by Allen Steele
“Chip,” I whisper under my breath, “if I use this terminal, can I access the main database? Without anyone catching on, I mean?”
“It is highly probable that you can access the database,” Chip replies. “However, it is also possible that your presence on the system may be detected if you log on from here.”
Sigh. There’s that probable-versus-possible question again. Well, screw it; I’ve come this far already, and I’m not about to leave empty-handed. “Look, I want to see if I can find out where those dewars are stored, and whether Erin has been revived or not. Do you think you can talk me through if I go eyes-up?”
“Yes, Alec, I may be able to do so.”
I lean out the door to check the corridor. Still empty. I prop the mop against the doorframe, push the bucket in front of the door to block anyone who might sneak up on me, then sit down at the desk. I triple-blink and fix my eyes on the keypad and the screen above it. “Okay, let’s go.”
It’s the same as when I stole the EVA pod: Chip shows me what to type into the keypad and I follow his lead, watching the lines of data flashing across the desktop. It takes a little while for him to locate a root directory and follow its maze to the information that we want; we don’t encounter any password queries, however, and nothing comes up to lock us out of the system. Yet I’m sweating after two minutes of speedfreak typing. How long before someone wonders why I’m taking so long in this particular office?
All of a sudden, a floor map of Level Five appears on the screen, resembling nothing more than a dartboard crosshatched by irregular grid lines. One large, hemispherical room is outlined in pink.
This is the vault containing the cryogenic dewars.
It is locked and inaccessible to your card.
All further information is guarded by security codes.
I am unable to access it without authorization.
“Oh, great. You can’t tell me who’s in there?”
I am unable to access that information without proper security authorization.
Crap. Okay, okay. Leave that alone for now. “Where are the deadheads…sleepers, I mean…who’ve been revived?”
The same map lights to display a slightly smaller room, located on the same level on the opposite side of the core.
This is the dormitory where revived cryogenic patients are being kept. Its door may be accessed by your card.
Cool beans. I’m smiling again. “Can you give me the list of deadheads…people, I mean…who’ve been revived?”
A pause, then:
Same status as before. In order to do so, a security buffer must be penetrated. I can accomplish this, but there is a 62.5% probability that any attempt to do so may be detected.
Are you willing to accept this risk?
I don’t think twice about it. Erin’s waiting for me on the other side. “Yeah, do it. Go deep.”
Lines and bars scroll past my eyes, showing me which keys I should hit; once more I’m slamming code with no clue as to what I’m doing. I must have been there more than ten minutes already. Jeez, I hope the night watch is taking a coffee break.
Another minute of fast typing, then a long column of names appears on the screen. Several dozen, at least; I don’t bother to count how many. “These are the guys who’ve been revived?”
No answer. This is new. What, did Chip go visit the potty or something?
Forget it. I run down the list, shooting past Aaronovich and Benford and Farber, Kelly and Lowenstein and Orlando, three Robinsons and a Sawyer and a Varley, until I pass a Watson, a West, and then, five names from the bottom of the page:
WESTPHALL, ERIN K.—Rev. 11/02/2100
“Yes!” I’m out of the chair, pumping my fist in the air before I remember that I weigh less here; my knuckles slam into the ceiling. I’ve probably jammed a couple of fingers, and I couldn’t care less.
She’s been revived, and she’s alive!
A quick elevator ride up one level, halfway down the corridor, open the door…and there she is! My God, I can’t believe it! Erin’s alive, she’s alive, she’s…
And then, just as the soles of my shoes touch the ground again, there’s a familiar voice in my ears.
“Thank you, Alec,” says Mister Chicago. “You’ve been a good lad. I’ll be seeing you soon, I hope.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
* * *
SHE LIVES (IN A TIME OF HER OWN)
The cunning of the fox is as murderous as the violence of the wolf…
—Thomas Paine, The Crisis
I turn around so fast that I lose my balance. The chair’s in my way; I stumble over it and nearly fall to the floor before I catch the edge of the desk.
No one’s behind me, but there’s no mistake: I heard Mister Chicago just as clearly as if he had been in the room with me. Yet there’s no way he can be here. He’s three hundred and fifty million miles away…
Yeah, right. That’s where I thought Shemp was, too. And if Pasquale Chicago’s voice didn’t come from this room, there’s only one other way I could have heard it. “Chip, is there something you haven’t told me?”
No answer. Weird. This is the second time in as many minutes I’ve asked him a question and he hasn’t responded. “Chip, are you with me?”
No reply. “Chip, where the hell are you?” I triple-blink, but nothing comes up on my eyes-up. “Chip, do you copy?”
I’ve lost Chip. A cold feeling comes over me; this is the second time since my resurrection that I’ve been without my associate, but this time it’s worse. It’s almost as if I’ve suddenly lost my hearing. One minute, Chip’s helping me try to find Erin; the next, I hear Mister Chicago saying he’s going to see me soon.
Oh, my God…
Realizing what’s going on, I lunge for the door. My foot connects with the mop bucket; soapy water spills in slow motion across the corridor floor. I’m already sprinting back the way I came, heading for the elevator, the headset falling down around my neck even as I hear a tinny voice saying something about a base emergency.
The headset. I can be tracked that way. I rip the thing off my neck and hurl it down the corridor behind me, then slam my hand against the elevator call button. A high-pitched alarm begins warbling through the lonely corridor just as the doors slide open.
Throwing myself into the elevator, I run straight into the militia soldier who’s already aboard. His eyes widen and he starts to grab for me, but I don’t need Chip’s autodefense mode to take care of him; a knee in the balls, a punch in the gut, another fist behind the back of his neck, and he’s down for the count. I pitch him out of the elevator just before the doors close, then stab the button for Level Five.
The doors open on a circular corridor almost identical to one below, except that I haven’t mopped its floor yet. Probably won’t either, at this rate; sorry, Dr. Brumfelder, but the new night custodian just quit. The corridor isn’t vacant, though. People in the hallway, scientists from the looks of them, have emerged from offices and labs, looking about in bewilderment as they try to shout over the alarm.
Okay, Alec. Calm down. Easy does it. I start walking down the corridor, deliberately ignoring the confusion: the simple janitor, single-mindedly going about his duties as if this sort of thing happens all the time. “Just a fire drill, folks,” I murmur as I walk past. “False alarm, false alarm. Don’t panic. Everyone proceed in an orderly fashion to the nearest exit…”
Damned if they don’t believe me. When I glance back over my shoulder, they’re heading toward the elevator. Sure, why not? The custodian knows everything, doesn’t he?
The corridor leads me past the cryonics vault. There’s a double-paned window in the wall; I pause for a moment to look through the frost-edged glass. Rows of dewars, stainless steel tanks faintly scuffed and dented with time, lined up like hot water heaters in a hotel basement. Hundreds of heads, mummified in little plastic bags, suspended in liquid-nitrogen limbo. Lives from my century, waiting to be resurrected into a fool’s par
adise. Take it from a fool, folks; you’re better off dead…
Fuck that. There’s no one in sight, so I start running again, trying to remember the map I saw on the flatscreen. A woman in a lab coat comes around the bend, heading the other way; she ignores me, except that my haste seems to make her believe that there’s a good reason to get out of here. She shouts something about the freight elevator, but I can’t hear her clearly over the alarm. “Thanks, lady,” I yell back at her as I keep going.
Suddenly, I come upon on a man standing in the hallway next to an open door. He’s wearing a hospital smock that’s open in the back, exposing his buttocks. When he hears me coming, he slowly turns to face me; although he’s my own age, there’s a strange blankness in his eyes.
I’ve seen that look before.
He raises his hands as I slow down. His lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. Probably something about chicken soup. Beside him is an open door. I dart past him through the doorway.
And suddenly, I’m back where it all started…
The White Room.
It’s not the same room, of course, but it’s so similar to the one on Garcia that it’s as if I’ve been thrown across space and time: white walls, white beds, people dressed in white smocks. Several dozen men and women, each in their mid-twenties, some with hair so short that they look like oversized children, others as bald as infants. A few lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes; the rest mill about in confusion, upset by the alarms in the corridor outside.
Everyone looks at me as if I have answers to questions that they can barely articulate. A short Asian woman stands up from her bed, shyly walks up to me, and says something in Japanese. When I shake my head, she stares at me, then repeats what she just said. A tall black man comes up. “I’m hungry,” he says plaintively. “Can I have something to eat?” Behind him, a nervous man with short red hair gapes at me in utter terror, then wets the front of his smock.
Twentieth-century brains transplanted into cloned bodies far more mature than their minds, unable to comprehend what has happened. Even if I told them where they were, they probably wouldn’t understand. God, was I like this once?
From somewhere not far away, distant thunder: a hollow boom reverberates down the corridor. The floor trembles slightly and everyone screams at once. The deadheads nearest to me grab at my arms, while others clutch each other or huddle beneath the bedcovers. The man I found in the corridor runs back into the room. “People, people!” he screams, then throws himself headfirst beneath the nearest bed.
Can’t wait any longer. Something’s going on. I grab the tall black man by the shoulders and shake him. “Is there someone here named Erin?” I demand. “A woman named Erin?”
He stares at me. “My name’s Ken,” he says, his lips trembling. “I’m Ken. That’s my…”
I push him aside, turn to the red-haired man who pissed himself; he cowers from me, his hands against his face. Ignoring him, I find a dark-haired woman kneeling on her bed. “Do you know someone named Erin?”
“Erin?” She blinks at me. “Is that my name?”
I make my way down the aisle, grabbing everyone who doesn’t cringe or faint outright, demanding the same question. Out in the corridor, running footsteps; I glance over my shoulder in time to glimpse several militia soldiers as they dash past the ward. I don’t have much time. “Erin? Do you know a woman named…?”
“Erin? I know Erin.”
Looking around, it’s almost as if I’m seeing myself in a mirror: a young man with short blond hair, regarding me with calm curiosity from the foot of his bed. He points to the far end of the room. “That’s her…over there.”
Hard to see through all these people; for a moment I can’t tell at whom he’s pointing. Then someone moves out of the way, and in that instant I spot a woman sitting on a bed. Her face is turned away, but her hair is light brown, the color of wheat in the light of a hot Missouri afternoon…
Now I’m charging through the crowd, shoving people out of the way, ignoring the alarms and clamor in the corridor behind me. I shout her name, but she doesn’t seem to hear me; she’s huddled into herself, clutching her knees against her chest, her face down in her arms. For a moment I think that it can’t be her, that it’s someone else named Erin, but as I get to her bed I see the profile of her upper face, and my God it’s…
“Erin!”
Her head rises from her arms. Hair shrouds her face, but when she turns to look my way, dark brown eyes regard me above her knees.
But something isn’t right.
“Erin?” I stop at the foot of the bed, staring at her. “Are you Erin Westphall?”
As she turns further toward me, her arms drop from her legs and her knees go down. Her hair falls back from her shoulders.
“Yes?” Her voice is weak, confused. “My name is Erin. Erin Westphall.”
But it isn’t Erin.
Not really.
The hair is the same. The eyes are the same. Even the forehead is the same. But the nose is a little longer, uplifted slightly. Her lower jaw is different, the chin a bit more firm. Her lips are a little tighter. They’re not her lips, but someone else’s…
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I stare at this other-Erin, this changeling. She could be Erin, but there’re too many subtle differences. Her legs, curled beneath her hips, are shorter than I remembered them. Her shoulders are a little more narrow, her breasts slightly larger.
“Are you Erin Westphall?”
“Yes?” She regards me nervously. “I’m Erin…Westphall. I mean, I think…”
“Are you Erin Westphall?”
Frightened, she vigorously nods her head.
“Don’t you know me?” I reach out to touch her hand, but she pulls it away from me. “Don’t you recognize me?”
She shakes her head. “Look hard!” I move closer; she flinches, and I draw back. Take it slow. She’s still trying to recover her memory. “Do you know who I am?”
Again, she shakes her head. She doesn’t even move her head the same way. Somewhere in my chest, a dull ache. Oh my God, this can’t be happening…“I’m Alec. Alec Tucker. Don’t you remember?”
She peers more closely at me; for an instant I think I see faint recognition in her eyes. “Alec Tucker,” I insist. “Your old boyfriend. From back in ’95…1995, I mean. We were together back then. Don’t you…?”
Voices shouting from the front of the room. Glancing up, I see deadheads scurrying about, but I can’t make out what’s going on. Distracted, Erin starts, looks in that direction. I grab her hand; she tries to pull free, but I won’t let go. “Lollapalooza. 1995. The car wreck. You were with me. Me and Shemp…”
She looks back at me now. Something dawns in her eyes. “1995? A car wreck in 1995…?”
“Yeah! The car wreck! We were coming back from a concert. At Riverport in St. Louis…”
Her eyelids rapidly blink, but I don’t see a second set of eyelids coming down. She isn’t carrying a MINN. “St. Louis…I used to live in St. Louis…”
“Right! That’s it!”
“Yes!” A smile suddenly spreads across her face. “St. Louis! I was born in St. Louis!”
“No, Erin. You’re from Chicago…”
But she bobs up and down on her bed, clapping her hands as she squeals in delight. “Yes! Yes! I was born in St. Louis, Missouri…and my birthday is January 19, 2009!”
Before I can react, Erin throws herself against me, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Daddy! You’re my Daddy!”
Blood pounds against my temples. I can’t breathe. I’m holding a woman who calls herself Erin, who sort of looks like Erin, but isn’t and can’t be Erin.
“No, I’m not…I mean, I don’t…”
“No, sweetheart, that’s not Daddy.”
Behind us, a figure in a hardsuit stands at the foot of the bed, helmet in the crook of her arm. I look up, and see Anna. Tears seep from the corners of her eyes…
Her dark brown
eyes.
“It’s Mommy, Erin,” she whispers. “I’m here, baby. I’ve come for you.”
I’m not even aware of Shemp until he’s standing beside me. I’m still watching Anna as she cuddles Erin in her arms. Both women look nearly the same age, but Erin is clearly Anna’s daughter; she clings to Anna, sobbing against her suit’s chestplate as her mother gently strokes her hair and whispers comfortingly in her ear.
“Erin?” I murmur. “Oh my God, is that really you?”
Erin doesn’t hear me, but Anna does. She raises her eyes from her long-lost child to me, but says nothing.
Nor does she have to. This is Erin. My Erin, the woman I last saw that fateful night one hundred and five years ago, not the woman named Anna I saw only a couple of days ago. Her face is different, her body has changed; it’s no wonder I never recognized her on Garcia. Yet she’s the mother of a woman-child named Erin Westphall, and that cannot be a coincidence.
Then Shemp taps me on the shoulder. Somehow, I’m not surprised to see him. He’s wearing a hardsuit as well, and he’s carrying a couple of large bundles and a pair of helmets: skinsuits, like the one I used when I bailed out of the EVA pod.
I expected him to try to kill me the next time we saw each other, but there’s only pity in his eyes.
“How long have you known about this?” I mutter. “Goddammit, why didn’t you…?”
“Sorry, Alec, but we don’t have time for this.” He thrusts one of the folded skinsuits into my arms, drops the other one on the bed next to Anna. “We’ve gotta get out of here. Put it on, then help Erin—Anna, I mean—get her daughter into the other one.”
I’m numb all over. “Where are we going?”
“Freight elevator,” Anna says. “The way we came in.” She’s already unbuttoning the back of Erin’s gown; I find myself blushing and looking away as she slips it over her daughter’s head. “There’re two landers up on the surface, waiting to get us out of here.” She glances at Shemp. “How’s it going out there?”
“Everything’s okay. We’ve secured this level. Vlad’s people have taken out the soldiers who got down here. The other levels are locked down and the comlink’s toast. We’ve got an hour to grab the dewars, tops, then we’re…”