by Jim Stark
After getting the pistol back and tucking it into the front of her belt, Lilly held the canoe steady. Lars put a foot in the exact middle of the bottom and eased his weight onto that leg, hanging on to the port gunwale with his good hand. Once he was seated, Lilly told him he'd be better to lie right down in the bottom, under the front seat. “No sense sitting up, since you can't paddle, and it'll lower the center of gravity and help me go faster,” she whispered. What she really meant is that there was no sense in both of them getting shot if they were seen, and if she was shot, the canoe would probably overturn, and he could hide under it, breathe the trapped air ... and maybe escape ... if he wasn't seen before I got shot, she calculated.
Lars suspected her real intent—he would have made the same suggestion if their roles had been reversed. He obeyed, although getting himself onto the bottom of the canoe and squeezing his feet under the front seat wasn't easy, and sent shock waves up his right arm that would have made a normal person wail. Once Lars was settled in, Lilly stowed the extra paddle beside him. Then she bent over, grabbed both of the gunwales, lifted a leg in, and eased her sopping butt onto the seat in the stern. She used the other paddle—the one with the more rectangular blade—to push off from the shore.
The current was light, but that was a good thing—it meant there weren't likely to be any rapids or small waterfalls. Lilly paddled evenly and quietly, listening intently through the burps of the courting frogs for the slightest sound of rushing water—that could spell disaster. The light of the moon was sufficient for her to see the broad outlines of reality, and although it may have been illusion, it seemed to her that the number of bites she was getting was reduced now that they were slipping along the creek at the speed of a brisk walk. The one thing they couldn't outrun was the stench of skunk ... well, hopefully that would be the only thing they couldn't escape.
Lilly placed Lars’ pistol on the seat beside her, with the barrel tucked under her thigh. She wanted to be able to get at it easily and quickly, and she also didn't want it pressing against her stomach. As she paddled steadily along the creek, she wondered at the finality of the device. She didn't know if she had the guts to stick it into her mouth and pull the trigger, but she knew that at any time, events could spring up to make that question more than a vague hypothetical. She resolved to give the gun back to Lars when—and if—they got through the culvert. She remembered training to shoot with her non-dominant hand at the Academy, and wondered how Lars had scored on that test.
The trees arched over the creek, and at times the branches overlapped, but there was no time at which they could not see the stars through the canopy, and times when they could see the partial moon directly. Lars tried to distract himself from the aching arm by watching the tree limbs pass overhead, and just marveling at the mad profusion of nuclear events in the black universe beyond the skinny film of Terran air. He recalled that, at the Officer Training Academy, both he and Lilly had mastered hundreds of skills that they didn't expect to ever use. Handling a canoe properly was on every agent's top-ten list of most-likely-never-to-be-needed talents. “You remember all that stuff we had to—"
"Shh,” said Lilly. “We'll be at the road pretty soon."
Lilly pried the paddle out like a lever, using her left hand as the fulcrum, pressing the stern to the right and the craft to the left. Then she resumed her meticulous stroking, her eyes glancing left, right and up. Often, the strip of uncluttered sky was the best indicator of upcoming bends in the tranquil creek. Her goal was to stay as close as possible to the middle and maintain a reasonable speed. The worst that could happen—other than being shot—would be that they got temporarily hung up on a log or on a rock outcropping near a shore, but it was the sounds of such a misadventure more than the inconvenience that worried her. Somewhere out there were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of WDA agents, all armed, and all hoping they'd be the one to bag the two rebels. Of course they would have already checked Dora's Creek, from the shack south to Victor-E and north-east up to the Picanoc, but...
Suddenly, Lilly pushed the paddle forward, resisting the pull of the current. Ahead—perhaps a hundred yards—the dark sky grew wide. It was the Picanoc, and in the dim moonlight, she could see a van parked on the roadway ... undoubtedly right above the culvert. She saw no lights, heard no voices, sensed no human presence, but it had to be a WDA vehicle, and there had to be agents inside, and perhaps outside. They're probably in the van, escaping the bugs, except for ... there has to be at least one guy outside, who would go maybe fifty feet upstream and...
Without consciously deciding to do it, Lilly found herself imagining an action-movie scenario, where she would park the canoe, blacken her face and hands with dirt, crawl stealthily up the creek near the shore, find the scout, sneak right up behind him, click the hammer of Lars’ pistol, grab his hair, touch the gun to his temple and whisper the choices he had. “Take a bullet in the head or swallow two morphine pills,” she'd say. He'd take the pills, and she'd wait a minute until he was passed out, and then she'd drown him—no, she'd let him live so he could try to explain his way out of it when he was grilled by his LieDeck-equipped colonel! Then she'd slink back to...
But she knew better. Their one and only chance was that there was no outdoors scout, or that he or she was asleep under mosquito-netting, or in the bush having a crap ... and that the designated watcher inside the van had dozed off, or didn't have his or her night-vision goggles on. A lot of ifs, she realized. She released the brakes, and determined that she would not paddle until they were safely on the other side of the culvert. Every nerve ending screamed at her to pull as if Olympic gold depended on it, but she resisted. The current was sufficient to keep them moving—it was quite slow, but it was virtually silent. She set the paddle in the water like a rudder, and just steered.
Gradually, the sky opened, and they glided past the point where she figured the sentry might be, or should be. Nothing yet. The shores were difficult to see as the trees receded.
Lilly looked up, and the three-quarters moon had drifted behind some cirrus clouds, cutting its light by more than half. At first she was glad—less chance of being seen—but then she realized that it couldn't have happened at a worse time because she couldn't see the outline of the culvert up ahead. However, the dark silhouette of the van was visible, barely, and she guessed that logically, it had to be parked exactly over the culvert. That's where I'd park it. And if the canoe did bang into anything solid ... we'll be dead within seconds.
Before Lilly felt ready, the van seemed to rise above her, and at the exact moment that the front of the canoe would either enter the culvert or crash into something hard, Lilly bent forward—she had no idea how much clearance she had, and no way did she want to get her aim right only to be smacked in the face by a bridge. She let the paddle have its mind, and hoped desperately that the eight or ten seconds of not steering at all wouldn't result in their scraping against the corrugated steel side of a dumb culvert.
Lars was on his back, looking up. He saw the stars blink out in quick sequence, and realized they'd just entered the culvert under the roadway. His heart rate soared, and the terror of this moment eclipsed the pulsating flame in his right arm. I should have told Lilly how I killed Victor before we set out, he scolded himself. He hardly dared to breathe until he saw the stars blink on again at the far end. He desperately hoped that the stink of skunk on their clothes and bodies wouldn't give them away.
Lilly had her face turned sharply to the left, in between her wet knees, and when she sensed the end of the culvert slip silently away, she lifted her head enough to check the position of the canoe. They had drifted to the right, and would touch the shore in seconds. There was no choice. She sat upright and levered the blade away from the stern. Then she lifted the paddle out of the water, and silently cursed the droplets of water that splashed like bullets as they fell. She dipped in again, pried again, and judged that they were back in the middle of the stream—and still alive.
She wanted t
o look back to confirm that they'd actually made it, to see the van shrink darkly away, but her white face was more reflective of moonlight than her black hair. She just steered, and let the lazy, unconcerned current carry them to safety.
There was still one road to go under, the Bristol Line, but that one had a real bridge, not just a culvert, and it made no sense for the WDA to set up a second perimeter there. Two turns later, after the trees had closed in over Dora's Creek and Lilly's heart rate had eased back towards normal, she began paddling again. “We made it,” she whispered.
"Shh,” said Lars.
Chapter 75
REUNION
Thursday, May 12, 2033—4:11 a.m.
Just after four in the morning, Michael snored on the couch in the living room of his very small cabin. Even in mid-May, Québec nights could be uncomfortably chilly. The last he remembered, he'd fed the fireplace and the stove—but that was maybe two hours ago. He had stopped a minute to gaze out of the front window at the partial moon, wishing that his life could somehow mimic the beauty and predictability of the cosmos. Then he'd fallen back to sleep, waiting for the shivers to wake him yet again.
Suddenly, his eyes stared into a terrifying darkness. He breathed heavily through his nose, and tried not to throw up. A powerful hand was clamped on his mouth from behind, and another assailant was straddling his chest, holding his wrists down, preventing him from moving. All he could smell was skunk.
"Do not speak,” a coarse voice hissed into his face.
"Mm-mm,” Michael tried through his nasal passages, hoping it would be interpreted as acquiescence. He relaxed his struggling arms and legs to show that he had stopped resisting. He also hoped the attackers would let him breath through his mouth. The stink was overwhelming.
"It's me, Lilly,” came the voice from atop his chest. “Do not speak, or we'll have to silence you. It's a matter of life and death."
Michael felt Lilly slowly decreasing the pressure on his wrists, and the hand from behind began slipping off his mouth. He coughed, and turned his head instinctively away from the foul odor that hung on their bodies and clothes. Questions fought each other in his mind, but he asked none of them as Lilly got off and he sat up. She took him by the arm and led him out of the cabin and fifty yards into the dark bush. Finally, he was eased to the ground.
"Sorry we smell so bad,” said Lilly quietly.
"Jesus Christ,” whispered Michael, “I almost died of fucking fright. Do you mind telling me what the fuck's going on?"
"We had no choice,” whispered Lars. “Is there an MIU or a Sniffer in the cottage?"
"No,” said Michael. “Lilly, who the hell is this guy?"
"Colonel Johannsen,” said Lars.
"He's a WDA defector,” said Lilly, “just like me. There's a war on, and it isn't just a little economic bullying game between the WDA and Evolution. His name is Lars, and he says he can prove that the WDA killed Victor—or rather it's in the process of killing him. We think they may have killed Lester Connolly too ... and maybe Steve Sutherland and ... no, listen, we can talk about that stuff later, but we have to hide out in your cabin for a while, or in the shelter at the lodge. Is that okay?"
"As long as you take a couple of dozen baths,” said Michael. “Jesus H. Christ, how did you find out all that—"
"We'll talk inside,” said Lars as he started the walk back. “Dibs on the shower,” he added, “and then I want that morphine pill."
"His right wrist is fractured,” explained Lilly into the darkness.
"You'll have to wash in the lake,” said Michael. “I don't even have electricity out here."
"Shh,” said Lilly. “Whispering only, and say nothing that isn't absolutely essential."
Inside the dark cabin, Michael got soap and towels without turning on any lights—and a pillowcase and a short length of wire that Lilly had asked for—and then he walked with them down to the dock in the dim moonlight. Michael just sat on the dock, swatting mosquitoes and holding the pistol Lilly had given him, silently searching the forest for any sign of light or movement. Lars and Lilly took off their clothes and ventured up to their knees in the freezing water—water that had been ice until a couple of weeks ago—and scrubbed themselves and each other. They were shivering badly, but they were much too preoccupied with fear—and pain, in Lars’ case—to worry about Michael's reaction to their nakedness.
When they were done, Lilly put their clothes into the pillowcase and tied it with the wire to a strut under the dock, so they'd slosh around in the lake but not drift away or sink. The first fragmentary signs of dawn were creeping into the sky as the three of them walked quickly back up the path to the cabin.
Lilly and Lars had wrapped themselves in beach towels, and once they were inside, Michael gave each of them a blanket. He also gave Lars a glass of water to take with the morphine pill that Lilly had handed him. And finally, Michael got them some food from his small, battery-operated fridge.
"I'll take the pill after I eat,” whispered Lars. “And Lilly ... after I conk out, you just gotta get some kind of splint on my wrist, okay? Fuck it hurts!"
At Lilly's insistence, they sat on the carpeted floor of the living room, near the dying fire. Fifteen minutes later, the fire was roaring and Michael had the short version of what had transpired out at Lars’ hunting shack. Lilly told him how they'd hidden out for nine hours, since about noon, with Lars unconscious and her planning their escape. She told him how she'd been scared to even clear her throat, and about enduring that awful smell, breath after breath, hour after hour, even with a gas mask on, wishing to God she could do a hit of morphine, and even considering that option in a couple of tearful moments. And she told him the harrowing story of how they had crept through the bush to Dora's Creek, and sloshed along until they got to the canoe, and paddled for almost fifteen miles, and sunk the canoe with rocks when they finally reached Wilson Lake. Lars still wouldn't give any details about how he could prove that the WDA was killing Victor Helliwell—he'd already explained to Lilly that he couldn't do that ... not yet, anyway.
Michael was shocked at the profusion of red marks and welts on their faces, necks and hands—normally, one didn't pick a fight with Québec bugs. “I did hear helicopters when I got up to put wood on the fire a few hours ago,” he said, in as small a voice as he could manage. “That was the WDA searching for you two, I guess."
"I'm a dead man walking,” said Lars as he popped the morphine pill. “But Lilly here, she should live."
"We'll talk about that later,” said Lilly irritably. “For now, Lars and I have got to get some sleep. You—uh—realize you can't go back over to the lodge, to your life, until we figure a way out of all this, Michael?"
"Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He slapped a mosquito that had snuck inside the cabin on their wake and played vampire on the back of his neck. It left a red splotch on his hand from the explosion of her body. “Bitch,” he spat as he wiped his hand on his pants.
Lars went off to a small bedroom, and promptly passed out. Lilly and Michael were left sitting on the living room floor, looking at the fire in the first light of dawn. They were quiet for a while. Both wanted to speak, and both had a thousand things to say, but they just sat, not touching, not doing a thing. Finally Lilly couldn't stand it any more.
"Why didn't you call me?” she whispered, wishing she didn't still smell of skunk. “Don't you even keep a cell phone out here?"
"Yeah, I got one,” Michael said. “But I didn't call because ... I ... well, for the same reason you didn't call me ... because I'm an emotional midget.” His mind drifted back unwillingly to the aborted CQ-assist session he'd had at the lodge three weeks earlier, and he wondered if there was any remote chance that Becky would understand all this when the time came to tell her about it. He was shamed by the sudden realization that she likely would.
Lilly thought in silence about what Michael had said. He was right, of course, but it was needlessly hurtful to say it so bluntly—hurtful to her; hurt
ful to himself. They were caught in a kind of second adolescence, much too wise to carry on as before, but far too inexperienced and scared to get the growing up over with and get on with Human Three life. For the moment, however, surviving long enough to get on with any kind of life was the priority issue.
"I'm—uh—due for LieDeck-verification in a week or so,” Michael said.
Lilly knew the significance of that, but there was no use talking about it now. “Don't use the cell phone—it can be monitored,” she said, scratching at mosquito and blackfly bites on her neck. “I'll ... take the other bedroom. You'll have to stay awake and keep the gun for now.” She placed it on the floor beside him, and stood up.
"I ... can't use that,” he said.
"Me neither,” said Lilly, “but I simply have to get some sleep. Give it to Lars when he wakes up. It's ... good to see you again Michael,” she said as she turned and left the room.
"Sleep well,” he said.
* * * *
At eight thirty in the morning, Michael peeked into the two bedrooms. Lars was still under the influence of the morphine, and Lilly was sleeping. The floorboards creaked in his little cabin, and he stepped away from the doors very slowly, staying near a wall. He had no idea what this day would bring—whether it would be his last, or hers, or theirs. Several times in the last few hours he'd heard the distant drumming of helicopter blades, and it brought as much terror as rage to the heart of the only person awake on the west shore of Wilson Lake.
The stories Lilly and Lars had told were unthinkable, and yet Michael knew he didn't need a LieDeck to verify their words. He'd learned a truth that was ... preposterous. He'd never even imagined that such things could be, and yet it was so obvious that it had to be known already, to virtually everyone with eyes to see and a brain to process information. In a world where crime was virtually unknown, there was one criminal organization still in business, big-time. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. He tried to remember who said that, but he couldn't. And when power corrupts, poetry cleanses. That was John Fitzgerald Kennedy, he knew, and he wondered if the WDA existed back when JFK was assassinated. And then a terrible stray thought jolted him. I wonder if the WDA killed Dad too?