by John Moralee
“Why?”
“He’s insane, Buchannon. You know the problems yourself - living in cheap motel rooms with your memories eating your sanity. He killed a doctor and two security men in his escape.”
Silence.
Another voice. Male, crisp, New England accent. “Edward Woody disappeared for two months. Then, on the Fourth of July, the Eastern NET was hit by a military AI using cracking software called Tumbleweed. The details don’t concern you, but it has stolen vital data from many important projects that I and my partners need. The state of economic balance is in jeopardy.”
“Shame,” Buchannon said.
“We believe you know the significance of the term ‘tumbleweed’ to Edward Woody.”
“Tumbleweed means losing complete control over an aircraft.”
“In this case it meant losing control of our data. We need the data back and we want you to stop him from using Tumbleweed again.”
“You mean ... kill him?”
“If that is what it takes.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are someone he trusts.”
*
He could never forget the war because there were things - little things - ever present that reminded him of it. He could be walking down a street and hear a baby crying and he’d be back there, shooting at the windows of a stucco-walled house, knowing that children were in the same room as the enemy, knowing that the enemy was a mother with a rifle that had killed his buddy with a head shot two seconds before.
Buchannon was on the street again, clean shaven and dressed in a suit he could never have afforded, with a pocket full of money and fake ID supplied by the never generous Melanie. He was aware of the number of eyes watching him, some human, some electronic. Melanie was keeping close tabs on him and that made him careful. He did not know how to proceed.
There was one thing he knew: Melanie would not keep her word. She planned to kill him after his job was done. So, he had few options. He could sit down and die, attempt a suicidal revenge, or, the third option, find the Woodsman.
He was in the Woodsman’s birth place, a small town called Hindley in New England. The contrast between twentieth and twenty-first century created a feeling of homeliness. There was none of the harsh ferrocrete monoliths that so cluttered New York, the preferred architecture here was aesthetically pleasing, low level units, red bricked, flora abundant. He walked towards his destination, a Edwardian-style house complete with acres of lawn and oak trees.
When he reached the door, he stopped and adjusted his tie. He was choking. The hidden security camera contacted the owner and identified Major Alan H. Buchannon. The door opened.
“Please come in, sir,” uttered the speaker, “the master is in the drawing room. That is the second on your right.”
He nodded, though it wasn’t necessary for the Artificial Intelligence. The drawing room smelled musty, and was gloomy. The drapes were half closed. A man in his early hundreds sat reading a webmag and only looked up when Buchannon politely coughed.
“You’re the one that rescued my son when his plane crashed.” It was not a question. Buchannon waited for more, aware that there was deep intelligence in the blue eyes of Ronald Woody. “What brings you here?”
“Some of the vets are having a reunion, going to share the good times. I was wondering -”
“I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing. He’s not here.”
Buchannon sensed the weariness and caution in Ronald Woody. His answer was too sharp. Prepared.
“I’ve heard he got into trouble ... and I thought ... I thought I could help. I believe in the Chinese tradition of once you save a life you have to take responsibility their soul forever. I want to help.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
He knows.
“What?”
“You’re troubled, like Edward. You have it in your eyes. That lost look. My own father had that look ... do you really want to help Edward?”
“Yes.” He tasted the sour deceit on his tongue.
“The war ruined his life, you know, and the thing I can’t understand is that he actually volunteered. There was no need. We have money and he could have gone to college but he was a fool.”
“I don’t think that.”
“A decade has gone, Major, and in that time what has winning the war achieved? Has poverty vanished? Has hatred gone? No. It was a waste. Such a waste.”
“Losing would have been worse.”
“Perhaps.”
“The past stains us all, sir. Please let me help your son. Has he contacted you?”
“What can you do for him?”
Kill him? Is that what you can do?
“I don’t know. Yet.”
Ronald Woody shrugged. “I don’t know where he is. I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“Time is not a great healer. It’s the opposite. The more time that passes creates a chasm between people that gets larger and larger until there’s a Grand Canyon of a difference and it’s too late. Don’t you think?”
*
Buchannon left Hindley on the Amtrak shuttle with a ticket booked for Detroit, knowing he have to think fast and act faster. He bought clothes from the onboard tailor and retreated to a lavatory. There he stripped and checked himself in the mirror for blemishes that could possible signify the placing of a tracer or transmitter. He found one in his hair that he was obviously meant to find. It was easy to feel with probing finger tips, and another on his back beneath his epidermis that wasn’t. He steeled himself and removed it with a razor and put it in his wallet for the moment. He hoped that was it.
The mirror showed a man he barely recognised. Hollow eyes, in a tired face. Muscles that had lost their strength during his period of enforced civility.
*
He remembered the day the war ended as the worst day of his life. June 11th, 2031.
The 103rd had taken control of an underground complex and were clearing bodies and taking prisoners. He had been assigned to protect Lieutenant Winters while she took control of the enemy’s equipment. He heard the sounds come from a storage room.
“Possible threat, Lieutenant.”
She nodded and they proceeded to either side and raised rifles. He kicked the door in and there was the kick of gunfire and Buchannon noted the position and distance of the enemy soldier. He rolled into the room and located the target, a private left by his commanders to hold the base. He killed him. It was over in seconds. There were more people in the room, children and old people sheltering from the bombs.
“It’s okay, Lieu -”
He would remember the stutter of Melanie’s gun and the short screams of the people as they fell, bloodied and lifeless.
“What did you do that for?”
“I saw a gun,” she said.
He knelt amongst the bodies and searched for some proof to keep his belief in his lover, some sign that these people were not innocent and she had been right. He never found the weapon. The worst day of his life.
*
He dressed in the new clothes after checking them. You could never be too careful. He was a sure as he could possibly be that he was clean of bugs. He slipped out of the toilet and debarked at the next stop.
He bounced around town, giving false trails to Melanie’s employer, putting the bug on a man in the airport and buying a seat on every flight that hour. Let Melanie follow that. Then he disappeared.
*
Buchannon wiped a day’s dust from his hands and looked out at the Grand Canyon through binoculars hoping to see something that registered as a calling card. Ronald Woody was a sly devil, he mused, probably knew that he was been watched. Slipped in the location like a pro and if Buchannon had missed the reference he would be no further forward. He put the binoculars away and returned to his car, driving to the nearest hotel for a meal and a place to rest.
He asked the clerk if there were many hotels around and was informed that most had
closed down in the recession and this was the last frontier, as far as sightseers were concerned. He ate and slept. He left at six, the sun not putting in an appearance until an hour later. His mind had been at work during his sleep and he had an idea why the Woodsman had contacted his father from the Grand Canyon.
He’d visited the burned pilot in the veteran’s hospital. The Woodsman had become a sort of mascot for the 103rd and after surgery he looked a hundred times better than when he dragged him from the wreckage.
“Thanks for getting me out, Buck.”
“Sure. Any young nurses taking care of you?”
Woody laughed. “One or two.”
“Going easy on them, eh?”
“You know why I learned to fly? I met a girl when I was fourteen. Sandy, her name. During a vacation at the Grand Canyon we stayed at the Holiday Inn. We fancied each other like crazy, but she would not go further than a kiss, can you believe that? When I asked her why, she told me that she wanted to marry a fighter pilot, a Top Gun, and anything less would not do. That’s why I decided to become a pilot.”
“Better reason than most. What happened to Sandy?”
Woody shrugged. “Who knows? We didn’t even trade email addresses.”
“She’s probably still waiting for a war hero like you!”
Buchannon drove on to the location of the Holiday Inn and inquired at the desk for the log book. He showed his fake police ID and got into the records. In general, businessmen paid by credit cards and one reference stood out for a cash payment dated one day after the Woodsman escaped. There were other guests that day, but intuition was enough for Buchannon.
The guest had used the phone twice and the numbers and length of calls were listed. The first call was to Ronald Woody; the second, unknown.
Information told him that the number was out of service but he got the address printed and returned to his car. The number had gone out of service a week after the Woodsman used it.
*
Apartment 6B was in the name of Paul Scheiner. The rent had been paid three months ahead, so the landlord presumed it was occupied, which was wrong. Detective Doherty (as Buchannon introduced himself) learned that no-one had seen anyone go near 6B for some time, but that wasn’t exactly unusual with the people in this part of the city, people keeping pretty much to themselves.
Buchannon let himself into the apartment and could smell it had been abandoned in a hurry because there was a stuffiness to the room. The furniture remained and it looked like the shelves, tables and drawers had been emptied rapidly into bags and carried outside. Scheiner had left no deliberate trails. Buchannon searched the rooms, finding spoiled food in the kitchen and extra blankets and pillows on a couch - Woody had been here. He left the room as he found it and located a public comlink. There he called information requesting any travel tickets bought by P. Scheiner in the last month. None. This he expected because Scheiner wasn’t stupid. Scheiner was a tech, so any clues would be of a physical not a virtual nature.
He took a risk of losing the trail completely. He called Scheiner’s only living relative, his sister who lived nearby - after installing a tap on her line that would record her messages.
“Hello, is Paul there yet?”
“Paul -” She was puzzled.
“He said he’d be at yours today.”
“Who are you?”
She was suspicious.
“I’m the Woodsman.”
She hung up - which meant she had seen the real Woody. Buchannon waited a few minutes and then accessed the net. Miss Scheiner had made a call. The number was a fake connection but Buchannon watched the video. She spoke to Scheiner, worriedly, and he told her to be careful to not call again. He’d call her. Buchannon took the video to a film booth and studied the images. The thing with 3D was that there was always something in the picture if you looked at the right angle. He hoped. Behind Scheiner there was a work top. By enhancing the image Buchannon could see the top of a box of pizza. He peered at the image and smiled.
*
It was a ghost town, way out in the desert. Buchannon visited the pizza place, a family concern since the 1970s according to the drawling Pop behind the counter. A little piece of history. He described Scheiner and got a positive response because the guy was good on faces. Scheiner had been in just yesterday.
And that was it.
This was the place that the Woodsman would choose to hide. A dark spot in the past.
He went to the jack station and got his car recharged and bought a local map. One glance and the place leapt at him, saying X marks the spot. He laughed: if Melanie knew how simple this way she’d never have bothered using him.
He spotted the hangar from a mile away, out in the open for everyone to see. Used to be part of an army base, cut deep in the ravine hidden from prying public eyes. Part of the Cold War Era, now dried up and forgotten like himself. The Woodsman must have chosen this with a sense of irony in mind. Hide right under their noses. There were perhaps a hundred satellites in geostationary orbit over this spot, perfect for a secret uplink to the net.
He emptied his water canteen, wishing to God that it wasn’t so hot. But that was Nevada. He looked for signs of occupation. He didn't want to go in there and miss the Woodsman or scare him off. There was a trail leading to the hangar entrance from some kind of small vehicle, probably a bike. The wind last night would have removed it if it wasn’t recent so he could presume the Woodsman was inside. Armed? Possibly. Dangerous? He killed those guards when he escaped.
*
“I’ve been sent to kill you.”
The two men stood facing each other, Woody’s eyes trying to make out features in the sunlight before he made a move. In an instant he could bring out his own gun and cut the man down, but if he was an assassin why announce himself as such? His wrist flicked imperceptibly and he had a palm sized pistol pointed at the intruder.
“Drop the gun.”
Buchannon dropped it. “There’s little wonder you were number one.”
“Sandy, check the perimeter!”
“My security systems have been over-ridden,” said the computer. “Sorry,” she added.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did it,” Buchannon said, stepping forward out of the sunlight so that Woody could see him clearly, “you’re a hard man to find.”
“Is it you, Buck?”
“In the flesh.”
As Buchannon walked forward there was recognition on the Woodsman’s face and puzzled relief and many questions.
“Do you really want to kill me?”
“I said that I was sent kill you - not that I was going to carry it out.”
To Buchannon, Woody looked haggard and older than his years. Yet the man was faster than he could see. Buchannon stepped through the memorabilia of Woody’s life, seeing the pin-ball machines and racing games and feeling sad that Woody lived like this alone. “You’ve got a lot of people very angry, Woodsman.”
“Tomorrow they’ll be even angrier.”
“Yeah?”
“Tumbleweed2 will change the world as we know it.”
Buchannon could see the fire in the Woodsman’s eyes, the burning intensity of a man with nothing but hate and pain. So much pain.
“What’s it going to do?”
“Crash and burn every military computer.”
“That’ll cause chaos! Deaths! Why? What reason could you have?”
“I’ll show you.” Woody reached into his overalls and pulled out a sachet of blue pills. “These! High grade amphetamines that the air force made compulsory for all Stealth fighter pilots.”
“You could go into rehab to get off them.”
“Really? Imagine your brain pumped to fifty times its normal speed with perfect clarity of thought and reactions that you simply dream about. These pills were what made us win the war. When you come down, you feel sluggish and dull-witted, like your head is full of glue. There’s no rehab in the world that can alter that. I need pills to
think! But what comes with that is the memories and I have to feel the war again and again and there’s no stopping the pain, on and on. The army used me and then threw me away, human scrap addicted to blue pills. That’s why I’m doing this. As a protest to show them that they were wrong to do that.”
“You’ve changed.”
“Everyone’s changed.”
“Melanie injected me with virus so that I’d look for you to save my own skin but I know her more than she thinks. If I kill you, she kills me. Justice. Is it true you killed three people?”
“It’s true.”
“The world might be a bad place, but destroying it is not the way to do it.”
“I have to wipe away the memories. Have to.” Woody pointed his gun at Buchannon. “You can leave now. I owe you that much.”
“The war’s over, has been for ten years. Look at this room! It’s nothing but memories of a past that has gone. You can start again. I may be dying but you don’t have to.”
“Is that why you came here? To save my soul?”
Buchannon didn’t know.
“I have flown over and destroyed cities. Some civvies called it the Gulf War III but that makes it sound like a bad sequel and they don’t know what it was like. They have no idea.”
“I know! Listen to me. Let me help you get off the pills and then you’ll be able to live again.”
“You know what it’s like to fly rooftop at Mach 9? The feeling of power you get destroying a Mover before it launches missiles on thousands of people? No.”
“I remember pulling you from a burning plane, my concern was for your life. I didn’t know you as a person. I didn’t need to know. You were another human being. Don’t go and throw that back in my face.”
“Please go ... or I’ll shoot you.”
“I’m not leaving. I’ve nothing to lose, have you?”