V_The 2nd Generation

by Kenneth Johnson

  "We have no oceans, however we do have many small seas and lakes."

  "The climate?" Mike questioned.

  "Is hotter than yours," Kayta said. "The air is very clear and clean, warmed by our great yellow sun and its small companion star."

  Mike frowned curiously. "Really?" He was about to question her further when Nathan and Bryke entered. Gary and several others gathered quickly as Bryke held out the vial to Kayta.

  "The chemical to analyze," said the dark-skinned Zedti.

  "You got it! Fabulous." Gary's enthusiasm spoke for what all the others were feeling. Kayta eased Mike back down into his wheelchair, then very carefully took the vial of chemical.

  "But there's also bad news," Nathan said solemnly as he looked around at all of them. "We lost Blue."

  "Oh, no!" Ruby cried out. She stared at Nathan, then her tears overflowed. "Not Blue. Not Blue, dammit!" She turned away embarrassed, but she needn't have been. Everyone had felt the same crushing blow, the breath taken out of them. They stood silently, absorbing the enormous loss, mentally honoring yet another fallen hero. Blue had been such a big, physical presence among them, so strong and robust. He was a pillar of the movement. His sudden absence left a huge empty space. Each of those present reflected personally upon what their beloved companion had meant to them.

  After an extended, respectful moment, Kayta eased quietly toward the biomedical truck to start her analysis of the deadly chemical. She was unaware that Mike was watching her very carefully. He was still frowning, deep in thought. Something she had said was troubling him.

  EMMA WAS WEARING A PALE LAVENDER SILK ROBE AND PUTTING A cold wrap on her wrist, which had never stopped throbbing from the trauma it received when she fell during the explosion. In the perverse way that such things happen, it was the same wrist she had broken during a dance rehearsal for a music vid the year before. It had never quite regained its original strength. Landing hard on the Candlestick parking lot had stressed it anew, though she hadn't noticed it so much until the pain from her scrapes had eased.

  When her door chime rang and she heard it was Mark, she had very mixed emotions. She knew she'd have to explain about her request to meet him before the planning session. She had formulated a bogus reason and when she let him in the door she jumped into it immediately to head off his questioning. She said she had wanted to tell him that she thought she was pregnant, but that by this evening she had discovered it was a false alarm. She said that she was prevented from reaching their rendezvous when the Patrol captain had stopped her and ridden on with her to the planning session, insisting that they be on time. She saw that he seemed to take her excuses on their face value. But while he was genuinely relieved that she hadn't been seriously harmed in the explosion, Emma sensed that he also seemed very distracted. She decided to continue treading lightly.

  Mark poured himself a straight Scotch in one of her cut-crystal glasses and sat down on her overstuffed couch. But she saw that he wasn't relaxing back into it as he usually did. He sipped his drink with a frown as he watched her applying the cold pack to her wrist. She asked him about what had transpired at the planning session, what his office would be responsible for and such. He filled her in and also told her what Diana would expect of her, primarily to sing an opening song at the ceremony. Throughout their small talk she was aware that he had continued to study her carefully.

  She finally eased onto the couch near him and asked who else had been at the meeting. After he had enumerated the various people, including the chief of San Francisco's police, the head of the California Highway Patrol, the Candlestick Park functionaries and several others, Emma casually asked if the U.N. Secretary-General had been included since he would likely be at the rally to welcome the Visitor Leader.

  "Yes, he will definitely be there," Mark said as he looked steadily at Emma, "but he wasn't at the meeting."

  Emma did her best to make it appear as though a thought had just occurred to her, "You know, Mark, every time I see Secretary Mendez it seems like he's being very closely guarded by Visitor Patrollers. Have you ever noticed that?"

  "Yes," he said, watching her, "I suppose I have."

  She scrunched her pretty face with curiosity. "I wonder why that is?"

  "Well"—he tossed back the last of his Scotch and looked at her—"perhaps the Secretary-General's kept under close guard because he's a very important man . . ."

  "Yeah, that's obvious," she acknowledged, "but still, it seems like—"

  "Or perhaps," he interrupted sharply, "perhaps he's kept closely guarded to keep him away from spies. Like you."

  "What?" Emma emitted a nervous laugh as though the idea was outlandish. "Oh, yeah, I can just imagine that. I'd make a really great spy."

  "Emma"—he sat his glass down onto her marble coffee table with careful emphasis—"I saw you tonight"—he was staring directly into her green eyes—"in their car."

  She felt an unnerving chill but tried to lightly dodge his insinuation. "What? Whose car?" Then as she pretended to think back, "Oh, there were a couple of musician fans I was talking to, but . . ." Mark continued to stare silently at her. It was withering. She saw that there was no escape. She sat quietly for a full thirty seconds with him staring at her before she finally spoke quietly, "Mark, listen, it's not what you think."

  "Oh"—he chuckled darkly, his sarcasm evident—"it's not you pretending to care about me just to milk me for information or—"

  "I'm not pretending, I do care about you." She reached for his hand but he drew it back. "Why do you think I asked you to meet me away from Candlestick? It was to keep you away from that planning session."

  "Because you knew a bomb was going to go off?"

  She was aware that it would be a very dangerous admission, but she was compelled to tell him the truth. "Yes."

  He stared at her. "That bomb was meant for Diana, Jeremy, and the others in that meeting. You were bringing it in."

  Her eyes held on his. "Yes."

  Despite the fact that he had already surmised the truth, hearing it aloud from her was like being kicked in the stomach. His throat tightened, his voice became barely audible. "Great God Almighty, Emma. What were you thinking?!"

  "That I didn't want you anywhere near that place."

  "Sure," he said dryly, "that way you'd have me left alive so you could keep pumping me for inside stuff."

  Emma flared up, "That's not true! I care deeply about you, Mark!"

  He laughed contemptuously. "Oh, please."

  "I do, dammit!" She could feel tears burning behind her eyes. "And part of the reason I care is because you've helped them, too, Mark. That hospice out on Treasure Island—"

  "Is hardly the same as spying for the Resistance!" he finally erupted. "Or carrying fucking bombs for them, for Christ's sake!"

  She yelled back at him, "Would you have preferred me to say nothing and let you die?" He glared at her, angrily searching her eyes, trying to divine her true loyalty. She lowered her voice. "Look," she spoke slowly. She truly needed him to understand. "I didn't want to carry that device, okay?"

  "Oh?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Did they put a gun to your head?"

  "No. I agreed to it because, I don't know, because I understood if Diana and that other Commandant died it might delay their Leader's arrival and give humanity a chance to—"

  Mark's hands were shaking as he threw them up and said, "I don't want to know about it, okay!?" He stood up abruptly. "I don't want to hear!" His voice quaked with angry, conflicted emotions. "I don't! You wanted to save my life. For . . . for whatever reason. Okay. Thank you. But even if you did save it, how can I know this about you and not turn you in! Jesus, Emma, how can you—"

  He cut himself off, still glaring down. He genuinely cared for her, too. He had had hopes of a future entwined with hers. But he couldn't reconcile his personal emotions with this shattering revelation of her secret loyalty to the Resistance.

  He tried to speak, but his jaw only worked silently. He turned sharply
away and headed for the front door in angry confusion. Emma was on her feet and hurrying after him. "Mark! Wait, Mark, please listen . . ."

  But he slammed the door in her face. Emma leaned her forehead against it, trembling, staring at nothing, left hanging. She knew she'd been in danger when the bomb was ticking in her backseat, but now she felt far more imperiled.

  CHARLES ELGIN, AFTER SMUGGLING THE VIAL OF CHEMICAL TO Nathan and the strange dark-skinned woman with him, had hurried back into the metal forest of large pipes that comprised much of the chemical plant. He sought refuge in an alcove between two massive storage tanks. The constant high-decibel level of the factory around him provided a wash of white noise that actually gave him some solitude. Charles was trying to understand the surge of new feelings that had been coursing within him since he witnessed Blue's astonishing sacrificial death. Charles's highly rational mind that had always served him so well as a research scientist was trying to comprehend and carefully evaluate the strange elation he felt since he'd completed Blue's perilous mission.

  The peculiar feeling of renewal and invigoration that Charles was experiencing persisted through the remainder of the afternoon. He carried it back to his home neighborhood that evening; somehow even the Sci ghetto didn't seem as gloomy as usual. Once he caught himself actually smiling.

  Even the water being cut off in the midst of his washing some broccoli and carrots for his family's meager meal didn't diminish his spirits. He felt that his vision somehow seemed clearer. He had become aware that the persistent low-grade headache he'd had since the death of his daughter Charlotte had disappeared. As he prepared the food, he tried to explain himself to Mary and his father. "It's like some sort of new energy." He searched for evocative words, but came up short. "I don't know, maybe I'm just feeling like this because I finally took a big chance and took some positive action."

  Mary was methodically going through the motions of setting the places at their small table. She seemed weighed down by excessive fatigue. Charles's words had been flooding out of him, but Mary's speech was like a trickle. "Taking care of us, holding this family together, that's a very positive action."

  "I know, Mary"—he hugged her from behind—"but this was different. Seeing what Blue did . . ." He relived it in his mind's eye. In his memory, Blue fell in extreme slow motion so that Charles was able to study the big man's strong, ebony face. "There was this fire in his eyes," Charles said. "And perhaps regret. But not regret at taking his own life," Charles quickly amended. "It was more like regret that he would never see the results of the efforts he'd made." Charles was profoundly moved as he recalled the scene. "But there was a sort of serenity about him, too. A peacefulness. A calm satisfaction."

  Mary was somewhat incredulous. "You saw all that while he was falling?"

  "Yeah." Charles was gazing distantly, back into the early afternoon. He was equally amazed at the phenomenon; his voice came low. "Yeah. I did. I really did, Mary."

  She glanced at him through tired eyes and slowly set out the napkins. Charles drew a breath, refocusing on the life-affirming feelings that had been kindled within him. "And then when I carried through his mission, sort of picked up the torch, it energized me in a way I haven't felt for a very long time."

  His father had been listening to it all from the moth-eaten easy chair nearby. The older man was pleased. "You know, Charlie, I saw a difference the moment you walked in. Your shoulders weren't stooped over like usual."

  Charles became aware of it and a little chuckle escaped. "By God, I think you're right, Pop."

  "Damn right, I'm right"—his dad grinned—"I haven't seen you like this since your research days twenty years ago. Since before they came."

  "Exactly, Pop"—Charles took a healthy bite of a carrot and then pointed it at his dad—"it's that feeling of accomplishment or pride or—"

  "But of course Blue is dead." The two men looked over at Mary when she spoke. A curious smile was working on her face. "He's dead, isn't that right?"

  Charles continued studying her as he said sadly, "Yes, he is."

  "Well, then." Mary nodded smartly. Somehow that seemed to conclude the matter for her and made her remarkably more cheerful. She drew a breath and smiled brightly at Charles. "But I'm so glad you feel perked up." Charles and his father exchanged a private glance as Mary continued. "I think we all need to perk up a little. Me, particularly. I surely do." She looked down at the table and noticed she had set four places. "Oh. Good one, Mary." She looked up at her husband and father-in-law, shrugging lightly. "Force of habit."

  The men watched as Mary removed one place setting. Then she inhaled deeply again and smiled expansively, more brightly than either of them had seen her do in years. "I really am glad you feel better, Charles. Really!" She noticed the cutting board. "Oh, and you did the veggies for me. Thanks, honey. I'll get the soup."

  She turned away from them, looking very optimistic.

  Charles and his father continued to watch her.

  22

  IT WAS MARGARITA'S FAVORITE PHOTOGRAPH OF BLUE. HE'D BEEN trying to work up a homemade pizza and the results had been a wonderfully funny culinary disaster that had occasioned many jokes over the years. Blue was grinning broadly, a smudge of flour on one cheek.

  She looked for a place to fit his photo into the mosaic of others that comprised the memorial inside the vid truck's door. There were so many of them. So many that she had known personally. Then she saw Mike Donovan's picture and took it down since he had returned to the ranks of the living. She taped Blue's photo in its place with tender care and gazed at his face. She recalled the story he once told her about his ancestor being captured on a West African beach. Powerful alien creatures with frightening white skin had arrived in gigantic ships with fiery weapons unlike anything his people had ever seen. His ancestor was among hundreds who were entombed side by side aboard the monstrous vessels and transported to a fearful new world where they were forced on pain of death to do the bidding of their masters. Blue was very proud of a subsequent ancestor who escaped and worked alongside Harriet Tubman's Underground Railroaders to bring slaves to freedom. The history had been passed down in the oral tradition of his people. Margarita determined to continue the story, adding the latest chapter about brave Blue.

  Strong sad emotions were working inside her, bringing to the surface a flash of memory of a moment in Seattle several years earlier.

  A young woman, barely twenty, was lying in the middle of a city street, her face blistered. She had been severely burned. A Patrol shuttle was in flames behind her. Margarita was bent over her, urgently murmuring, "Pamela? Pamela?"

  But the woman had already died. Margarita was heartbroken. Then a pair of strong, mahogany arms had lifted Margarita. It was Blue, sweating and bloodied from the skirmish he and Margarita had just survived. He raised her up and enfolded her tightly within the protection of his massive, solid embrace.

  The sound of a match being struck brought Margarita back into the moment. She saw that Nathan was beside her, lighting a votive candle by the photos in honor of Blue. She forced herself not to look directly at him and quickly wiped away the one tear that had escaped. She nodded businesslike thanks for his thoughtfulness in lighting the candle, then she walked away.

  Nathan's warm brown eyes followed her. He understood her self-enforced isolation, her determination not to allow herself to become too emotionally involved with people she might lose. Having lost Sarah, Nathan was sympathetic to Margarita's conviction that caring deeply for someone could be hazardous and heartbreaking in these extremely uncertain times. But all the same he was drawn to Margarita, to her intelligence, her wit, and her strength of character. He wished that she would open her heart to him, even if it were ever so slightly.

  STELLA STEIN HAD ALSO BEEN LOOKING AT A PHOTOGRAPH. ON THE bookshelf in her modest house sat the framed picture of her family, taken three years earlier on her husband's birthday. All four of the Steins were smiling: Stella, young Danny, teenage Debra, and the now-m
issing Sidney. Stella gazed at Sidney's face. In the last several hours she had given in to something she never before had allowed herself: introspection. It had begun that afternoon at the plant when Blue had leaped to his death before her astonished eyes.

  Moments after his gruesome suicide Stella and two other workers were conscripted to put on the thick, acid-resistant hazardous material suits with hoods and fishbowl faceplates so that they might try to recover the remains of the big man from the fuming tank of acid.

  Word had spread throughout the plant that Blue had died horrifically. More than twenty-five people, both white-collar from the offices and many of the factory's blue-collar workers, had hurried to the scene and were being held back behind a safety line by the Patrol guards and Teammates.

  There was very little left of big Blue, only a few of the thicker bones: a femur and a portion of his pelvic bone. Then with her net Stella retrieved Blue's skull, which was pitted and cratered appallingly from the corrosive effects of the acid. She tipped it out onto the concrete beside the tank and doused it with an alkaline solution to neutralize the acid. And then she stared at it for a very long time. It was so difficult to comprehend that only a few minutes earlier it had held the face of a living, breathing human being who had looked fearfully into her eyes and spoken his last words to her. He was a man whom Stella had seen every day for fifteen years; she often had felt his silent censure of her clever political maneuvering and upward mobility, but she had respected his solidity and reliable work ethic.

  Stella wondered about him now and how their relationship might have been different if she had allowed or encouraged it. But such had never been her nature. She had always been less concerned about the feelings of others than about getting what she wanted. Stella had convinced herself that her actions were for the good of her family. But Blue's shocking, selfless act had shaken her to the core of her being. She was also surprised and deeply uncertain about why she had instinctively lied to the Visitor Patroller about Blue's final words.