The Forge of God tfog-1

by Greg Bear

  “Okay,” he said, listening to the engine smoothly idling. “Where to?”

  He squinted a moment. Now, the orders usually came from people, and not from the indefinite nonvoice of what those on the network called the Boss. Reuben had even come to recognize the “signatures” of certain human personalities he communicated with, but this time, they were not familiar to him.

  “Cleveland it is,” he said. He pulled several maps from the glove compartment and used a yellow marker to draw his course along the highways. He had spent the last few days stealing hundreds of books and optical disks from libraries in Washington and Richmond, and buying hundreds of others from bookstores. He had passed all of these on to three middle-aged men in Richmond, and he had no clear idea what they were going to do with them; he hadn’t asked. Clearly, the Boss was interested in literature.

  With some relief — he did not enjoy thievery, even in a good cause — he took to the open road.

  Spring was coming fast. The hills surrounding the Pennsylvania Turnpike were already rich green, and trees were bringing forth leaves that they would not have time to shed. There would be no summer or autumn.

  Reuben shook his head, thinking about that, hands on the wheel. When he was on the road, the network rarely spoke to him, and that gave him plenty of time — perhaps too much time — to wonder about things.

  He refilled the LeBaron’s tank in New Stanton and parked in front of a diner. After a quick meal of a hamburger and a small green salad, he paid his tab and looked over a rack of postcards, choosing one showing a big white barn covered with Pennsylvania Dutch hex symbols. Purchasing a few stamps from a machine, he scribbled on the back of the card,

  Dad,

  Still working steady here and elsewhere. Thinking about you.

  Take care of yourself.

  Reuben

  and dropped it into the box outside the diner.

  He made it to Cleveland by eight. A quiet rain fell as he checked into an old hotel near the bus depot. He parked the LeBaron in a public parking garage, uncomfortably aware that he would not be driving it to the final destination. Somebody would pick him up and take him there.

  He was no more than a couple of miles from Lake Erie, and that — so the network had told him — was where he would have to be in the early morning.

  Reuben regarded himself in the bathroom’s spotty mirror. He saw a big kid with a patchy beard and strong, regular features. He saluted the big kid — and the network — and went to bed, but didn’t sleep much.

  He was scared. Tomorrow, he would meet other people in the network — some of the people behind the voices. That didn’t frighten him. But…

  Something in the lake waited for them.

  How much did he trust the Secret Masters?

  What did it matter?

  He’d be on the lake shore, at the Toland Brothers Excursion Terminal, at six a.m. , clean-shaven and freshly showered and dressed in the new suit he had purchased in Richmond for just such an occasion.

  56

  Trevor Hicks stepped out of the rental car under a big iron trestle and screened his eyes against the sun. He saw Arthur Gordon crossing the street. Gordon waved. Hicks, exhausted from the drive and still nervous, made a feeble gesture of acknowledgment. He had never become used to driving in the United States. Unable to find a quick route by surface streets, he had taken the freeway to get to the Seattle waterfront, then had driven in circles beneath the bridge for ten minutes, twice barely missing other cars in the narrow aisles. Finally he had managed to park just down the long concrete steps from the Pike Place Market. Across the street, warehouses converted into restaurants and shops vied with new buildings for views of the bay. Sea gulls wheeled and squeaked over a half-eaten hamburger in the street, lifting on spread wings to dodge passing cars.

  Gordon approached and they shook hands awkwardly.

  Despite having communicated recently on the network, they hadn’t seen each other since their first meeting in the Furnace Creek Inn. “My wife and son are in the aquarium,” Gordon said, pointing down the street. “That’ll keep them busy for a couple of hours.”

  “Do they know?” Hicks asked.

  “I told them,” Arthur said, “We’re staying together, wherever I go. We’re driving to San Francisco next week.”

  Hicks nodded. “I’m staying here. I hear there’s going to be activity in the sound soon.” He made a face. “If you can call it ‘hearing.’”

  “Any idea what sort of activity?” Arthur asked.

  Hicks shook his head. “Something important. In San Francisco, too.”

  “I’ve had that impression.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Hicks said.

  Arthur stared at him, puzzled. “Sorry?”

  “Mr. Feinman. It was in the papers yesterday morning.”

  Arthur hadn’t thought of Harry much since leaving Oregon. “I haven’t been reading the papers. He…”

  “Monday,” Hicks said.

  “Christ. I…Ithaca probably called, and we were gone.” He lifted his head. “I told him about the network, too.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I think he probably did.”

  “Then maybe it helped…No, I suppose that’s silly.”

  Arthur stood with hands in pockets, shaken despite the months of preparation. He felt vaguely guilty for not thinking of Harry; he had called several times before leaving Oregon, and had been unable to speak to his friend. He took a deep breath and indicated they should climb the stairs to the market. “I wanted him to know that not everything was lost. I hope it helped. It’s so difficult sorting everything out.”

  They passed in silence through the mostly empty aisles, stopping at a bakery to buy coffee and sitting at a white wrought-iron table placed between shops.

  “How have they kept you busy?” Arthur asked.

  “I’ve been visiting libraries, universities. Locating people…That’s how I’m most useful, apparently. I help find people the network is looking for, scientists, candidates.”

  “I haven’t been doing much of anything yet,” Hicks said. “Do you know…who the candidates are?”

  “Not really. There are so many more names than places. I don’t think any of us are making the final choices.”

  “Terrifying, isn’t it?” Arthur said.

  “In a way.”

  “Have you heard anything about the bogeys? On the network, I mean.”

  “Nothing,” Hicks said.

  “Do you think we’ve slowed them down, done any good by blowing them up?”

  Hicks smiled grimly. “No. Just about as effective as Crockerman.”

  “But he didn’t…at least, I presume he had nothing to do with the action in Death Valley.”

  “That’s right,” Hicks said. “He’s done nothing. So have the hotheads. Certainly, they’ve boosted our morale a little…but nobody believes they’ve fixed anything. The bullets still spin.”

  “Then what purpose did the bogeys serve?” Arthur asked.

  “You stated it once. They were a distraction, a misdirection. We’ve concentrated almost all our attention on them.”

  Arthur blinked. “I didn’t think they were just decoys.”

  Hicks shook his head. “Neither did I.”

  Arthur pushed aside his sweet roll, all appetite gone. “They dropped them here, to deceive us, test us, as if we were laboratory mice?”

  “I would say so, now, wouldn’t you?”

  Arthur shook his head. “That burns.”

  “Insult before injury,” Hicks said.

  “Have you discussed this with others on the network?”

  “No. We’ve been far too busy with other things. But the network has been given no instructions whatsoever by the Boss regarding the bogeys. We have not been instructed to recruit the President. You know that Lehrman is Possessed?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “The Boss has written off our entire military and government effort. Obviously.”
Hicks held out his hands and stood, gathering his foam-plastic cup and waxed-paper wrapper. “So I stay here, help with whatever effort is made in Seattle. And you move south.”

  Arthur remained seated, stunned. He should have assembled all the facts. He was disappointed in himself to find he had still harbored some illusions.

  “Sorry to be the one to tell you about Mr. Feinman,” Hicks said.

  Arthur nodded.

  “Tonight I’m joining a group staying on Queen Anne Hill,” Hicks said. “We’ll reconnoiter from there.” He held out his hand. “Best of luck to you and your family.”

  Arthur stood and shook it firmly. “Good-bye,” he said.

  They looked at each other, not voicing the single question too obvious to ask. Is he chosen? Am I?

  Hicks returned to his car. A few moments later, after surveying the fresh fish stalls and vegetable markets and purchasing a pound of smoked salmon and several bags of fruit, Arthur descended the stairs and crossed the parking lot and street to join Francine and Marty at the aquarium.

  57

  March 20

  An ancient Chevy Vega with Texas license plates crossed the stone bridge in the opposite direction and honked at Edward. Edward turned and saw a collage of bumper stickers covering the back of the car, including the trunk and lower corners of the rear window. One glaring Day-Glo pink sticker immediately caught his eye: REGISTER PUSSY NOT FIREARMS. A faded yellow plastic square hung in the window’s upper corner: CAUTION! CHILD DRIVING.

  “Hey, Edward!”

  “Minelli!” He walked to the window and leaned down to wrap his hand around the back of Minelli’s neck. “You madman. You own this?” He spread his palm at the Vega.

  “Bought it three weeks ago, complete with decoration. A beauty, isn’t it?”

  “I am genuinely glad to see you.”

  “I am glad to be seen. It was rough for a while after we parted. You went back to Texas?”

  “That’s right,” Edward said. “How about you?”

  “I made a scene in the institute office. They pulled my papers and kicked me out and said go ahead, sue us. I was going nuts. I bought this and I’ve been driving around ever since. I went to Shoshone again and dropped by the grocery store. Said hi to everybody. Stella wasn’t there. She was off in Las Vegas talking to lawyers about mineral deals. Bernice was there. She asked about you. I said you were fine. Are you?”

  “I’m great,” Edward said. “Park and take a walk with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “I hear there are rock climbers on El Capitan.”

  “Hot damn. Just like Disneyland.”

  Minelli parked the car under a cloud of blue exhaust. He patted the trunk before opening it. “Why spend lots of money on something that doesn’t have to last more than a month or two?”

  “Looks like it could break down in the middle of nowhere,” Edward commented.

  “Hey, I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers.”

  “With your sense of humor, that could be dangerous.”

  Minelli shrugged and spread his arms out to the sun. “Ultraviolet rays, do your worst. I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

  They followed the asphalt road for two miles, past the Three Brothers, then took a trail for another mile and stood in the El Capitan meadow, looking up at the massive ancient wall of gray granite. A pale streak showed where a sheet of rock had broken off in 1990, revealing unweathered surface.

  “It is magnificent. I haven’t been here in ten, twelve years,” Minelli said. “Why’d you come?”

  “Childhood memories. Best place on Earth.”

  Minelli nodded emphatically. “Wherever I am right now is the best place on Earth, but this is better than most. I don’t see anybody up there. Where are they?”

  Edward held up a small pair of field binoculars. “Look for ants trailing ropes and bags,” he said. “There’s five or six up there today, I hear.”

  “Christ,” Minelli said, shading his eyes. “I see a black spot. No. It’s a blue spot. Color of my sleeping bag. Is that one?”

  Edward drew a line with his finger from the tiny speck of blue. “Look above that a couple of degrees. Here.” He handed Minelli the binoculars. Minelli swept them back and forth in decreasing arcs and stopped, brows rising above the eyepieces. “Got him. Or her. Just hanging there.”

  “There’s another above that one,” Edward said. “They must be a team. You can barely see the ropes between them.”

  “How long does it take to get to the top?”

  “A day, someone told me. Maybe longer. Sometimes they overnight up there, hanging in a bag, or on a ledge if they’re lucky.”

  Minelli returned the binoculars. “Makes me queasy just thinking about it.”

  Edward shook his head. “I don’t know. I could get into it. Think of the accomplishment. Standing up on top, looking out over everything. Be like building a skyscraper and knowing it was yours.”

  Minelli made a dubious face. “What else is happening here? The place is deserted.”

  “Practically. There’s a group meeting in the amphitheater at Curry Village this evening. A band is holding a concert tomorrow evening. The rangers are really loose. Some of them are giving tours on the weekend.”

  “Everybody’s staying home. Mr. and Mrs. Mom-and-dad huddling next to their TVs, huh?”

  Edward nodded, then raised the binoculars, spotting another climber. “Do you blame them?”

  “No,” Minelli said quietly. “If I had a home or anybody I cared about — a woman, I mean — that’s where I’d be. I said good-bye to my sister and mom. They don’t know what the hell’s happening. They’re too ignorant to be scared. Mom says, ‘God will take care of us. We’re his children.’ Maybe He will. But if He doesn’t, I’m with you.

  I don’t hold grudges. I can still admire the Old Dude’s masterworks.”

  “It might be nice to be ignorant,” Edward said, lowering the binoculars.

  Minelli shook his head adamantly. “At the end, I want to know what’s happening. I don’t want that…panic, when it comes. I want to know and sit and watch as much of it as I can. Maybe that’s the best seat in the house.” He pointed to the mottled rock face. “Up on top somewhere.”

  Since Edward’s tent cabin had two bunks, he offered one to Minelli, but he turned it down. “Look,” he said, “they’re not even charging for them now. I asked down at the village and the fellows there say go ahead, sleep in one, just keep it clean yourself. Me, I’m going to want someone of the opposite sex with me when it happens. How about you?”

  “That would be nice,” Edward agreed.

  “All right, then. We party together, find women — some smart women, I mean, who know what’s going on as much as we do — and we party some more. I brought some food in with me, and the village store is stocked to the rafters with beer and wine and frozen food. We’re going to have a good time.”

  At dusk, they showered and put on clean clothes and walked to the amphitheater, passing the wood-frame cabins. A middle-aged couple sat in folding chairs before the open door of a cabin, listening to a portable radio turned down low. They nodded greetings to each other.

  “Going to the meeting?” Edward asked.

  The man shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said. “It’s too peaceful tonight.”

  “You’ll hear it from here, anyway,” Minelli warned.

  The man and woman smiled and shooed them away.

  “Tell us if there’s anything interesting.”

  “Casual,” Minelli commented to Edward as they passed the Curry Village administration building and general store.

  The valley was wrapped in cool shadow. Straying clouds obscured the tops of Half Dome and the Royal Arches. Edward zipped up his suede jacket. The amphitheater — benches arranged in curves before an elevated log and wood-beam stage — was full, people of all ages milling while engineers worked on the sound system. The loudspeakers popped and hummed; echoes of the crowd and the electronic
noises bounced back at varying intervals from several directions. They found a bench halfway out from the stage and sat, watching the others, being watched in turn. A scruffy gray-bearded man of about sixty-five in a khaki bush jacket offered them unopened cans from a half-empty case of Coors and they accepted, popping and sipping as the gathering came to order.

  A tall middle-aged park ranger climbed onto the stage and stood before the microphone, raising the stand to her level. “Hello,” she said, smiling.

  The audience replied in kind, a low, warm murmur.

  “My name — some of you know me already — is Elizabeth Rowell. There are about three hundred and fifty of us in the Yosemite now, and a few more coming in each day. I think we all know why we’re here. We’re all kind of surprised there aren’t more here, but some of us understand that, too. This is my home, and I plan on staying home.” She thrust out her jaw and looked around the audience. “So do others, and not many people live here year-around, as I do. Those of you who have left your homes to come here, you’re welcome to stay.

  “We’re awfully lucky. Looks like the weather is going to be warm. It may drizzle off and on, but there’s not going to be much rain and no snow at all for a week or so, and all the passes are open. I just wanted to say that the park rules still apply, and we’re all behaving as if things are normal. If you need help, we’re fully staffed with rangers. Park police are on duty. We haven’t had any trouble, and we don’t expect any. You’re good folks.”

  The man with the Coors box smiled and raised his can to that.

  “Now, I am here basically to introduce folks. First, there’s Jackie Sandoval. Some of you know her already. She’s volunteered to be our spokesperson, sort of, tonight and for the rest of our stay. Jackie?”

  A small, slender woman with long black hair and doll-like features came on stage. Rowell lowered the microphone for her.

  “Hello,” she said, and again the warm sound emanated from the crowd in the amphitheater. “We’re here to celebrate, aren’t we?” Silence. “I think we are. We’re here to celebrate how far we’ve come, and to count our blessings. If what the experts tell us is true, we have three to four weeks to live in this wilderness, to appreciate the beauty and to think back on our lives. How many have had a chance for that kind of retrospective?