Oh, for heaven’s sake. She wasn’t his sister, she was the woman he loved.
He began again, feeling cold drips from his wet hair running down his back.
My darling Jo,
Darling? Did he have the right to call her that? Didn’t it imply some significant history of intimacy?
He banged his fist on the pad, ripped off another sheet and threw it away.
Why was this so difficult? How could it be simpler to synthesize a new species of xenobot than it was to communicate with a woman?
This wasn’t the first letter he’d written to her, not by a long shot. It had been three months since he’d been imprisoned, after all, and his captors hadn’t been complete monsters. He’d been given a pleasant suite in a nearby Sheraton and they’d agreed to let him write to his friends at the farmhouse and to receive letters from them—though he knew they were censored. He’d even been allowed to visit with Patrick, Ellie and Max—though that was a mixed blessing.
Jo had written to him several times and he kept the letters beside his bed to read and reread, looking for and interpreting any signs of affection. He wished she’d been a bit more demonstrative in her declared feelings, so he had to make do with “Much love” and “All my love”—phrases that could be interpreted in many ways. And so he had.
He sighed as he decided to capitulate. He couldn’t bear the idea of declaring his love at snail mail pace (even slower, in fact, as communication with the eastern side of the country was sporadic at best). She might not get his letter for weeks, and her reply might not arrive for weeks more.
No, safety first.
Dear Jo,
I hope this finds you well…
With a snarl he threw the entire legal pad across the room. He’d deal with it later. All the elegant sentences he’d composed in the shower seemed far more dangerous in the dry light of day.
He got up and stood beside the discarded pad, looking out the window as the wind blew flurries of snow across the city. Denver was no stranger to the white stuff, but never during the summer and, now that the fall was well underway, the city had struggled to cope.
He knew it was because of the rocket. And he was also pretty certain that whatever role Lundberg had played in the explosion of the Minotaur, she hadn’t intended for this to happen. Unless he was completely misreading her, she’d expected all traces of the xenobot to be vaporized, but it was now obvious that enough had landed to seed a new population.
Intended to be delivered at the south pole, it had, instead, gone down in northern Florida, turning it into a mini-Antarctica and sending cold across the east and south of the country. So far, the Rockies had held back the worst of it, but he couldn’t see that lasting. Soon, the whole country would be cold.
He was just rubbing his hair dry when someone knocked at the door. Someone? He recognized the knock. It was Helmut, SaPIEnT’s chief of security.
“Give me a minute,” he said, pulling on a polo shirt before opening the door to find the German behind it. Alongside him stood Ted Pope, President Buchanan’s Secret Service head. The two had become unlikely buddies and even more unlikely interrogators over the past months.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Buzz said, moving back to admit them. He hadn’t seen either of them for a week or two, and it had been a relief at first when their visits had become less regular. Answering the same question time and time again had gotten boring in the end for all concerned. He’d not, at first, understood why these two non-academics had been sent to interview a scientist, but he realized eventually that it made sense. After all, they would have to be able to explain it to the non-scientists who would be making the decisions.
Though he wasn’t sure who that would be exactly. Ted Pope worked for Marian Buchanan, nominal President of the United States who had spent the past five months—as far as Buzz could tell—clinging to the federal fantasy as the two major blocs of states cemented their hold on the real power. Denver was at the heart of the Union of Mountain States and, though its president, Chester Schultz, publicly deferred to Buchanan, his loyalty to the federal project had yet to be truly tested. Buzz’s opinion, for what it was worth, was that Schultz was biding his time; establishing whether the federal government could rebuild enough control over what remained of the east to make an alliance worthwhile.
To the west, California Governor Sonny Booker was now President of the Pacific Coast Federation. He claimed to be working on an international alliance that would help bring the world out of this nightmare and “build a brighter future for all.” He promised hope and, so far, winter hadn’t arrived in the West Coast states.
“Writer’s block?” Ted said, nodding at the screwed-up yellow paper by the window.
Buzz scooped them up and threw them in the bin before activating his coffee machine. “Something like that. Now, is this a social call?”
“Nein.” Helmut said, adjusting his black suit jacket as he sat at the small conference table.
Pope made himself a coffee and joined them. “We’ve found the canister.”
Now that was interesting. “Florida?”
“Yeah. Tough to find. Tougher to get out.”
“Did you use my technique?”
Pope nodded. “We did. Ice density.”
“We have data,” Helmut said, holding out a flash drive.
Buzz went to take it, but the German withdrew his hand.
“You will share your findings, yes?”
“You should know me by now.”
“Ja. This is why I ask.”
Buzz’s smile crashed and burned against Helmut’s granite lack of response.
“We’ve given this to Lundberg,” Pope added, “but we want a second opinion.”
“Good to hear the president doesn’t trust her,” Buzz said, looking directly at Helmut but getting no response.
Pope took the flash drive and put it on the table. “We want to know what this means for the climate. I mean, you can see it’s going haywire.” He waved a hand at the window.
“I’ll do what I can if you give me the equipment and the help.”
“Max?”
“Yeah.”
“Not Rath?”
Buzz shook his head. “I want someone I can trust.”
“You can trust Frederick,” Helmut said. “He sacrificed freedom for you.”
“And yet the rocket blew up, didn’t it?”
“Blame Lundberg.”
“Oh, I do.” Buzz got up and walked to the window. “I have as much climate expertise as Frederick, but Max has raw talent. He sees things that slip past others.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Pope said.
He and the German got up from the table.
“I have a condition,” Buzz said.
Pope turned as he reached the door. “I know. I’ll ask.”
Buzz watched him go. If President Buchanan wanted his help, it was time for her to come down on his side. It was time for him to go home.
#
Buzz let out a little groan when the door opened and Patrick Reid walked in. Suddenly, the pumpkin soup he’d been enjoying so much—though it was plainly out of a can—became a little blander. Good eating is as much about the company as the food itself. That’s what his brother said, many times. But then, in truth, he rarely agreed with his brother about anything. His dead brother.
Reid waved and found a seat at another table. The penthouse restaurant had been converted into the communal eating area for the small group of detainees being housed on the top floor of the hotel. Moments later, Ellie Fischer followed him in and sat down beside the ham.
What a charade. Firstly, did they imagine that arriving ten seconds apart would make it any less obvious that they spent most of their time in each other’s company? Each other’s intimate company? And did they imagine he gave two hoots if they did?
Well, maybe he was a little jealous. Just a little. He wanted what they were enjoying: the solace of physical contact with someone they cared about. B
ut Jo was a thousand miles away.
He didn’t blame Reid, to be honest. Though not quite Buzz’s type, Fischer was a good-looking woman.
What she saw in the actor, on the other hand, was a mystery to him. Sure, he had some minor fame, but what did that mean now? Buzz had watched a movie just the other night in which Reid played a villain—he had a reputation for dying in most of his roles—but either his hair had thinned out in the intervening years or he’d been wearing a toupee. And copious makeup. And his beard had been dyed.
Buzz knew he was being petty, but being confined for three months—even in a gilded cage—did that to you. And he was self-aware enough to know he had that tendency anyway.
As Reid sat there, Buzz couldn’t help but look at him out of the corner of his eye. On the one hand, he looked half the man he had been on screen. On the other, somehow that loss of artifice had, at a deep level, improved him. He looked like an actual human being and not a facsimile.
“Hey, Buzz,” Reid said. “Seen Max?”
“No, I assumed he was hanging out with you.”
The three of them looked at each other like parents who all thought the other was watching the baby.
“We were told you’d asked for him,” Ellie said.
Buzz pushed his empty bowl aside, and moved across to join them. “I did, but that was only earlier today. Everything happens at a glacial pace around here.”
“He wasn’t due to go out today,” Reid said. “We usually go together.”
Buzz couldn’t help but bristle at that. He’d been pretty much confined to quarters for the past three months, only allowed out when he was wanted for meetings with the president and others. Reid and Fischer, on the other hand, had been given more freedom and the fact that this was because they were seen as less significant to the government did little to soothe Buzz’s anger, or his cabin fever. Fischer had been doing some menial office work to use up some time and Reid had been advising their media people on communicating with the public. What hogwash.
As Buzz was thinking this, the door swung open and Max walked in. He totally ignored the others and sat down at the third table, staring out the small window at the gray sky beyond.
“Hey, Max!” Reid said. “Where have you been?”
The boy ignored him until the actor got up and placed himself in his line of sight. “Max?”
“I saw the president. I like her.”
There was a screeching of chair legs as the others joined them at the table. Buzz was the first to speak. “Why did she want to speak to you?”
Max shrugged as if the answer was obvious, though he kept his gaze on the sky beyond Patrick. “She wanted to hear what I had to say.”
“About what?” Buzz could sense his blood pressure rising as it often did around the boy.
After a few moments, Max turned to Buzz, as if he’d given up trying to concentrate and had decided the quickest way to get back to whatever it was he had been doing was to answer their questions. “First, she asked about the rocket. I told her the same as I did before.”
“Which was?”
“That I didn’t know how Professor Lundberg had remotely detonated it, and that I didn’t believe you were working with her.”
Buzz sighed. “Thank you.”
Again, the shrug. “It’s what I think. I know what Professor Rath had asked Patrick to do, and I believe you wanted the xenobots to be delivered to the south pole. Professor Lundberg had found a way to cause the rocket to malfunction and had also installed various backups in case of interference. The last of them worked, though I believe she wanted to destroy the canister entirely. She failed in that.”
“Do you think the president believed you?”
“I don’t know. I’m not very good at working out when people are lying to me, but she said she did. She asked if I would work with you on deciphering the data from the survey and I said yes.”
“Did she tell you about the condition I placed on my cooperation?”
Max nodded. “She said you wouldn’t help unless you were allowed to go back to the farm.”
“And?”
“I said we have more equipment here to help us.”
“Max!”
“Take it easy, Buzz,” Reid said, patting Max on the shoulder,
Buzz slouched in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “I need to get out of here. Unlike you three, I haven’t been allowed out, not even to file paperwork or run an actor’s workshop.” He said, not trying to hide the disdain in his voice.
“I told her that,” Max said, his voice quiet and uncertain. “I said that you would think better back at the farmhouse. That’s where you came up with the basic design for the xenobot. I said we could take what we need and stay in contact from there.”
Buzz’s jaw dropped. “What did she say?”
“She agreed. We leave tomorrow.”
Buzz leaped up. “I don’t know what to say! I could hug you!”
“Please don’t.”
“And what about us?” Ellie asked.
Max turned to her, his face devoid of obvious emotion. “Oh, you can come too, if you want.”
Chapter 3
Grapevine
“Hey, Bobby! Cold enough for ya?”
Bobby Rodriguez smiled, put the wrench down and pulled himself out from underneath the tank. He got onto his knees and looked over a supply pipe to see the old man walking toward him. “Is that a flask of coffee?”
“Sure is. With a little extra just to warm you up.”
Earl Sims handed over the flask, then sat on the steel steps leading to an access door in the side of the water tank. “You know, I’m thinkin’ we might have to insulate these tanks before long. Never needed to before.”
Bobby unscrewed the lid and poured a little of the bitter black liquid into the cup, smiling as he detected a warm hint of brandy in the vapor. Then he looked at his boss who was sitting with his hands on his knees like a decrepit chimp. “Yeah. I don’t like it. Hard to imagine it’d ever be cold enough for a tank this size to freeze up, but who knows?”
Who knew, indeed? It had been five months since the flood that changed everything. Who knew what impact changing the balance of land-surface to ocean would have on the planet’s climate?
But then there had been the launch of a rocket three months ago from Denver. He’d heard plenty of rumors and little fact, but it seemed likely that the launch had been the work of the Mountain States—the organization that controlled his unit, Ragtown and Vegas. On the one hand, he’d been glad of the fact that the command structure was much clearer than when he’d arrived here. Back then, Las Vegas operated autonomously, exerting its control over the nearby towns and cities. Now, they looked to Denver.
As for the federal government, he’d only heard whispers. Some said a rump administration operated out of a city in Pennsylvania, but the most radical rumor placed the president in, of all cities, Denver itself. To Bobby, it seemed certain that this was just a conflating of two theories and barely worth thinking about. No, they had enough on their plates with managing the refugee camp at Ragtown. The authorities in Denver had little impact on day-to-day life here, though aid had begun to come through.
Yes, much had changed in three months. He shared an apartment in Boulder City with Eve and Maria. Linwood had found himself a berth in the veteran quarters and had made himself useful any way he could, though he was happiest when he was on the road. He’d spent twenty years as a hobo, he explained, so he felt at home when he was moving.
On the surface, Maria was back to the little girl he’d left on that island in Ventura. Her hair had grown back and Eve took great pleasure in tying it up in increasingly imaginative ways. The two had formed a bond that warmed Bobby’s heart, but he and Maria were not as close as they’d once been. The price of his betrayal, he supposed. Oh, they hugged, he read her stories at night and they played together when time allowed, but she was more comfortable with Eve.
But, for every inch of distance betw
een himself and Maria, Bobby felt himself getting closer to Eve. Maybe he was attracted to strong, though flawed and vulnerable, women—Eve was fair and petite while Ellie was dark and athletic, but they shared much in common. Of course, it occurred to him that flawed and vulnerable would describe him just as well, and probably most of the flood’s survivors.
Overall, however, he was happy. He had his daughter and he was in love again, for the first time since his daughter’s mother had left them. And he was usefully employed. Ragtown—the part of Boulder City set aside for incomers—was growing as people continued to trickle in. Far fewer than when he’d arrived, these were mainly people who’d survived either alone or in small communities, hoping that if they held out for long enough, the government would come to their rescue. Finally, when no help came, the infrastructure they relied upon would crumble and they’d come to Ragtown, leaving behind most of what previously defined them. Many of these people proved useful—most groups were led by people with military or police experience and they settled into new roles in the community. Of course, there were still bad eggs among the trickle. He’d never imagined he’d see a man hanged, but he couldn’t argue with the fairness of the sentence considering what the beast had done after being allowed sanctuary.
It was a brutal world now, forced to resort to savage justice to survive into an uncertain future.
“Heard anythin’ on the grapevine?” Earl asked, finally.
Bobby swallowed the last mouthful of coffee and twisted the lid back on the flask. As surreptitiously as possible, he scanned their surroundings in case anyone was close enough to hear them, then, just to be sure, got onto his feet and crouched down beside the steel steps.
The “grapevine” was the ham radio setup he’d built with Earl’s unofficial approval and assistance. It was mostly made of off-the-shelf components that were hooked into the feed from the base’s main antenna. He’d been tempted to splice into the output from the official transponder but, having seen that man swinging from a post, he’d chosen to merely take the antenna feed and scan the raw frequencies, so he’d only pick up transmissions made in the clear.
Ice: Deluge Book 4: (A Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story) Page 2