I had so much to worry about, I let that topic drop.
“Do you mind?” she asked, reaching between us.
“What?” I sputtered.
“The radio. May I listen to the news?”
“Of course. Yes.”
A professional newscaster was talking. The man’s level, almost soothing voice might have been discussing stock prices or the weather. But then he vanished, replaced by the taped comments of some government official. Or so I guessed: Government voices have that gait, that self-importance, making pronouncements meant to represent millions but mattering only to their inflated egos.
We kept driving south.
One important turnoff was marked with what for the French was a large sign, and I was quite sure that the arrow was pointing toward the United German States. But then we were past it, and looking back, I had to ask, “Why?”
Noelene glanced at me longer than she should have. At the speeds we were driving, I wanted her eyes forward. “Do you understand anything?” she asked.
What we were talking about?
“French,” she explained.
“ ‘Merci.’ Maybe a few other—”
“The borders have been closed, Kyle.”
My grip on the handle couldn’t be any tighter, but that wasn’t for lack of trying. “What borders? With Germany?”
“As a precaution, yes.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“But I have a friend,” she continued. “A customs agent, and I think he’ll help us.”
I don’t like messes. I never have. And that seemed like the worst part of this nightmare—its considerable untidiness.
“He works in,” she began, naming a town I didn’t know.
“And he’ll let me across?”
She said, “Yes.”
Then a little softer, “I think so.”
Maybe this was best. Maybe everything would work out, and I could climb on a nice German plane and head home. But even as I sat back in the hard little seat—as the sun finished setting and the French scenery raced past with a succession of blurring, increasingly dark grays—I thought to look at the single key in the car’s ignition. What kind of person keeps her key on its own ring?
“Is this car yours?”
Noelene gave my abrupt question a little too much thought. Then looking straight ahead, she said, “Yes.” She used the word that one time, just to practice the lie. Then again, with more authority, she told me, “Yes,” and glanced my way, showing an unconvincing smile.
We drove fast and far, and I applied myself to learning everything possible about this strange automobile. The speedometer had us scorching along at better than 150 KPH, riding on nothing but four doughnut-sized tires. Our gas tank wasn’t full when we began, and by the time I began paying attention, the gauge read half-empty. Despite the darkness, I tried to spot landmarks and keep track of our turns. But I’ve never been much of a navigator. Finally, summoning a measure of courage, I asked, “Do you have a road map?”
She seemed ready for my request. “Look in the glove box, Kyle.”
I was already opening it, nothing to find but the car manual and several receipts that I couldn’t read in the dark.
I said nothing, contemplating my situation.
She imagined questions and picked one to answer.
“This won’t last much longer, Kyle.”
“Pardon?”
“The world situation. American power.” Something about this was funny. I didn’t expect her to laugh, but that’s what she did: A soft, girlish giggle followed by the apology, “I don’t mean that your country will be destroyed. Nobody wants that. But you know, this power you have over the rest of us . . . it’s fragile. It’s doomed. That’s what I meant to say.”
I nodded seriously, as if politics were forefront in my mind. Then over the hum of the highway, I asked what seemed like a perfectly reasonable question. “How would that help anything?”
She said nothing. In a particular way, she held her silence.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted. “The world is prosperous and at peace. Why would you want to upset the order of things?”
Noelene leaned close to the steering wheel, as if willing herself to reach our destination sooner.
“What kind of world would this be?” I asked. “All right, France acquires the bomb. Then the Jews and Egyptians, the Soviets and Chinese. Britain and Germany would have to build suitable armories. And I suppose even Canada would want two or three little nukes, just to earn their southern neighbor’s respect.” I had found my rhythm, listing progressively smaller nations. French sensibilities where triggered when I mentioned, “Switzerland.”
“Why?” she interrupted. “Why would the Swiss need such things?”
I watched her and watched the dashboard. The red silhouette of a gasoline tank warned that we were nearly out of fuel.
Noelene risked a quick glance my way. Then with eyes fixed on the blurring road, she stated, “Neutral powers wouldn’t bother.”
“Well,” I pointed out. “Perhaps they wouldn’t see things quite as you do.”
She said nothing.
And I kept my own silence, realizing just how sick of worry I was. This deep dread of mine began before I boarded the plane in Chicago, and every step of my journey had made it heavier and more acidic.
“You never should have done it,” she began.
“What’s that?”
“The nuclear monopoly . . . you should never have claimed it. Never. If you had shared your nuclear plans, the genuine powers would have each built only what we needed. France would have a few bombs, and the Soviets, and everyone. Our borders would be protected. There wouldn’t be any reason for war. Why would one nation fight another if it meant that their capital would burn, their population enduring catastrophic losses?”
“Is that how things would be?”
“Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “Peace. Real peace. And some world court that would judge the nations, identifying what was wrong and making settlements between competitors. This is obvious . . . so obvious . . . I cannot believe anyone would think otherwise.”
“Yet I do,” I admitted.
She grimaced. “You can’t hold this power forever.”
I was terrified and extraordinarily tired, yet at the same moment my mind was sharp. Pushing my face close to her ear, I asked, “And how will you stop us, Noelene?”
She gave a start, the swift little car wandering out of its lane. Then she straightened her back and our trajectory, eyes straight ahead, bright with tears. “You aren’t monsters,” she informed me.
“I know I’m not.”
“When you realize . . . when your country understands how many innocent civilians you’ll have to murder to maintain your hegemony . . . well, you’ll stop yourselves. Your president will have no choice but to recall those bombers. Yes? I know this. You’re not psychopaths, and your conscience won’t let you slaughter thousands of peaceful demonstrators.”
“Thousands?” I blurted.
She fell silent.
Leaning against my door, I asked, “Where are you taking me, Noelene?”
One hand came off the steering wheel, fingertips wiping at her eyes as the car drifted out of its lane again. “To the border. I told you.”
There was little heart left in her lie.
For the next sixteen minutes, we rode in total silence. I asked myself how close we were to Geneva and how slow we would have to be going for me to open my door and roll onto the pavement. Better that than get involved in some bizarre self-imposed hostage situation, surely. Then came the mechanical clicking of a turn signal, and Noelene was braking while pulling off the highway. A pool of fluorescent green light beckoned, gas pumps and cheery French signs and a very welcome Coke symbol hung in the bright station window. “I thought we had enough fuel,” she muttered, perhaps speaking to herself.
She sounded as worried as I felt.
“I’ll make this quick,” she promis
ed, throwing a weak smile at her increasingly wily captive.
I opened my door as soon as the car stopped. My mind was made up. Better to take my chances with strangers, I reasoned, than remain at the mercy of this misguided woman. I assumed that Noelene would try to stop me. She’d offer more lies or perhaps threaten me. What I didn’t expect was no reaction past a vague, “Where are you going?”
“The bathroom,” I lied.
But before I managed two steps, someone shouted her name. People were standing at the edge of the light, a large group gathered around what looked like a parked school bus. Noelene climbed out of the borrowed car and looked at them, and the worries on her face fell away. She called out several names, waving enthusiastically. Several young men came running, examining me while passing and then gathering around their good friend, talking with quiet intense voices. I kept walking. One by one, the men glanced at me, nodding happily. Stepping into the service station, I realized that I had to pee in the most urgent, desperate way. The bathroom was a small, extraordinarily clean room with one toilet and a lock. There had to be a back door out of the station. But first, I did what couldn’t wait, and then as the toilet ran, I splashed water on my face and dried my hands, wondering which way was east, and what were the odds of a terrified, language-impaired American making his own way across the German border.
But the challenge wouldn’t be met. Two substantial men were waiting outside the bathroom door. Waiting for me, judging by the hands that grabbed my shoulders and elbows. I felt tiny. I felt carried, although my feet remained on the floor with every step. A sour looking woman behind the counter glared at me, and the largest man said, “Your passport. It is with you?”
For no good reason but to be difficult, I said, “No.”
Noelene was waiting for us outside. The big man asked her a question, and visibly surprised, she said, “He brought it with him, yes.”
“I threw it out the window,” I lied. “Miles and miles ago.”
“You did what?” Strangely, that angered her. She sneered and gave a few quick instructions in French, and a hand almost too big to fit inside my right front pocket snatched up the prize. Then it was handed to her, and she slipped it inside her pocket, saying, “I’ll keep this safe for you, Kyle.”
“No,” I muttered.
“We ride in the bus together,” the big man said, giving me a bone-rattling pat on the back.
Again, I said, “No.”
“We insist.”
I decided to collapse on the pavement. But that did nothing but strip away the last of my dignity. The men grabbed my arms and legs and carried me to the bus and up into the darkness. I smelled smoke and liquor and competing perfumes. Who wears perfume to a mass suicide? I begged to be put down, and I agreed to stand on my own, but my captors insisted on shoving me into one of the front seats, next to a small figure that looked female and was wearing some kind of uniform.
I didn’t recognize the woman. Honestly, I hadn’t looked twice at the face riding beside me in the airliner. But the black and orange-trimmed uniform was the same, and she had the same build and similar short hair. Someone or something had struck her face, probably more than once, and someone else had given her a white towel to press against what looked like a very ugly cut beside her left eye.
I looked at the bus door, ready to run.
But the big Frenchman read my mind. Standing in the aisle, he grinned down at me, explaining, “We wait for the rest. As soon as they come, we leave. Very soon now.”
My earlier terrors were nothing compared to this. Anxieties were piled high. I breathed hard, moaned and shook. My hope of hopes was to panic—a full-blown craziness born from adrenaline and nothing left to lose. I would beg. I would lie. Any excuse was viable, aiming for whatever was most pathetic. I was even sorry that I had emptied my bladder, since I doubted anyone here would appreciate riding to the Alps with a urine-soaked coward.
Through the bus windows, I saw Noelene move her car away from the pumps, parking somewhere behind the bus.
Another little car arrived, pulling up ahead, out of view. But I barely noticed. Watching my hands tremble, I wished I could call home, just once, and tell my news to whoever picked up the receiver.
Through the open windows, a voice found me.
I recognized its timbre, its smoothness. Leaping to my feet, I saw a familiar face talking to the big man and Noelene.
I started to shout, “Claude,” but someone behind me decided to shove me, dropping me to the rubberized floor.
Shifting in our seat, the rad-hunter looked down at me. The gore and shadows made her look especially defiant. Plainly, I wasn’t doing a very good job of defending my nation’s honor.
Claude spoke with the others for several minutes, arguing and explaining before stopping, allowing an increasing number of participants to take their turn. I returned to my seat, listening to every sound. Once again my translator repeated his points, making sure that he was understood. There was gravity to his tone, plus a little despair. Suddenly the rad-hunter pulled away the towel, taking a deep breath before telling me, “They’re letting you go.”
“What?”
“Your friend just saved you,” she explained, staring at me with a vivid, hateful envy.
The big man came into the bus and waved at me.
With shoulders bowed, I went to him. I would have kissed him on the hands and cheeks, I was that happy. Then I was led outside, and Claude watched me until I looked at him. Then he turned to Noelene, offering a few words intended only for her.
“I didn’t know,” she said to me.
The woman was weeping. Because of me or because of her emotions getting the best of her—I couldn’t tell which.
I started to talk, but Claude interrupted. “You have your passport? You will need it.”
Where was my soul? I stupidly patted my pockets before remembering that it was stolen a few minutes ago.
I looked at weepy Noelene.
“He must have it,” Claude warned.
She seemed more willing to surrender me than the document. But she placed it in my hands, and for a long moment, I did nothing. I was waiting for an apology. But none was offered. Once again, she claimed, “I didn’t know,” and she turned and walked away toward the bus.
“Don’t go,” I blurted.
Startled, she looked back at me.
“Go there, and you will die,” I said with all of the authority I could muster. “It’ll be like Israel, a burrowing nuke. It’ll make a huge mess, and you’ll get poisoned and die in some slow awful way.”
That fate had its terrors, but she refused to cower. Braver than I would ever be, Noelene said, “Your people won’t let this happen. How could they? We’re allies. We helped your country win its freedom.” She made a bomber with one hand, and smiling, pulled it back toward the sky. “Your president will see us, and in the end, he will give in.”
As fast as the journey south had been, the return trip was even faster. The tiny Renault rattled and shook, and its driver focused his attentions on the road, barely finding the breath, much less the need, to explain that he had traded in several favors and paid some undisclosed bribe to less forgiving souls, and that’s before he had told Noelene that my only child was back in the States, in the Mayo Clinic, dying of cancer.
“That’s why she’s sorry,” I muttered.
“A little lie,” he confessed.
Watching the same road, I said, “Thank you.”
Which made him angrier, it seemed. We were heading toward Paris and some final flight home, though he wasn’t promising that we would make it in time.
“How did you know where I was?”
He didn’t answer.
Again, I told him, “Thank you.”
Maybe he nodded. I watched but I wasn’t sure.
The car radio was turned up high. It was the middle of the night, but the voices were animated and steady, senselessly describing events of great importance. I found myself thinking about
the rad-hunter and what would happen to her and Noelene. Mostly Noelene.
“I knew where you would be,” said Claude, glancing at me.
“You’re involved with them,” I guessed.
“Since the beginning,” he allowed. “Yes.” He sighed and a few moments later admitted, “But I’m glad you’re here. You are my excuse. Really, I don’t want to die tonight.”
“That’s funny,” I muttered.
He looked at me, insulted.
“I don’t mean funny,” I apologized. “I meant to say odd. It’s odd because . . . this sounds silly, I know . . . but some part of me wants to be with them now. You know? All those brave noble people doing what they think must be right. I don’t want to be there, and I don’t want to be a hostage, no. But there’s two women that I keep thinking about. Isn’t that crazy?”
“It is human nature,” my savior said, shaking his head wearily.
The sun was beginning to show itself. Looking east, I began to mention the first flush of dawn. But then the radio gave a harsh sputtering roar before the station fell silent. We listened to the static, and then Claude turned off the radio, and we listened to the road and our own thoughts. Really, at that point, what else could be said?
The Cassandra Project
Jack McDevitt
Jack McDevitt ( jackmcdevitt.com) lives in Brunswick, Georgia. He is probably best known for his sequence of Priscilla “Hutch” Hutchins novels—The Engines of God (1994), Deepsix (2000), Chindi (2002), and Omega (2003)—and he has had a book on the final Nebula awards ballot for twelve of the last thirteen years. The most substantial collection of his short fiction is Cryptic (2009). His most recent novel is Echo (2010), and his previous novel, Time Travelers Never Die (2009), won the Nebula Award for best novel.
“The Cassandra Project” appeared in Lightspeed, and this is perhaps its first print publication. Set in the day after tomorrow, it involves the investigations by a PR man assigned to promote a U.S./Soviet return to the moon for NASA, sparked by his discovery in a bunch of old photos from the Soviet space archives of a dome in the Cassegrain crater taken in 1967, before the Apollo moon landing. It is more a story about politics than space technology though, quiet and thorough and ironic.
Year’s Best SF 16 Page 33