by Greg Keyes
Dylan grinned. “I don’t believe that,” he said.
“Well, it was way harder back then,” Hiller said. “Let’s just leave it at that. You have a girlfriend?”
“Dad!” he said. “No, man! Girls are nasty.”
“Really?” Hiller said. “Nasty, huh? Does that include Patricia?”
“That’s different,” Dylan said. “She’s my best friend, not my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, you two get along, don’t you,” he said. “That’s good. Have you worked out what you wanna be when you grow up?”
“Well, sure,” Dylan said. “I want to be a pilot, like you.”
Hiller felt a swell of pride, but he tamped it down.
“That’s one choice,” he said, “but I want you to know that you can be anything you want to be, son. You don’t have to follow in my footsteps, or anybody’s. And as long as you do what you choose with passion, and conviction—I will always be proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Dylan said.
Hiller smiled. Back when he and Jasmine were dating, Dylan always called him “Steve,” and that was okay. They got along, and it would have been weird if the kid had called him anything else. Even after they got married, the boy kept calling him Steve, and he didn’t give it any thought. Neither did Jasmine.
Then one day, a few months ago, they had been on a playground, and Dylan introduced him to another kid as “my dad.” Afterward, on the way home, he said, “Thanks, Dad. I had a good day.”
It had almost taken his breath away, shaken him up in a good way. It wasn’t that he loved Dylan any more after—he already loved him. He couldn’t explain how it had changed him, even to Jasmine, but it had, and even though he had been in outer space, his world now seemed infinitely bigger.
He let Jasmine do the good-night stuff—he was gone a lot, and Dylan liked the routine he was used to. Afterward, Jasmine joined him at the kitchen table.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s have it. What’s going on?”
“What makes you think anything is going on?” he asked.
“Because I know you,” she said. “You’ve got something on your mind, and you’re being shy about it.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“So let’s hear it.”
He cleared his throat. “Okay, well, see—there’s this new thing they’re starting. The Earth Space Defense—”
“I watch the news,” she said.
“Well, see, one part of the program involves developing aircraft with new… capabilities.”
“Like that thing you flew up into space,” she said. “The one you crashed and nearly died in.”
“Pretty much exactly like that,” he said. “Since I’m the only one that’s ever flown one, they thought I might have some valuable insights.”
She leaned back and folded her arms.
“You mean you’re going to be the monkey they put in their experiments,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Well, yes, eventually—but it’s gonna be years before we have anything ready for a test flight. Meanwhile I’ll be working with the program, helping with development, working out training programs for pilots and all of that.”
“And where will all of this be happening?” she asked.
“Nevada, mostly,” he said.
She sighed.
“I know,” he said. “You’re in school here. That’s great—”
“It’s not about me,” she interrupted. “I can get my nursing degree anywhere. But Dylan—he’s in a good school. There aren’t many of those these days, what with everything going to the military. I want him to get into one of the STEP schools, and here he has a shot at that. I don’t know about Nevada.”
“Well, I checked,” he said. “It’s not a good situation for kids his age. They say there’s gonna be a STEP school near the base, but that’s a little down the road.”
“Steve—”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not suggesting that you move, at least not now. Look, you dated a military guy. You married one. I think you knew what you were getting into. The fact is, I might see you guys more this way. No more long deployments. I can take three-day weekends.”
She looked away, and when she looked back at him, her gaze was intense.
“I was fully prepared to be a single mother,” she said. “I worked hard, I didn’t complain, I kept my eye on the prize—and the prize is that boy, grown to be a good man. A successful man.”
“Baby, I want that too,” he said.
“I know you do,” she said. “I also know you want to be a damn astronaut. Even before you got that one little taste of space. Now…” She trailed off.
“Here’s the thing,” Hiller said. “I didn’t say yes.”
She paused and looked at him, her gaze softening.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“That I would think about it,” he replied.
She was silent for a moment.
“Tell them yes,” she said.
“I don’t think—”
“No,” she said. “Don’t start. When you asked me to marry you, I promised myself one thing—that I would never give you cause to regret it. And I stand by that. You tell me that we can make this work, and I’ll believe you. Then you have to do it, you understand?”
“Jasmine, I need you to be sure about this.”
“Do I sound sure?”
“You sound like you want to beat my ass,” he said.
“Well,” she said, placing her hand over his, “I don’t. Or maybe just a little.”
He started to make a quip, but instead he laced his fingers into hers.
“I love you, Jasmine,” he said. “I don’t regret a second I’ve ever spent with you. Or with Dylan.”
“I know that,” she said.
* * *
Dikembe was at his father’s bedside when he awoke. The older man’s eyes searched restlessly for a moment before fixing on him.
“Bakari?” he whispered.
“No, Papa,” he said gently. “I am Dikembe.”
“Dikembe,” he said. “My dear boy.” Tears welled in his eyes. “They told me Bakari was dead,” he said.
“Who told you, Papa?” Dikembe asked. “You’ve only just awakened. You’ve been asleep for more than a month.”
“They told me,” he said, his voice rising. “Mapepo. Les diables. They…” He trailed off.
Dikembe knew—he had felt it. In their final assault, the aliens—every one of them—had fixed their terrible will toward his father, to try and kill him, extinguish his mind. In the end, it had been their single goal.
Having felt their touch, he could not believe they hadn’t succeeded, even though none of them got close enough to the elder Umbutu to make physical contact.
“Bakari is dead, isn’t he?” his father said. “My sweet boy.”
“He is, Papa,” Dikembe replied.
“Where is he? I want to see him.”
“We had to bury him,” Dikembe said. “The doctors were not sure when you would awaken.”
Or if, for that matter.
“And the aliens? What of them?”
“They fell apart,” Dikembe said. “Many remain, but they seem disorganized. As if their failure to kill you broke them somehow.”
His father was silent for a moment.
“We will water the soil of this country with their blood,” he said. “Bring me my elephant gun.”
“Papa, you need time to recover.”
His father placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I shall never recover,” he said. “Not until they are all dead.”
7
FEBRUARY
1999
Thomas Whitmore ran his hand through his hair and tried to put on a smile.
The nine members of the Chinese delegation did not smile back, but President Qian tilted his head. He was in his sixties, a dignified-looking man with sharp black eyes. Before the Fourth, he had been a junior member of the Politburo, but—as in the
US—the vast majority of Chinese leaders had been wiped out in the attacks, and had been replaced by younger, less experienced people.
Whitmore glanced at his much smaller delegation, which consisted of two aides and David Levinson. He’d kept things minimal intentionally—he didn’t want to even symbolically suggest a show of force. General Grey had argued for a military presence, given that ESD was driven primarily by the Army, but Whitmore had been able to persuade him that this approach would bear more fruit.
Now he just hoped he was right.
“Gentlemen,” the president said. “I’m honored that you have invited me to meet you here, in New Beijing. I’m more than impressed at the progress you’ve made in rebuilding—China is an inspiration to the United States and, I dare say, to the rest of the world.”
He paused to let the translator finish.
“I believe we know why we’re here today, and I hope we can walk away from this with what can only be considered an historic agreement. After the groundwork we laid last year with other world leaders in Naples, this should be fairly painless.”
Qian started talking, and the translator smoothly chimed in.
“You must understand, we have reservations about any agreement of this magnitude,” he said. “There are a number of issues which remain unaddressed.”
“Then let’s address them,” Whitmore said. “I’m not suggesting a static agreement, but a process, a process which will benefit us and ultimately the world. On that day, nearly three years ago, when every nation came together—”
“I’ve heard your speeches concerning unification,” Qian said. “You are a stirring and persuasive speaker, and I do not disagree… in theory. What we discovered five years ago was that we have better things to do than fight among ourselves. That our responsibilities are not limited to China, but to the human race. Unfortunately, not everyone came to that same conclusion.”
“If this has to do with your border dispute with Tibet,” Whitmore said, “I think I’ve made my position clear on that.”
“They made unprovoked attacks against our forces there, while we were still engaged in the ground war,” Qian said, hotly. “How can you advocate the unification of humanity, and yet support a separatist faction at the same time?”
“As you must know,” Whitmore said, speaking evenly, “the subject of Tibetan independence is a complicated one. It’s our belief that the violent agitators were and are in the minority. I’ve engaged in negotiations with the Dalai Lama—”
“Yes, so we heard.” The translator’s tone was pleasant, but the Chinese president’s was not.
“Look,” Whitmore said. “You said yourself we shouldn’t be fighting one another. The Dalai Lama is in favor of peace, even if it means he remains in exile. But I think, in light of the way our world is now, there must be some sort of compromise on the issue.”
The Chinese president was silent for a moment.
Then he started speaking, in stilted but comprehensible English.
“There are no reporters here,” he said. “No microphones, and until we have a final agreement, I must ask that no one in this room discuss this meeting.”
“That is acceptable to me,” Whitmore said.
“Ten years ago, what you suggest would have been unthinkable. China is old. Our leaders and government have changed over time, but China remains China. Once we were ruled by Mongols, but in a few short generations we made them Chinese. So it was with the Manchu, a few centuries later. But the aliens did not come to govern us. They would not have become Chinese. They came only to exterminate us, and they nearly did so—millennia of history, wiped away in a few days. We cannot risk that happening again.”
He paused and took a drink of water.
“What I mean by this is that we are willing to make some compromises regarding our territories. This includes Tibet and Taiwan. However, we will not tolerate being bullied into any position.”
Whitmore was surprised that Qian was so frank about the matter. He was all but saying that he was willing to play ball, as long as he and his government could save face.
“Can we talk about something else for a second?” David Levinson piped up.
Oh, God, Whitmore thought. Levinson was brilliant, but he was also a loose cannon. Over several objections, they had brought him along mostly for PR, and for scientific support. David had also insisted on being present, though. That might be good. As long as he remained on script, things would probably be okay.
But Levinson wasn’t a very scripted kind of guy.
“David?” Whitmore murmured.
“No, I’m just…”
David pointed to a man in his mid-thirties—lean, square-jawed, wearing a People’s Liberation Army uniform bearing the shield-shaped air force emblem.
“You,” he said. “You’re Lao, right? Lao Jiang?”
The man looked startled and glanced at his president.
Qian nodded slightly.
“I am Lao,” the man said.
“You’re in charge of research and development, astronautics division, right? The thing in the desert? You’re trying to build spaceships?”
Lao nodded cautiously.
“How’s the anti-gravity coming?” David asked.
“David—” Whitmore said.
Lao shrugged and squared his shoulders. “We will solve that issue any day now.”
“Yes,” David said. “I’m sure you will—but you don’t have to. We already did.” He held up a disk. “It’s all right here. It’s yours.”
“I don’t understand,” Lao said.
Whitmore did. “The Earth Space Defense initiative isn’t about the United States, or about China—”
“Or Tibet,” David put in, not quite under his breath.
“It’s about getting things done in the most efficient way possible. That means both cooperation and compartmentalization. We share, and we don’t waste effort trying to catch up with one another.”
David cut back in.
“We’re developing the technology to replicate—and hopefully surpass—their space-traveling ability, melding the best of our technology with the best of theirs. We’ve solved most of the major problems of low-acceleration anti-gravity, and we’re picking up steam on stable fusion reactors. You guys, on the other hand, are somewhat ahead of us in adapting the aliens’ quite impressive structural, integrative, and life-support capabilities.”
“What makes you think this?” Lao demanded, this time forgetting to get the okay from his leader.
“It’s called the Internet,” David replied. “I’m referring to a paper published by two of your scientists, Long and Hui—”
“Yes,” Lao said, more quietly. “I’ve seen the paper.”
“So,” President Qiang said. “You’re suggesting we let you develop space-flight technology? While we work on what? Life-support systems?”
“No,” David said. “We’ll work on space technology, but our focus is going to be on building fighters. As we sort out anti-gravity, the fusion drive, and so on, you get all the specs. You won’t be behind.”
“And if we’re not building fighters with this technology, what are we building?” Qian asked.
“Heavy lifters,” David said. “Tugs. Transports. Prefab housing. That sort of thing.”
“President Qian,” Whitmore said. “Gentlemen. What we’re suggesting is that your portion of this is the moon.”
For a moment, they all stared at him.
“You’re offering us the moon?” the Chinese president said at last.
“Just because we landed a few ships on it doesn’t mean we own it,” Whitmore said. “Nobody should own it—but wouldn’t it be great if China was the country that developed it, built the base that’s going to protect us all? The last thing we need is another moon race.”
Qian looked at the other members of his group, then back at Whitmore.
“I cannot promise anything without discussing this with the Central Committee,” he said. “But this is a
very good start, Mr. President. A very good start indeed.”
* * *
A week later, on Air Force One, winging over the Pacific, Whitmore patted David on the shoulder.
“You scared the hell out of me the other day,” he said, “but it worked.”
David smiled. “They’ve been Jonesing for the moon for at least a decade.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” Whitmore said. “You really should reconsider that directorship.”
David shook his head. “Still not biting.”
“I could issue an executive order,” he said.
“I’ll take my chances,” David said. “Anyway, the real story here is you. I never would have guessed you could pull the world together so quickly.”
“I’m not pulling it together,” Whitmore said. “I’m helping it to pull itself together. Early in my first term I was accused of being weak, of compromising too easily. Of not sticking to my guns—but you know what? Compromise is what’s going to help us survive. It’s the lubricant that will make ESD work.” He smiled bitterly. “And it only took three billion dead, and staring directly into the face of utter annihilation, to get the ball rolling. The politicians that survive in this environment are the ones who can convince their people they can make them safe, not the ones who quibble over the little things. The deck is stacked in my favor.”
“Maybe so,” David said, “but you still have to know how to play the game. There’s always a joker in the deck.”
Whitmore settled back in his seat. “It’s almost embarrassing, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“Us slapping each other on the back like this, when a few years ago you took a swing at me.”
“Oh, I didn’t take a swing,” David said. “I connected.”
“Yes, you did,” Whitmore agreed. “I guess… I guess if I thought some guy was fooling around with my wife, I might have done the same.”
“I was being stupid,” David said.
“I’m glad things worked out with you and Connie,” Whitmore said. “When you find someone you not only love, but who also has your back…” He trailed off.
“I’m sorry,” David said. “It must be hard.”
“It’s just—I know she would have loved to see Patricia grow up. She was looking forward…” He found his throat starting to seize up.