Hell, Smithers admonished himself gruffly, it was a crummy time for anyone to be caught away from home.
Smithers wouldn't allow himself to dwell on the far more ominous vibrations that made this night conceivably more dreadful than any others he had known. For a little while at least, he would wallow in the mundane and petty, pretending to gripe about an ill-spent duty during the holidays; it was, after all, considerably easier than contemplating the mounting horror of what was transpiring in the outside world - and what contribution he might quite likely make to it in only a few hours.
Smithers could feel the cigarette pack rub against his chest. It was certainly tempting. Fingering the cigarettes, he shook his head. Nah, he'd wait; it would be one less New Year's resolution to make, he thought to himself reasonably. Another glance at Janet rebolstered his willpower. Leaning back into his chair with clear unease, but with just a trace of self-respect for his new found courage, Lieutenant Smithers prepared himself for what he could imagine was going to be one lousy night.
"Tis the season to be jolly," he hummed tonelessly, scattering his glance across the familiar boards in front of him.
Coleman made a rather repulsive sound from his chair a few feet away from Smithers. Usually, the big black officer was congenial and talkative, and would throw a big grin towards Smithers whenever he heard the man even attempt to murder a tune. Tonight, though, Coleman only snorted and stared ahead at his table of buttons, as if somehow, if he tried hard enough, he could will them, and all they represented, to go away forever.
Typical of the aggressive individuals attracted to missile duty, Randolph Smithers was one of 1,200 SAC officers assigned to the Minuteman/Peacekeeping combat crews. A relatively new creature to the art of modern warfare, Smithers and others like him had met and exceeded some of the highest performance standards ever created for duties involving nuclear weapons. Every man and women belonging to the elite launch contingents had undergone specialized training which would allow them placement in the hundreds of underground control centers smattered across the United States. They represented one of many backbones of American nuclear defense with a clearly defined mission objective: "Be prepared 24 hours a day to launch, upon receipt of order initiated by the National Command Authority, assigned missiles against designated targets." Responsible for 24 hour alert readiness, officers like Smithers would not fail to implement their command directive should a wartime emergency develop.
Usually, silo duty was damned boring; the hours were long and empty, and you actually looked forward to something happening, short of the unspeakable horror of a real crisis. Last week, Smithers had rescued a hapless roadrunner from one of the air ducts leading from the surface to the main silos. It had taken all of fifteen minutes, but this seemingly inconsequential departure from routine had made lively subject matter for days to come.
For all the seemingly endless tedium the job promised, each officer like Smithers was supremely grateful by the end of his shift that the boring routine that was commonplace had been gloriously uninterrupted. Though the job objectives were clear and necessary, another day that was passed in which the unthinkable had been unfulfilled, was one that was silently blessed in the prayers of missile officers wherever they could be found.
Unfortunately, tonight Smithers' duty was no longer dull. Not terribly entertaining to begin with, silo duty on rare occasions could at least be relaxing. You could think a lot down here away from the screaming frenzy of humanity above. A man like Smithers had a lot to think about these days; marriage, a house, maybe even buying a dog. All such pleasant and simple distractions were crushed tonight by the realization that before a new day began, he might very well perform a duty which he secretly believed could never take place - and which would shatter not only his own future, but that of a world as well. Though Smithers himself was having an absolutely rotten Christmas Eve, his farthest wishes were those of making everyone else’s night-before just as lousy.
Staring at his panel, and especially the blank communicator screen which would deliver the last, horrible orders from either Washington or the Strategic Air Command center in Nebraska, Smithers made a hasty mental synopsis of his entire life. He was twenty-eight years old, good-looking, and healthy, with a career under his belt that assured almost guaranteed success and security. He had always strived to be a good man, barring his uniquely situated position as a kind of mindless executioner, which he could not help but view himself as on some days when he stared too long at the horrible missiles he and his associate held sole dominion over. He had been a man all his life who looked forward to the future. He had planned his days accordingly, laying a groundwork that would assure his tomorrows to be secure and fruitful. Tonight threatened to mar everything he had so meticulously provided for, and though a guy like Smithers was accused to be one of the coolest on the planet, he could sense a distinct heat of fury burning within him.
It wasn't fair, he kept repeating to himself, as he absently perused all of the gauges and screens before him. It just wasn't fair!
He was fidgety now and he needed to talk. "Coleman?" he said.
"Yo."
"I'm thinking of buying a dog."
No reply.
"Got any suggestions as to what kind?" Smithers persisted.
Coleman's eyes were glassy. He was a thousand miles away and looked about as receptive to conversation as a corpse. Smithers stared at him and waited for an answer. After a few seconds, he decided that Coleman simply wasn't in the mood for talk. Then:
"Stay away from Dobermans," the big man answered tonelessly. "Mean bastards."
Smithers laughed, maybe a little too hard. "Yeah, that's what I heard. Nasty sonsofbitches, those dogs. Wouldn't have one if you gave it to me."
"Shepards are good. If I were you, that's what I'd get." Coleman finished quietly in a tone of voice that suggested firmly that he wished Smithers would shut up.
Smithers caught the hint.
"Yeah, good idea. Can't beat a good Shepard. Good guard animal. That's what I need," Smithers gabbed nervously, "Thanks."
He stared at the clocks on the wall behind him, each one depicting different time zones across the country. It was close to midnight, Nevada time, where he was now stationed. Notwithstanding the fact that Christmas was only a few minutes away, Smithers forced himself to realize that the significant time change brought another more sobering fact into mind. For now, from a tactical standpoint at least, an attack on the United States would be most imminent within the next hour. Even though all forces were on full alert, the psychological advantage in launching a first strike in these predawn hours by the enemy against his country was significant.
Since war had been declared more than forty eight hours ago jointly by both the Soviets and the U.S., Smithers had mentally noted the most probable strike hours to himself. Last night, he had felt sure that all hell was sure to break loose; he was in fact very surprised to wake up and find himself, along with the rest of the world, still alive and faced with another endless day of waiting and wondering what was going to happen next.
Now, Smithers was again reliving the torment of the preceding night. Any moment he expected to hear the holocaustic siren that would mean an attack was incoming - and that he and Coleman would be forced to perform their last duty before death.
"Coleman," Smithers blurted out nervously.
"Yo."
"Did you, uh, send Mary and the kids away... you know, someplace?-"
"Uh-uh. They're still at home. We just got a tree a few days ago. Set up all the presents ahead of time. The kids would have hated me if I asked them just to pick up all of a sudden," Coleman trailed off, then turned to look at Smithers for the first time since the shift started, "You know what I mean?"
It wasn't fair, Smithers racked his brain over and over again.
"Yeah, sure," he answered, this time having no desire to press for further small talk.
A few minutes passed of silence. Then, a small yellow light appeared on Smit
hers' screen.
"I've got a possible hydraulic leak on number 2."
"Serious?" Coleman asked coolly.
Smithers checked a few gauges and looked to the television monitor that held the enormous rockets in full view.
"Negative. If it gets any worse, I'll put in a call to maintenance."
Coleman sniffed and nodded.
"I'll log it in."
Smithers took another look at the clock behind him. It was now midnight.
"Coleman?"
"Yo."
Smithers swiveled his chair around and faced the man. "Merry Christmas!"
Coleman froze. Then he, too, turned and faced his colleague. It was five minutes before they both stopped laughing.
THIRTEEN
The Rover Starglide represented the ultimate achievement in advanced technology for the Galactic Confederation. Even more than the impressive utilization of the Hall, the self-contained starships that probed the outer regions of the galaxy far surpassed any triumph the GCPP had enjoyed since the victory over the aging process some five thousand years earlier. Their performance records to date were perfect; even where a human Planetary Observer that accompanied the sophisticated spacecrafts had come through unsatisfactorily, the Rovers themselves had always completed their mission objectives faultlessly.
Now there was an exception to an otherwise taintless reputation.
The Rover assigned to Earth and Zolan Rzzdik was already guilty of marring the Starglide name. It had, in fact, already committed several unpardonable errors since its sojourn on the world that would have mystified its fastidious makers. Part of the blame had to be nailed to the Planetary Observer, in this case Zolan Rzzdik; for though the Rovers were programmed to act independently in regard to maintaining its varied duties, the PO was responsible for attending to the ships' intricate computer works. Like any machine, the Rovers needed occasional tune-ups and adjustments to insure continued efficiency and longevity.
Zolan Rzzdik had been sadly remiss in dealing with these contingencies, and now, at a critical moment, the Rover was feeling the consequences for such past neglect. Ordinarily, the ship could have pulled rank and ordered Zolan to have completed the required overhaul to all of its programming. It could have easily have gotten its way in such matters, simply by failing to provide the man with some necessity, such as food or water, which it produced for the PO daily to save the man any risk of contamination from native foodstuffs.
But the Rover had never resorted to such methods. The very idea that it never would have considered such an action was coupled to another disturbing programming fault that would have sent its builders into near apoplexy. For though the Starglides were pure machines, theoretically incapable of emotional feedback, this Rover had committed the ultimate folly to its own kind.
The ship had taken a liking to Zolan; in some abstract sense that would have taken Rover-architects a century to figure out. In short, the ship's programming found the man appealing. Consequently, it had allowed Zolan to literally get away with murder when it came to exercising his responsibilities. Through the years on Earth, the Rover continually reminded Zolan of his duties; many of which were absent-mindedly ignored by the scientist or postponed indefinitely. But never had the ship initiated disciplinary action against Zolan. Unfortunately, this over-sight was producing unforeseen ramifications that the Rover only now recognized to be potentially devastating.
Minutes after speaking with Zolan in Five Corners, the ship spotted the bizarre, ectoplasmic ring around the Hall warp. The warp itself was almost a light year away, but this access portal that Zolan had evoked artificially was only a few hundred thousand miles distant from Earth.
And it was now moving -- something it should not and could not do -- theoretically, anyway.
The Rover had been monitoring the sub access for several hours, recording all physical affectations to the star system and surrounding planets. Its programming began to give out several thousand silent alarms. Something was terribly wrong.
Zolan," the Rover called out.
Chugging his way back on a near empty gas tank, Zolan snarled into the intercom in his jeep dashboard.
"What is it, Rover?"
The Hall is no longer stationary. It has assumed a ballistic trajectory towards this planet. I estimate an impact to take place in 1.8 hours."
Again, a long silence followed, filled in only by radio sputter.
"What are you talking about?"
"The Hall, Zolan. Its moving. And coming towards us."
"Ridiculous. You're scanning is screwed up," Zolan grumbled.
"Negative. Scanning perfect."
Zolan stopped the jeep with a screech.
"Rover, you know that the Hall is stationary at all times, including access portals. Now what are you telling me?"
I can't explain it either, Zolan. But it has been verified; somehow, this local portal is under power."
"You said its coming this way. What will happen if...?" Zolan didn't finish; he was sure the Rover caught his drift. The Rover had not considered the projected consequences of such an event. Now, it rambled through its four million data banks for a prognosis. It momentarily blinked in frustration.
"Insufficient data to develop satisfactory hypothesis. However, a solution should be found that would in any way preclude such a possibility of impact occurring."
"Just a feeling, Rover?" Zolan asked in a strange voice.
The Rover hesitated momentarily. "Affirmative, Zolan. A bad feeling."
"Rover, I have the soda with me. Can we clear the corrosion in time to shutdown the Hall while we're still on land?"
"Negative, Zolan. I suggest that we complete launch, then attempt a seal from within the Hall, as originally planned. Furthermore ..."
The Rover stopped mid-sentence because something else had now caught its attention. Double checking its instrumentation, it studied new data inundating its programming. Preoccupied with Zolan and the dilemma with the Hall, the Rover had again failed to coordinate its varied operations effectively.
And in a single moment of horror, the Rover realized that this final mistake might very well cost Zolan his life.
"Uh, Zolan, there is another problem ...
But as Zolan listened to the Rover begin, he too, was distracted by a paralyzing discovery. From behind the distant 117 hills, he could see rising into the sky, a wavy fleet of contrails piercing upwards.
And though very distant and barely audible, Zolan could make out the haunting whine of an attack siren, which signaled the immediate arrival of incoming missiles.
Zolan lifted his communicator watch to his mouth and whispered hoarsely:
"Rover," he said softly, "get us out of here."
FOURTEEN
John Phillips opened his eyes and blinked. He had been napping again, in and out of reality for ten or fifteen minutes. Arms folded, and legs stretched out on the pilot console, he neither spoke or moved a muscle. He simply stared out the bay windows of the shuttle and listened to the incessant drone of computer ware hum around him.
He turned his head slightly to the right towards the co-pilot seat. Cathy was staring at him.
"Hi," he said sleepily.
"Hi. Were you dreaming of me?" she asked.
He smiled. "Passionately."
"Liar. You better not have! You were frowning the whole time."
His eyes moved down to her very pregnant figure, and his smile disappeared, a concerned expression replacing it. Cathy noticed his change, and lowered her eyes.
"How do you feel?"
Cathy lifted her head slowly, and whispered through tears.
"Scared."
John nodded his agreement. He stared at her long and hard, squeezing her hand at the same time, then turned to look out the window. Challenger was somewhere over the southern hemisphere, approaching the giant island partner to Africa, Madagascar. It was a clear day below, with unhindered viewing, made more beautiful by the fact that ALC-117 was directly behind Challe
nger and thus invisible to John's gazing eye.
"Looks so peaceful down there, doesn't it?" he asked absently. "Nothing but sunshine and salt spray."
Cathy said nothing.
"Are you sure?" John blurted out suddenly, "I mean, you could have made a mistake."
The argument was an old one, and Cathy, as usual, was infinitely patient. She rubbed her swollen stomach with her free hand, while squeezing her husband's for comfort.
"Sweetheart, you know there's no mistake. We've gone over this before."
"It's just so..." John shook his head in wonder, "unbelievable." He was quiet for a moment, not looking at her. Cathy shrugged.
"Then why this?" John asked angrily, throwing a careless wave to the Earth below. "Is this part of some great, divine plan? .
Frustration and sarcasm clashed, and John realized he was on the point of viciousness.
"Ah, hell," John mumbled, "they just screwed up down there, that's all. Like they're doing right now. Just plain screwed up!"
"Maybe," Cathy decided on the diplomatic tack.
"Well, come on, baby," John was suddenly beside himself again, "what do you believe? That you're some kind of pseudo Virgin Mary about to conceive...god knows what? It's a bit farfetched, don't you think?" he asked in a strange kind of half chuckle, half whimper. "Read all about it," he announced in a great, theatrical voice, "Astronaut gives birth to Jesus Christ. Immaculate Conception in Orbit. Film at 11."
"John..." Cathy whispered in a pleading voice.
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