J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection

by J. M. Dillard

  Jacobi pushed open the door without knocking; catching Suzanne's raised brow, he explained: "We're pretty informal around here, Doctor. You'll get used to it." He poked his head inside, then looked back at Suzanne and put his finger to his lips. "Blackwood's lecturing. We let the local schoolchildren visit from

  time to time. I'm not sure who enjoys it more." He stepped inside and motioned for her to follow.

  "How nice," Suzanne murmured behind him. She eased the door shut as quietly as possible. Blackwood stood speaking with his back to them; before him, a group of children Debi's age listened, wide-eyed, whether totally intent or totally lost, Suzanne wasn't sure. She and Dr. Jacobi tiptoed off to one side of the room. Neither Blackwood nor the children seemed to notice.

  "Insofar as science is concerned," Blackwood was saying, "I doubt we've ever experienced a more exciting period in human history. Aided by the computer and other modern research techniques, startling discoveries are happening at an exponential rate...."

  The room looked more like a child-scientist's playground than an office: the ceiling was plastered with astral maps; a huge mobile of the solar system hung suspended, as did other celestial bodies, and through this makeshift cosmos sailed an inflatable plastic model of the starship Enterprise. About a dozen antique telescopes were aimed at the open window, and above the desk hung a framed poster of Schiaparelli's Mars, complete with canali.

  Jacobi settled against the wall to listen. Next to him, Suzanne tried not to stare at Dr. Blackwood. She'd pictured him as looking like her old boss at Zubrovski Labs, Dr. Solomon, overweight and almost totally bald, his pale eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. She certainly hadn't pictured him looking like . .. like ...

  This. Nice-looking. Probably in his late thirties.

  Tall, over six feet, with curly, golden brown hair. And for God's sake, dressed like a college kid in a flannel shirt, khakis, and suspenders, no tie. She realized that her mouth was slightly agape, and closed it.

  "A wise man once said"—and at this point Blackwood caught sight of Jacobi and winked; Jacobi nodded back—"that a person who tries to know something about everything will eventually know everything about nothing, while the person who tries to know everything about one thing will eventually know nothing about everything."

  Suzanne frowned. "Who said that?" she whispered in Jacobi's ear.

  He shrugged, still smiling. "Knowing Harrison, he did."

  Blackwood droned on. The kids were starting to fidget. "Of both the physical and theoretical sciences, it is crucial for you to always remember that assumptions are fraught with danger. Scientists can't function unless they can postulate theories based on assumptions. But the good scientist will always remain cautious, for to assume even the obvious is to oftentimes overlook the obvious. To help illustrate this point"— and here he withdrew a pocket watch from his khakis —"let me give you a practical example." He opened the watch and stared at its face, counting dramatically. A couple of the kids stirred and began paying attention as they realized something was about to happen.

  "Five," Blackwood intoned, "four, three, two, one!"

  In one of the nearby offices, a man screamed.

  Blackwood's lips curved in a satisfied grin. He closed the watch and slipped it back into his pocket.

  "Blaaackwoood!"

  The door to Blackwood's office slammed open, and a researcher dressed in a white smock stormed in. This man looked like Dr. Solomon, only thinner . .. except that his shoulders and balding head were sprinkled with brightly colored confetti. The children began to titter. Even Jacobi smiled; Suzanne forced herself to maintain a serious expression.

  The researcher glared at Blackwood, then realized that Jacobi was standing nearby. "I'm glad Dr. Jacobi is here to witness this, Blackwood," he snapped. "This has all the markings of another one of your infantile practical jokes!"

  Blackwood took a step toward him and said in a confidential tone, "Jeffrey, you really should see someone about that scalp condition." More giggles escaped.

  "You should see someone about your mental condition!" Jeffrey shouted.

  At that, someone in the group roared; that did it. The children howled. Jeffrey did a beautiful double take. In his fury, he apparently hadn't noticed that he had an audience. His anger faded to self-consciousness, then to red-faced embarrassment.

  Blackwood gestured at him like a leading man encouraging his co-star to take a bow. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce Dr. Guterman, the next stop on your field trip. Dr. Guterman doesn't subscribe to my assumption theory, and occasionally finds things falling down on him when he walks through doorways."

  "I'll get you for this, Blackwood," Guterman thundered. He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Blackwood was nonplussed. "Why don't you look around the room for a few minutes," he told the sixth-graders, "while Dr. Guterman regains his composure?"

  While the children milled around the office, Blackwood strolled over, hands in his pockets.

  "Inspiring young minds is so rewarding. Morning, Ephram." He turned to Suzanne, his blue eyes regarding her curiously. "Hi—Harrison Blackwood."

  "Suzanne McCullough." She felt herself frosting up. He was a charmer, just a little too glib. There was a boyishness about him that reminded her uncomfortably of Derek; he even resembled him a little physically. The fact both attracted and repelled her. But he was still too pleased with his joke on Guterman to notice.

  Jacobi sensed her disapproval and quit smiling. "I really do wish you'd leave that poor fellow alone, Harrison," he chided mildly. Suzanne got the feeling he said it only for her sake.

  Blackwood grinned unrepentantly. "And give up all my fun?" It was clear he wasn't in the least bit afraid of Jacobi. He turned to Suzanne. "I'm a firm believer that a person's reaction to a harmless practical joke is a window to his—or her—soul."

  She eyed him coolly. If he wasn't afraid of Jacobi,

  then, by God, she wasn't afraid to let him know what she thought of his childish antic. "Does that apply to whoopie cushions as well, Doctor?"

  He blinked, but his cheerfulness never wavered. She got the feeling he understood exactly what she meant but didn't give enough of a damn to take offense. He went right on to the next thought without missing a beat.

  "Ephram—now that I have you. Whatever happened to my request for a microbiologist?"

  She drew in a breath. So Jacobi hadn't even told him about her! She'd moved across country to come here to work for Blackwood, and Blackwood didn't even know yet....

  Jacobi's expression was smug. "Have I ever denied you, Harrison?" He rested a supportive hand on Suzanne's shoulder. "Dr. McCullough has just joined us. She's yours if you want her."

  "In a manner of speaking," she said, qualifying Jacobi's statement, then blushed to think that she had called attention to the double entendre herself.

  But Blackwood politely ignored the remark. "Welcome to the Pacific Institute of Technology and Science ... or, as we so fondly refer to it, the PITS." He extended his hand.

  Without thinking, she hesitated.

  His smile widened delightedly. "I gave up handshake buzzers years ago."

  "Assumptions are dangerous things," she reminded him, and cautiously took his hand.

  THREE

  By the time dawn came, Mossoud and the others had gone to plant charges around the base's perimeter while Urick and Chambers unloaded the truck.

  It had been more than twenty-four hours since Urick had any rest, but she was not in the least bit sleepy. Physically, a bit tired, and bleary-eyed, perhaps. Emotionally, she began with absolute exhilaration—they were doing it, they were actually doing it! Soon the world would hear of them; she would have a place in history. It was all too soon replaced by absolute dread—she'd gone too far to expect mercy, to expect to live if something went wrong with their plans. At weak moments she found herself doubting.

  Chambers' plan had seemed so simple: overrun the bas
e and transmit the message. They would booby-trap the perimeter to slow the army down, and the nuclear waste would provide them with more protection than any hostage could. Load some waste onto the truck, along with the explosives, and no one would try to stop them from making good their escape. The important thing, Chambers kept repeating, was to get the message to the world—to call upon fellow anarchists to bring about worldwide chaos.

  It had seemed important enough to die for, or, at least, Urick had thought so then. Now despair overcame her. If the government found a way onto the base, she, Chambers, all of them, were dead, as dead as the two men she had killed. As dead as the seventeen blood-caked bodies piled into one far corner of the yard, growing stiff under the sun's first rays. Only we just don't know it yet.

  Through it all, she worked with detached efficiency. She brought the transmitter dish from the back of the truck and knelt down in the sandy soil to adjust it. Didn't need sleep. She'd just as soon never sleep again, but she could definitely use a shower. Tiny red droplets spattered the front of her white jump suit; there were dirty smudges on the knees and pockets.

  "Could you help me with this?" Chambers appeared in the back of the truck with a videocam in his arms, the tripod stuck awkwardly in the crook of one elbow and in danger of slipping out. She walked up the ramp and slid it carefully from his arms.

  "Thanks," he said. He'd been quiet too, but now he gave her a long look, the way he did when he wanted to initiate conversation. He walked down the ramp in front of her with short, careful steps, and waited while she set the tripod up. It took some time to get it to stand straight in the sand.

  "So how're you doing, Lena?" He carefully nestled the camera atop the tripod.

  She was on her way back to work on the dish and jerked her head to look back at him. He'd never called her Lena before. At first she almost yelled at him. Don't call me that. . . Lena is dead. Lena doesn't exist anymore. Only Urick, soldier of the People's Liberation Army. But his expression was concerned. Concerned about me? she wondered.

  No matter. We're all going to die soon.

  "All right," she answered shortly, and went over to squat by the transmitter.

  Chambers was silent. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; he was studying her intently. Finally, he said, "I want you to know how much I admire the way you've handled yourself through all this."

  If he'd said all this sooner, maybe it would have mattered. She shrugged. "I did what I had to do."

  "Which is more than most people do." He paused. "Especially when it comes to . . . killing. I know it isn't easy."

  "Do you?" She gave him a hard look.

  "No," Chambers said quickly, bitterly. "No, I don't really know. I've never killed anyone face-to-face, the way you did today. Doing it long distance was hard enough." Ashamed, he looked away.

  She sat on her haunches, staring at him. She felt a surge of accomplishment, of pride. He admires me. He's envious of my strength. At the same time, it was unsettling, frightening. Chambers may have been a political science professor, but he knew no more about revolution than she did, was no more qualified than she to lead one.

  He'd made her kill the guards because he was afraid to do it himself. She turned back to her work, disgusted.

  He started back for the truck, then stopped. "I can get the rest of the equipment. You set up. After all, you're the mass comm major."

  She nodded. He finished unloading, then came to stand beside her as she was getting the camera where she wanted it.

  "The schedule calls for us to transmit in forty-seven minutes," Chambers said. He scuffed the toe of one boot nervously in the sand.

  "We'll be ready." She was peering into the camera, then looked up at him. "Why don't you stand about three feet in front of me . . . here." She pointed.

  He stood in the wrong place.

  "No," she said, gesturing. "More to the left. I want. . ." But Chambers didn't move. Exasperated, she came around the camera and took him by the shoulders to show him. He grasped her hand and looked at her meaningfully. Forty-seven minutes. It would be a while before the others returned from setting charges around the base's perimeter.

  Her expression hardened. She pushed him where she wanted him, pulled her hand away, and stepped behind the camera again. "Better. I can keep you in frame and still see the barrels in the background." She

  52

  wanted the barrels in the shot to prove they were actually on the Jericho Valley site. Some of the barrels had been knocked over, no doubt during the struggle. At first she wanted to ask Chambers to set them upright, then decided it would be more effective to leave them and show that a battle had taken place.

  Chambers was not offended by the rebuttal; maybe he took hope from the fact she hadn't been angered by it. He smiled at her.

  "You're cheerful," she said without enthusiasm.

  Suddenly he was hyper, talkative; perhaps, Urick decided, the realization hit him that he was really going to be on worldwide television.

  "Something about the irony of pirating a U.S. communications satellite to broadcast our demands always makes me smile," he answered.

  She was not amused. "Smile on camera and no one will take us seriously." The way he was grinning made her uncomfortable.

  "If they don't"—Chambers was suddenly serious —"we'll just have to blow this place up . . . and send a big fat nuclear cloud of radioactive waste floating over their nice middle-class homes."

  He smiled again. She couldn't return it; for the first time she saw everything clearly. He was a madman, this Chambers, a charismatic madman with a talent for making his insanity sound logical, even attractive, to misfits such as she. The premonition of death came over her again, this time stronger than ever, and so bitterly cold that she shivered in the early morning chill. Chambers was too wrapped up in his dream of global fame to notice. He, Urick, Finney, Mossoud, Teal, Einhorn—they were all as dead as the bodies stacked in the yard, even if they were still walking around.

  Consciousness seeped back.

  A long darkness. Then awareness; then sweltering, agonizing suffocation. He was trapped in some type of metal confine, and there was not enough air. He gasped, probing frantically until he found the roof of the confine. The metal was corroded there; he encountered a hole and pushed with all his newfound energy. The metal crumpled under the pressure. He was free.

  Panting, dazed, he pulled himself out. . . but the light was painfully harsh. He hid for a moment in a patch of shade created by the containers, and tried to understand where he was. This was not home: the air was too rich, the gravity too heavy, the light too strong.

  Memories of the battle returned. They had been successful at first, claiming victory when the sickness had overcome them. Defeat so close to success had been bitter; best for them to die here, on this alien rock, than to return home vanquished. He had been trying to maneuver his ship back to the base when the fever came upon him; around him, vessels fell from the sky as their pilots died at the controls. His transmitter reported the sad message that two of the three members of the Supreme Leader had perished. Shortly after, he succumbed himself to the pain and blacked out.

  A miracle he had not been killed when his vessel crashed.

  Another miracle: the sickness was gone. As confusion lifted, he remembered his duty: to find the others, especially the surviving member of the Supreme Leader, and the Advocate, and to see to it that all their efforts had not been in vain.

  No doubt the others were trapped in the same type of horrible container he had emerged from. Xashron set to work.

  Mossoud planted the last of the booby traps and covered it gently with sand. He'd gotten only a couple of hours sleep the day before—prebattle nerves—and had been working through the night. He stood up, dusting the sand from the legs of his jump suit, then stretched, and gently rotated the arm connected to the sore shoulder. Probably had himself one hell of a bruise .. . but then, it coulda been worse ... he could be lying dead in the yard instead of that
lieutenant.

  Mossoud raised the sleeve of his jacket to peer at his most recent acquisition. It really was a nice watch, a Rolex, probably worth a nice fat wad of greenbacks. And then Mossoud chuckled to himself. If Chambers' little TV show was successful, he wouldn't have to worry about how much he could pawn the watch for. Hell, he wouldn't have to worry about dollars ever again. Not much longer to airtime. He started humming an old tune, "Act Naturally." Who'd recorded it? The Beatles? Musta been all of six when he'd first heard it.

  He started back toward the truck. He hadn't made

  it very far when he passed by an aisle of barrels. But something about them wasn't right. He stopped to take a closer look.

  Finney appeared, stepping gingerly so as not to set off any of the charges. "Mossoud—it's almost time."

  "Right behind you." Mossoud gestured for him to go on.

  Finney nodded; his careful steps crunched noisily against the gravel as he left.

  Mossoud drew closer to the curious scene. This was the spot where just last night Finney had killed the lieutenant. Mossoud knew that none of the barrels had been knocked over then. And no one had been there since he and Finney dragged the body away.

  Yet now six barrels from the lower tier—the older rusted ones—were overturned. Didn't make any sense at all. Mossoud bent over to examine one. "What the hell. . .?"

  The top of the barrel looked as if it had been exploded from the inside, as if whatever had been in there had forced its way out.

  And then left. The barrel was completely empty. Question was, where the hell had it gone?

  He saw with alarm that the blood-smeared barrel on the upper tier was leaking where Finney's bullet holes had punctured it. It must have dripped onto the barrel and eaten the top away. Mossoud cringed. Probably radioactive or toxic or something; and he'd been exposed to it! He turned to run, to warn the others.. ..