope to arrange a better outcome?”

  “I’ve been in touch with well-placed friends. Help is on the way.”

  “Well-placed friends?” Adam smiled. “When have the Sioux known such friends?”

  “Possibly longer than you think, Adam. It may be that you have simply not recognized them.”

  They went into the security station. Little Ghost and Sandra Whitewing got to their feet. Both looked calm. Little Ghost was in his late twenties. The chairman knew him, had always worried about his future, because Little Ghost had a wife and two sons but no job. Today it looked as if that would no longer be a matter for concern.

  And Sandra, who had once come to him for help when her father drove his car into a gas pump. Her dark eyes shone, and it struck him that she was extraordinarily lovely. Somehow, over the years, he had failed to notice. Too busy negotiating his own narrow track through the world. Pity.

  She worked in a restaurant that catered to reservation visitors. He had heard that she was engaged to a white man, a carpenter or an electrician or something, who lived in Devil’s Lake. She was not yet twenty-one. He considered ordering her off the ridge but knew that would be unfair, both to her and to her brothers. She had chosen to make her stand, and he could not deprive her of that privilege.

  Weapons were stacked around the room. M—16s. At least they had some firepower.

  “We also have a hand-held rocket launcher,” said Adam. “They will not take us without paying a price.”

  “Who else is here?” asked Walker.

  “Will Pipe, George Freewater, and Andrea are in the Roundhouse. Max and Dr. Cannon haven’t left yet, but I’m sure they will do so shortly. They’re with visitors.”

  “There are still visitors?” asked Walker, surprised.

  “Three from the last tour.”

  He lowered himself into a chair. “We need to talk about the defense.”

  The door opened, and Max came in. “I wouldn’t have believed this was possible,” he said apologetically. “I’ve been trying to call Senator Wykowski, but it looks as if the lines are down.”

  Walker smiled. “They don’t want us talking to anyone,” he said. “But I don’t think it matters. We are way beyond senatorial intervention.” The chairman felt sorry for Max, who seemed to be a man uncertain of purpose. Courage is not easy to summon when one is at war with oneself.

  He looked through the window at the sunset. It saddened him to realize he might not see another.

  April was talking with the departing researchers, wondering whether they would be the last to have crossed to Eden. They were Cecil Morin, an overweight, softlooking middle-aged bacteriologist from the University of Colorado; Agatha Greene, a Harvard astrophysicist who had been overcome by the wonders of the Horsehead; and Dmitri Rushenko, a biologist from SmithKline Beecham Pharmaceuticals.

  “I’d like to move over there,” said Greene.

  “Is it true,” asked Morin, “that the government is about to take this place?”

  April nodded. “Apparently so.”

  Morin shook his head sadly. “God help us all.”

  Rushenko opened the door to his car. “You’re in the right
, you know.” His accent was New York. Long Island, she thought.

  “We know.”

  “I hate to think of the port in the hands of the government,” he continued. “Damned shame. I wish I could help.” He got into his car and started the engine.

  “Well, I’ll tell you something,” said Greene. “If the decision were mine, they’d have to take it from me.”

  April held the door while she got in. “We intend to stay,” she said, using the pronoun figuratively, for she had no intention of staying. But it felt good to say so. “And you’re welcome to stay with us, Agatha, if you wish.” She intended it as a joke or bravado or something and immediately felt embarrassed by the woman’s confusion.

  “I would like to, April,” the astrophysicist said. “I really would. But I have a husband and a little girl.” She blushed.

  The others said nothing.

  April watched for her chance to talk privately with the chairman. He was out with Adam and the others, bent into a severe wind, touring the mounds of earth that rose around the rim of the excavation pit. Those mounds, she gathered, would constitute the first line of defense.

  “Max,” she said, “why are they doing this? What’s the point?”

  Max was coming to hate the Roundhouse and everything associated with it. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing.”

  She knew Max was waiting anxiously for her to agree to leave. He’d warned her that going down the access road in the dark past nervous police entailed risks.

  It was dark now.

  “I hate to leave them here,” she said, initiating another cycle of the conversation they’d been having over and over for the last hour.

  “So do I.”

  “I wish there were something we could do.”

  “Why do they insist on doing this? There’s nothing to gain.”

  At eight o’clock they killed the security lights, but the churned-up ground was still visible in the glow from the Roundhouse. “Too bad they can’t throw a tarp over that thing,” said Max.

  When the chairman left Adam and retreated to the security station, she judged the time was right. “Max,” she said, “let’s go talk to him.”