Moving at light-speed, more than a day was required to reach that distant battlefield.
Human soldiers were moved at a more prosaic rate, several weeks invested in the outbound voyage. Which was still immensely quick, by human standards. The Kuipers’ ships were tiny and black, invisible to our radar and nearly unnoticeable to the human eye. They never carried weapons. Every veteran made that blanket assurance. By law or convention, spaceships were forbidden to fight, much less attack any other species. And without exception, the surrounding universe was neutral—a taboo of peace balanced by the endless war on their world.
A curious mind could ask, “Which side did you fight for?"
Those retired soldiers always had a name for their sponsoring nest or reef, and rarely did two soldiers use the same name.
"How many reefs are there?” people inquired.
"Two hundred and eleven,” was the unvarying answer.
Hearing that, a human being would invest the distant struggle with some familiar politics.
"So how does this play out?” they would ask. “One hundred reefs fighting the other hundred, with a few neutral cowards sitting on the sidelines?"
Some veterans laughed off those simple, wrong-headed questions. But more often they would put on expressions of disgust, even rage. Then with a single passionate breath, they would explain that there was no such thing as neutrality or alliances, or cowardice for that matter, and each reef gladly battled every one of its neighbors, plus any other force that stupidly drifted into the field of fire.
War was the Kuipers’ natural state, and that's the way it had been for the last twenty million years.
* * * *
Panic is temporary; every adrenaline rush eventually runs empty. Even the most devoted parent has to sleep on occasion, and breathe, and somehow eat enough to sustain a minimal level of life. That's why a new, more enduring species of misery evolves for the afflicted. Over the next several weeks, I watched my friends carefully reconfigure their misery. They learned how to sleep and eat again, and for a few moments each day, they would find some tiny activity that had absolutely nothing to do with their missing son. Normal work was impossible. Amanda exhausted her sick days and vacation days, while Don simply took an unpaid leave of absence. Like never before, they became a couple. A team. Two heads united by the unwavering mission—to find and reclaim LD before he forever escaped their grasp.
"I almost envy those two,” Cheryl confided to me. “It's sick to think this. But when have our lives enjoyed half that much purpose? Or a tenth the importance?"
"Never,” I had to agree.
In my own sorry way, I was angry about what LD was doing to my old friendship. After those first days of pure terror, Don stopped calling. He didn't have the energy or need to keep me abreast of every little clue and dead end. There were many days when I didn't once hear from the man. He was too busy researching the Kuipers. Or he had to interview experts on missing people. Or there were night flights to distant cities and important meetings with government officials, or patient astronomers, or one of the very few practicing exobiologists. Plus there were some secretive exchanges with borderline figures who might or might not have real help to offer.
We tried to keep meeting to play chess, but the poor guy couldn't recall what he had told me already. Again and again, he explained that his son was still somewhere on the Earth, probably somewhere close by. The Kuipers’ version of boot camp required eighty-seven days of intense simulations and language immersion, technical training and cultural blending. That was what every verified account claimed. Perhaps as many as three percent of the recruits failed this stage, earning a scrubbed memory of recent events and transport back home again. “But those numbers are suspicious,” Don said. “There's no telling how many young men pretend amnesia to explain a few missing months."
From the beginning, the same relentless rumors had been circulating about secret training bases on the ocean floor or beneath the South Pole. Various governments, and particularly the U.S. government, were said to be in cahoots with the Kuipers, giving them old air bases in exchange for top-secret technologies. The truth, however, was less spectacular and infinitely more practical for the job at hand.
Not to mention far, far stranger.
"LD is somewhere close,” Don kept telling me.
And himself.
Witnesses were scarce, and the memories of the veterans were short on details. But each would-be soldier was encased inside an elaborate suit, armored and invisible to human sensors. For the next thirty years, that suit would be his shell and home. For the moment, both it and its living cargo were buried deep in some out-of-the-way ground. There was no telling where. Somewhere within a hundred miles of our little table, LD was living a cicada's subterranean existence, experiencing what the aliens wanted him to experience, making him ready for the adventure of a lifetime.
"We've got two months to find him,” Don told me.
If his son had actually joined the Kuipers, I thought to myself.
Later, he announced, “We have six weeks left."
"Plenty of time,” I lied, looking at the fresh dirt under his fingernails.
Then he said, “Four weeks, and a day."
"Maybe he'll be one of the dropouts,” I said hopefully.
For the first time, LD's father was hoping for failure. But saying so would jinx everything. I could see that in his stiff mouth, in his downcast eyes. Don was turning into a superstitious old fool, not allowing himself even to smile at the prospect: The powerless victim of grand forces beyond his control, with nothing in his corner but the negligible possibility of a little good luck.
"Two weeks left, minus twelve hours."
We were sitting in the coffee shop. This was our usual day for chess, though we hadn't managed a full game in weeks. Don always brought his laptop, leaping around the Web while we suffered through a halting, chaotic conversation.
Three times in three minutes, Don glanced at his watch.
"Expecting somebody?” I finally asked.
"I am,” he admitted.
I waited for the full answer. When none came, I asked outright, “So, whom are we expecting?"
Don smiled, anguish swirled with anticipation. “Somebody important,” he mentioned. “Somebody who can help us."
Then he gave the coffee shop door a long hard stare.
I made one wrong guess. “Is it a parent?"
There were thousands like Don, and the Internet allowed them to meet and commune, sharing gossip and useful tips. Our particular town was too small to have its own support group, but every Sunday, Don and Amanda drove to Kansas City in order to sit in a stuffy room and drink coffee with people a little farther along in their misery.
Maybe one of those Kansas City friends was dropping by, I reasoned.
But Don said, “No,” and then his tired eyes blinked.
Glancing over my shoulder, I understood.
Our visitor was in his middle sixties, and he didn't look too awful. I would have expected a limp or maybe stumps in place of hands. But no, the gentleman could have been any newly retired citizen, respectable and even a little bland. He stood at the door, taking in the room as if weighing all the hazards. And then I noticed his tailored clothes and the polished leather shoes, a little old-fashioned but obviously expensive.
Some veterans returned to Earth with gems in their loot. But to my knowledge, not one ever sold his treasures, since each item carried some embedded significance far beyond commercial gain.
To myself, I whispered, “Where do you get your money, stranger?"
"I'm sorry,” Don told me, sounding decidedly unsorry. “I should have warned you. Just this morning, I learned this fellow was passing through, and I was lucky enough to get his number and arrange this. This meeting."
Don hurriedly gathered up his belongings. The laptop. The labeled folders. A notebook full of intense scribbles. And finally, half a cup of black Sumatran. Then he threw a careless look over his shoul
der, telling me, “Stay, if you want. Or I can call you afterward, tell you how it went."
"Okay, Don. Good luck."
Because I was his friend, I stayed. To keep busy, I brought out my own laptop and searched through the Wikipedia list of confirmed veterans. Meanwhile the two strangers shook hands and sat in back, across from each other in a little booth. I heard a few words from our honored guest, and reading the accent, I moved to the Russian portion of the database, bringing up a series of portraits.
Thirty-five years ago, a talented young art student slipped out of his parents’ Moscow apartment and vanished.
I could almost understand it: A Russian might prefer fighting aliens among the stars over trying to survive the next three decades inside a tottering communist empire.
The two old boys chatted amiably for several minutes.
Then the Russian mentioned something about his time and his considerable trouble, and Don pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it over. The Russian opened the gift with a penknife waiting at the ready, using fingers and eyes to count the bills and their denominations until he was satisfied enough to continue.
Cheryl had warned me.
"Our friends are spending their life savings,” she said just the other night. “Any person or little group that might help find LD gets a check, and sometimes several checks."
"Don's no fool,” I had claimed. “He wouldn't just throw his money away."
"But a lot of scam artists are working this angle,” she added. “Anybody with a missing son is going to be susceptible."
Those words came back to me now.
Who actually compiled these lists of Kuiper veterans? Russia wasn't a bastion of honest government and equal opportunity. I could envision somebody bribing the right people and then setting off for the West, retelling stories that were public legends by now, and helping no one but their parasitic selves.
The Russian seemed vigorous and fit.
I couldn't get past that.
After half an hour of intense conversation and coffee, Don had to slip off to the bathroom. He barely gave me a nod as he passed by. I stood and walked over, not asking permission when I sat beside the Russian, introducing myself without offering my hand and then asking pointblank, “So what are you and my good friend talking about?"
I can't say why, but that's when my initial suspicions collapsed.
Maybe it was the man's face, which up close revealed delicate and unusual burn scars. Or maybe it was the straight white line running from the back of his hand up his forearm and under his sleeve. Or it was the smell rising from his body—something I'd read about but never experienced—that faintly medical stink born from a diet of alien chow and peculiar water.
But mostly, what convinced me were the man's haunted blue eyes.
"The training,” said a deep, ragged voice. “Donald wants to know about the training. About what his son is enduring now."
"Can you help him?"
"I am trying to."
"Help me now,” I pleaded. Then after a deep breath, I added, “But I'm not going to pay you anything."
The blue eyes entertained their own suspicions.
"Why now?” I asked. “If this war's been going on forever, why just in these last forty years have the Kuipers started coming here?"
He said nothing.
"Does their war need fresh blood? Are they short of bodies to fight their ugly fight, maybe?"
"No,” he said once, mildly.
And then louder, with authority, he said, “Hardly."
"But why now?"
"Because forty years ago, my benefactors came to the conclusion that it was possible for humans to observe their world. We had not yet discovered it, no. But just the possibility was critical to the ceremony. Because all who can see what is transpiring must be made welcome—"
"Ceremony?” I interrupted. “What does that mean?"
"Exactly what you would expect the word to mean,” he claimed. Then he leaned closer to me, his breath stinking of alien chemicals that still swam in his blood. “What you call a war is not. More than anything, the ceremony is a religious event. It is a pageant of great beauty and much elegance, and by comparison, all human beliefs are cluttered little affairs without a thousandth the importance that one day up there brings to the open soul."
As the Russian spoke to me, Don returned.
"I miss that world,” said the one-time recruit. “I miss the beauty of it. The power of it. The intensity and importance of each vivid, thrilling moment.” He broke into some kind of Creole jabber—a mixture of Earthly languages and Kuiper that must have been better suited to describe his lost, much beloved life. Then he concluded by telling me, “Belonging to one nest while serving my good elders, standing limb to limb with my brethren ... I miss that every waking moment, every dreaming moment ... constantly, I find myself wishing I could return again to that good, great place...."
"Is that what it is?” I asked. “A great place?"
"I do envy that boy of his,” the Russian said to me.
Maybe I smiled, just a little. Just to hear that more than survival was possible, that poor LD could actually find happiness.
But Don roared, “Get out of here!"
I thought he was speaking to the Russian, and I was right.
And I was wrong.
"Both of you,” my best friend snapped. “I don't want to hear this anymore. ‘The beauty. The power.’ I want you to leave me alone! Goddamn it, go!"
* * * *
I felt awful for what I had done, or what I had neglected to do. For the next couple nights, I lay awake replaying the conversation and the yelling that followed. In my charitable moments I would blame exhaustion and despair for Don's graceless temper. Because what did I do wrong? Nothing, I told myself, and certainly nothing intentional.
After that, I called Don half a dozen times, making various apologies to his voice mail.
Eventually Cheryl heard from Amanda. Their thirty-second phone conversation translated into a five-minute lecture from my wife.
"Here's what you have to understand, John. These next days are critical. There won't be another chance to save LD. They have leads about where he might be, which is something. Very unusual, and maybe they will manage to find him—"
"And accomplish what?” I interrupted.
She looked at me with outrage and pity.
"Has any recruit ever been found like this?” I asked.
"Maybe,” Cheryl said. “Two or three times, perhaps."
"And talked out of leaving?"
She had to admit, “No."
But then with her next breath, she said, “This is about LD's parents. This is about them doing their very best. They can't let this moment escape without putting up a fight. And what Amanda says ... the way that you've been acting around Don ... it's as if you don't want to believe just how awful this mess is...."
What did I believe?
"Doubt is a luxury they can't afford now,” Cheryl explained. “And you're going to have to give Don space, if you're not going to help."
"But I want to help,” I pleaded.
"Then stop calling him, honey. He's got enough guilt in his head without hearing your voice every day too."
* * * *
One week remained.
Two days.
And then on the eighty-sixth day after LD's disappearance, an unexpected voice came searching for me, along with a very pleasant face and a sober, well-considered attitude.
"Hey, John."
"Morgan?” I sputtered.
"Can I come in? Just for a minute, please. It's about my brother."
We welcomed her. Of course we welcomed the young woman, offering our guest a cold drink and the best chair and our undivided attention. Morgan was being truthful when she said she had just a few minutes to spend with us. A list of people needed to be seen, and soon. A phone call or the Internet would have worked just as well, but with some of these names—us in particular—she felt that it was
best to come personally.
"A favor, John? Cheryl?"
Her shy smile made me flinch. “Anything,” I said for both of us.
"We have three areas to watch tonight,” she reported. “Three pastures, scattered but close to town. There's evidence—different kinds of evidence—that LD's buried in one of them. Although it's probably none of them, and this is a long shot at best."
Cheryl asked, “Which pasture do we watch?"
"Here.” On a photocopy of a map, she had circled eighty acres in the southeast corner of the county. “Really, the only reason to think LD's there is a farmer thinks he saw odd lights moving in the grass. And he's halfway sure it was the same night my brother vanished."
A very long shot.
But I said, “We'll be there, Morgan."
"There's going to be others out there with you. Cousins of mine, and some friends, and a lot of volunteers from all over. But most of us, including me ... we'll be at the north site."
"Is that place more promising?” my wife asked.
Morgan nodded. “We have a reliable witness who saw LD, or somebody like him, walking across an empty corn field in the middle of the night.” She rolled her shoulders with a skeptical gesture. Then as she stood again, she said, “Thank you. For everything, I mean."
"We want to help,” Cheryl promised.
Morgan looked straight at me.
Then despite the crush of time, she hesitated. Standing at our front door, Morgan spent three minutes making small talk. With a grin, she told us about the evening we'd come to their house to grill out, and while her brother put on a show for everyone, clowning around and throwing the football a mile into the air, I had taken the time to come over and sit with the ignored sister.
I had no recollection of the moment.
But Morgan did, and years later it was a cherished incident worth retelling. Then she looked at neither one of us, shaking her head. “Want to know the truth?” she asked with a conspiratorial tone. “Half of me believes Little Donnie is faking this. Just for fun. Just to see everybody jump and weep."
The big sister who had never shown a trace of jealousy said those hard, unsentimental words.
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