by Joe Haldeman
“Hello, again.” Spy had materialized between me and Paul. This time he looked like he’d been dipped in dark green plastic, less conspicuous.
It took me a moment to find my voice. “Are you always going to disappear when we need you most?”
“I have no control over that. As I told you.”
“You know what happened while you were gone?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help. I could have drawn their fire, at least, and returned it, like last time.”
“Do you know anything about bears?”
“Of course I do. You don’t have to worry about the ones on the road.”
“The big one looks pretty formidable.”
“Don’t worry about her.”
There was a sudden blast of gunfire, and I dove to the ground. Then another. It was coming from the berm where I’d just left Dustin.
Spy hadn’t moved. “Poor bear.”
I staggered back to my feet and limped up the berm, pulse hammering. Stringent powder smell.
Dustin was stretched out prone, rigid, sighting through the rifle-scope. A curl of blue smoke blew away from the muzzle.
The adult bear was lying inert on the slope coming up from the pavement. It had covered about half the distance before it fell.
The two cubs were sitting on the road, looking up at us.
“Don’t go down yet,” Dustin said without looking up.
“What happened?”
“She heard us or smelled us or something. Charged straight up the hill.”
“Spy knew it was going to happen.”
“I wasn’t surprised, myself.” He looked back at me. “What do you mean, ‘Spy’?”
He walked up next to me. “Hello, Dustin.”
“You just come and go as you please, don’t you?”
“No. As I was telling Carmen, I don’t have any control over it. I’m here, and then I’m nowhere for an instant, and then I’m back here, with something like a memory of what happened while I was away.”
“Not a ‘memory,’ ” I said. “Just ‘something like’ one.”
“Don’t I always speak carefully, Carmen? I can’t say the word exactly in English, or any other human language, but ‘memory’ is close.”
Dustin stood up with the rifle. “Better go check the bear.”
“Don’t worry. It’s dead.”
“You knew that before it happened,” I said.
“Not really. I suppose you might say ‘premonition.’ But really it’s no more supernatural than statistics. As we came closer in space-time to the bear’s death, it became more and more clear to me that the bear was going to die.”
I felt suddenly cold. “You knew back then. You disappeared at the overpass. Just before the gangers killed the little girl.”
“I did not know. Not exactly. Just before I went away, I had a feeling of certainty that death was on its way. Who or when, I didn’t know. Then I was gone.”
“Where?” Dustin said.
“I don’t know; everything goes dark for a while. I assume it’s like sleeping is for humans. But I’ve never slept.”
“You had this feeling,” I said, “but you didn’t say anything to us about it.”
“He did, though,” Dustin said. “You told us to watch out or something.”
“I said ‘trouble.’ Then everything went black. That’s when I disappeared, to you.”
“Like the Others wanted to get you out of harm’s way,” I said.
“That’s not it.” He gave me a peculiar searching look. “They don’t care any more about me than they do about you. Maybe less; if they lose me, they can make a new one.”
“Did you have a premonition back then?” Dustin said. “Like, ‘watch out; there’s a bunch of gangers on bikes headed this way’?”
“Not that specific. I did know . . . what I was about to say . . . was that danger was coming; death was coming. I knew it was an outside agency.”
“But the Others snatched you away before you could warn us,” I said.
“He did start to.”
“I wonder,” Spy said. “Another few seconds, and I might have realized we had to get off the road. We might have escaped their notice.”
He raised both hands in a human gesture, frustration or helplessness. “There are things I can’t know about the Others. It’s like . . . as if you made a human avatar, a robot, and gave it no sense of smell or taste . . . and then wired it so it couldn’t use the future tense, the subjunctive mood. That’s how handicapped I am, from their point of view. As if I knew that smell and taste existed, but had no experience of them and no vocabulary to describe them.”
“And the future-tense thing?” Dustin said.
“It’s not that they know the future, one hundred percent. But nothing ever surprises them, no matter how unlikely.”
“And you’re sort of like that,” I said.
He shrugged. “More so than you.”
“So what about tomorrow?” Dustin said. “We’ll make it to the farm?”
He shook his head and looked down the slope. The cubs were poking at their mother, trying to rouse her.
“I don’t know. I didn’t know there would be bears.”
15
Namir didn’t come back before nightfall. We stayed clustered around Paul, at least one of us awake and on guard, on ninety-minute shifts. I hoped the others slept better than I did.
The cubs had left their mother’s body before dark. Where did they go? Would they lead other bears back?
The woods were full of small noises. I guess they always are if you’re listening.
Spy disappeared sometime around three or four, while I was sleeping. Elza said nothing special happened; she just noticed he was gone.
We all got cold. When the sky started to lighten, we built a small fire, twigs, to thaw out our hands and feet. We warmed some water in a metal cup and shared bad instant coffee.
An hour or so after dawn, Namir showed up, riding a horse and leading a mule with a cart. He brought a bag of hard-cooked eggs and a bottle of wine. We attacked the eggs but left the wine for later.
Namir took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it carefully. It had been handled quite a bit. “That fellow with the telescope, Wham-O. He saw something on Mars, and made a drawing.”
It was a smudged pencil sketch, clear enough.
“That’s Syrtis Major,” I said, pointing to a shape like a child’s drawing of Africa on an Earth globe. “But what’s that?
Off the southern tip of the mass was a circle surrounding a cross. Paul’s eyes were open, and I showed it to him. “What do you think?”
He squinted at it. “Earth.”
“No,” I said. “It’s Mars.”
“The circle with the cross. That means Earth.”
“Of course,” Namir said. “The astronomer’s symbol. Could they have drawn that in the desert sand?”
“Walking in a big circle?” Elza said.
“Not walking,” Paul said. “Take heavy equipment. Hundreds of miles.”
“Or the Others might have done it,” Namir said. “Not a very big project, compared to blowing up the Moon.”
“But why would they?” I said, which produced a couple of shrugs.
“I think we did it,” Paul said, “we Martians. A signal to Earth, saying we’re still alive.”
“Let’s assume that’s it,” Namir said, smiling. “If the Others wanted to impress us, they’d do something less subtle.”
The Farmers had put an old mattress in the cart, and a length of plastic webbing to strap Paul in securely.
He wasn’t complaining about pain, but he looked bad. Elza offered him an ampoule, and when he didn’t say no, gave it to him in the shoulder. He was asleep by the time we had him secured.
Namir checked the height of the sun; two and a half fists. “We’ll make it before dark, no problem. Early afternoon.”
I hoped I wouldn’t be the problem. My leg was supporting my we
ight all right, and with the cart and mule I didn’t have to carry anything but the rifle.
The mule seemed to like me well enough, so I led it, or at least accompanied it, while Namir trotted ahead a couple of hundred yards at a time. Elza followed a ways behind me, and Dustin was the rear guard, hiding in wait a few minutes before following.
We went along the paved road for about two hours, uphill and then down. In a valley—actually a “saddle,” I suppose—we turned off at a place marked by a faded orange tape stapled around a tree. It was not so much a trail as a path that had once been mowed. “Bush-hogged” is the verb I remembered from my Florida childhood. I always had the image of a hairy wild pig with tusks, but I suppose a bush-hog was a kind of mowing machine.
My mulish colleague didn’t care for the new trail; the cart didn’t roll smoothly and tugged and jerked on its harness. After a minute it stopped cold, and whacking its flank just gave me a sore hand.
Namir came back and dismounted. “It didn’t like this part coming up.” With his belt knife he cut a supple branch from a sapling, and shook it rattling in the mule’s face, muttering at it in Hebrew. It grunted and started moving.
He handed the switch to me. “It remembered. How sweet.” He remounted the horse in one smooth motion. Riding boots and a holstered pistol. All he needed was a big hat, and maybe a tobacco cigarette.
He was obviously enjoying it. They’d had a couple of horses on his kibbutz, as well as camels. He said as a boy he liked the camels more; they were more like pets, with personality. But he hadn’t ridden one in about a hundred years. He’d ridden horses in the States, back when he led the simple life of an Israeli diplomat and spy.
What different paths we had followed, to wind up so closely entwined. Before he went into space he’d had a full career in that cosmopolitan universe, now as dead as Babylon. New York, Washington, Paris, Moscow, Tel Aviv—all dark and cold now, some in ruins. But he’d lived that life.
What goes through his head? In what languages?
He was a UN diplomat when I was a teenager stepping aboard the Space Elevator for what I thought would be a five-year adventure. While he was going around the world learning and doing, I was stuck in a small town in a cave on Mars. Not even a small town. The same 105 people waging eternal war against dust and boredom.
It never occurred to me that one day I would long for boredom. That I would give anything to be back in that cave with those plain, brave people.
Namir is bullet-brave. But he would have done well in Mars, too. The starship we shared didn’t have one hundredth the floor space we enjoyed in Mars. But with one exception, we stayed away from each other’s throats. I wouldn’t have called it courage then.
The mule’s name was Jerry. I whispered endearments and scratched his rump with the stick when we had to pick up the pace. Namir’s horse waltzed nervously through the underbrush, but Jerry just plodded along, perhaps conserving strength, and kept up well enough.
We stopped before mid-day to rest and eat. Namir emptied all the cartridges out of one magazine, which had fallen into a stream. He cleaned and polished each round before thumbing it back into place.
Thirty rounds. So much of our world was numbers. Five magazines with thirty rounds each. A double-barreled shotgun with nine. I had twenty-seven left for my pistol and two twenty-round clips for the rifle. Two flare pistols. There were seven ampoules left in the first-aid kit, for three people in pain.
My leg was stiffening up, but I could walk. I hoped they had more ampoules back at Funny Farm, but didn’t want to ask. As an experiment, I took a stick of pain gum after we ate. It would probably work fine if I’d been shot in the mouth. It made my tongue disappear, but didn’t do much for the groin.
After about an hour, we got to the stream that fed the pool behind Funny Farm, but we didn’t follow it. It was a couple of miles shorter to cut through the woods, and it was a good thing we went that way. If we’d followed the stream, we might have been too late.
We were a little more than a mile from home when we heard the first crackle of gunfire. It echoed, but there was no mistaking which direction it was coming from.
Namir turned in the saddle and shouted at me: “Stay here with Paul! Get off the trail!” Good idea.
He snapped the shotgun closed. “Wait until the shooting stops,” he said. “If we don’t, if I don’t come back, Elza, you come check.”
“Maybe you should wait,” Dustin said.
“Yeah, maybe I should.” He nudged the horse hard with his heels, and it trotted forward.
“Good luck?” I said. Are soldiers supposed to wish each other luck? The horse was going pretty fast when they disappeared around the bend.
“We should get hidden,” Dustin said. He stroked the mule’s nose. “You’ll be quiet, won’t you?” It tilted its head toward him and wisely didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
The shooting continued as we worked the cart and mule through the brush. It was sporadic, not the steady firefight roar I remembered from Armstrong and Camp David. Bullets getting rare on both sides.
Jerry had always been whickering and grunting at me, but it was quiet as we struggled up a small hill. Dustin’s innate leadership abilities, or perhaps even a mule knows that when people are shooting guns, you don’t want to draw attention. When we got to the top of the rise, he put his big head on my shoulder and breathed hard, but otherwise stayed quiet.
“I’ll go up on the other side,” Dustin said. “Hold fire if I start shooting; I’ll try to draw them away.” He looked at me. “If you have to leave Paul, do it.”
“No,” I said.
“They won’t hurt him. They need him.”
“No. We don’t know who ‘they’ are.”
“If it was you in the cart,” Elza said, “we’d stay with you. So get the fuck over there and protect us.”
He started to say something but turned and went down the slope.
“So are two husbands twice as much trouble,” I whispered to her, “or four times?”
“Eight. These two.” She looked down at Paul. “Hope he’ll be all right.”
“Namir, too.”
She nodded. “He always comes out on top. ‘Always’ meaning so far.” Surprisingly, she knuckled away a tear. “We’re lucky to have them at all.”
“Yeah. What a week.”
She sat down heavily and looked at her weapon, propping it up on the cast. “Piece of shit,” she said neutrally, and pulled the slide back slowly twice, then fast three times. Five cartridges ejected.
The mule stirred restlessly at the sound.
“Maybe you should have swapped,” I said. Her gun had jammed during the melee with the cyclists, but I only found out later; she’d cleared it by whacking it with the cast, and emptied the rest of the clip at them. Then picked up a pistol and made sure the enemy were all dead. Meanwhile, I was distracted by trying not to bleed out.
“Yeah, maybe.” She picked up the loose rounds and wiped them off with her shirt tail and snicked them back into the magazine. “Devil you know. I was tempted by the fancy ones those bicycle assholes had. But I know this one, and we have ammo—”
In the distance, a sustained hammering of automatic fire. Two thumps that must have been a shotgun. Then rifles and pistols crackling.
“Sounds like he got there,” she said.
“Should we . . .”
“Hold our position, yeah.” Jerry made a chuckling noise, and I stroked his ears.
It was like overhearing an argument between machines, angry plosives with a whine now and then. A bullet ricocheting from metal? No, I’d heard it in the woods before.
We should’ve taken the bulletproof vest from the biker leader. It was all covered with blood and brains, though. So it hadn’t done him much good. But I had to think what an easy target Namir would present, riding slowly on horseback.
At least smart bullets wouldn’t work. Though they seemed to have plenty of dumb ones.
It was quiet for a minu
te, two minutes, three. “Maybe that’s it,” Elza said.
Whatever “it” was. I looked across the shallow draw and couldn’t see Dustin, which I supposed was good. “So we stay here?”