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

by J. M. Dillard

  "Deb," she said, walking into the living room. No response; Debi was pretending not to hear. She spoke louder, enough to make herself heard over the roar of the laugh track. "Deb! Turn that down, please."

  Deb rose languidly and complied without looking at her mother.

  "Doesn't look to me like you've done your homework."

  "No," Deb murmured. She was a lousy liar, like her mother, and therefore usually didn't attempt it.

  "You know the rule," Suzanne said firmly, doing her best not to look surprised. She hadn't invoked the TV rule in at least a year. Deb was an A student (one way at least that she did not take after her father) who did her homework cheerfully, without being told, then read voraciously in her free time; her appreciation of television was limited to Jeopardy and National Geographic specials.

  Deb muttered a little as she clicked off the TV. Blessed relief.

  "What was that, young lady?"

  Deb faced her mother grudgingly, face tilted down, hair falling in her eyes. "I don't understand. Why do you have to leave again so soon? You just got back."

  "I'll be home day after tomorrow, chicken." She moved over to the sofa near Deb and sat down. Chicken wasn't an accusation of cowardice, but a term of affection she'd picked up from Derek. She'd forgotten its origin . . . maybe it had had something to do with Suzanne being an old mother hen. I will not feel guilty, dammit. But it was too late, even though she'd gone over this a thousand times in her head last night and this afternoon. There was no cause for guilt . . . she had to go to Washington, pure and simple. It was the best thing she could do for Deb . . . and for herself and Harrison, for everyone.

  "And then when will you leave again?" Deb whined.

  She felt a minor surge of irritation at her daughter's petulant attitude, but the question caught her off guard. "I don't know. Maybe they'll let me stay home for a while after this."

  Deb's tone was snotty, entirely unlike her. "You still didn't say why."

  "You can knock off that tone of voice right now, Deborah Anne," Suzanne warned. "I'm not leaving because I want to. I'd much rather stay here with you. But it's my job and I have to do it. I can't discuss it with you because it's a secret, like my job in Ohio. You're grown-up enough to understand that. And frankly, I already feel rotten about having to leave you with Mrs. Pennyworth like this. I wouldn't do it unless what I had to do was very, very important."

  "More important than meT

  Suzanne stood up; somehow, she managed to keep her voice calm. "Deb, you know that isn't true. You're the most important thing in the world to me. But that's a cruel thing of you to say. If you're going to keep trying to make me feel worse than I already do, maybe it'd be better for you to go pout in your room before you say something to make me lose my temper."

  Deb looked up at last, stricken, and said in a wavering little voice, "Mom, I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you feel bad too. It's just that. . ." The corner of her trembling mouth quirked down; a tear slid down the side of her nose.

  "Poor old chicken." Suzanne held out her arms. "Come over here."

  Deb came over and clutched at her; Suzanne sat down and situated her daughter in her lap. "Poor old chicken," she soothed, giving Deb a big hug and kissing the top of her head. The girl's hair was soft and fine and smelled of baby shampoo. "This has all been too much for you, hasn't it?"

  Deb nodded, her face buried in Suzanne's shoulder.

  "Were things any better at school today?"

  "It's okay," Deb murmured. "There's one girl who's nice."

  "I'm glad," Suzanne said. "That's a start. And I haven't forgotten about those new clothes. I promise you'll get them when I get back."

  Deb sat up and shook her head. "I don't care about the clothes anymore," she said, her voice miserable but no longer accusatory. "I'm just tired of being alone, that's all."

  "You'll be with Mrs. Pennyworth."

  Debi sighed with the exaggerated disgust of an adolescent. "It's not the same, Mom. She's nice and all, but. . . she's old."

  "So am I," Suzanne answered lightly. "What's that got to do with anything? She's a very interesting person. You ought to get to know her better."

  "I guess I'll get the chance." The corner of Deb's mouth twisted up wryly in a feeble effort at good humor. She wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  "That's my girl." Suzanne hugged her, overwhelmed with affection and a sense of panic. If anything happens to me.. . good Lord, who would take care of Debi? Suzanne's father was dead, her mother near seventy and living in a retirement community in Florida, too old to take care of a child, and Derek couldn't be trusted to do right by his own daughter. That's it, McCullough, she told herself. You're simply going to have to stay alive.

  "I'll get it," Deb said with abrupt cheerfulness when the doorbell rang, and wriggled out of Suzanne's grasp to dash into the foyer. Suzanne watched her as she stood on tiptoe to peer through the peephole, then opened the door to let Mrs. Pennyworth in.

  Please, God, she prayed; she was not a religious person, but there were times when she became so out of sheer desperation. If we could just stop them in time ... so Deb doesn't ever have to know. More than anything, she wanted to spare her daughter the terror she had experienced as a child, waiting in the dark.

  Mrs. Pennyworth stepped into the living room carrying a small tan overnight bag. Her silver-blond hair was wound around her head in thick braided coils, giving her a distinctly Old World look from the neck up, which was immediately contradicted by the faded Levis and bright yellow Reeboks she wore. Suzanne rose.

  "Let me take that to your bedroom for you, Mrs. Pennyworth," Debi offered gravely, thrusting out a hand. Suzanne smiled at her daughter. Such a good kid, after all she'd been through.

  "Why, thank you, Deborah." Mrs. Pennyworth beamed as she handed Deb the overnight bag, then took the proffered seat next to Suzanne on the couch. "What a sweet daughter you have, Suzanne."

  "She certainly is," Suzanne remarked as Deb scampered off with the bag.

  "And now . . . will you be calling me from Washington to let me know where you are staying?"

  "This time I've actually got the number of the hotel where I can be reached. The Crystal City Hyatt. I left it on the pad next to the kitchen phone. The flights are there too." She sighed, suddenly exhausted and overwhelmed by the thought of the journey ahead. "I should be back day after tomorrow, in the afternoon. Three forty-five I think is when the flight arrives."

  Mrs. Pennyworth's light gray eyes regarded her with concern. "You seem very tired. I hope your trip is an easy one."

  "Thanks." She ran a hand over her forehead; it was

  warm, and the coolness of her palm was soothing. "So do I. I'm afraid this has all been a little rough on Deb, though; she's pretty upset that I'm leaving again. I hope she isn't any trouble."

  "A bright child like Deborah is never trouble." Mrs. Pennyworth rested folded hands beneath her ample bosom. "Soon she will understand why you must take these trips."

  "Dear God, I hope not," Suzanne whispered without thinking, a hint of fear in her voice.

  Mrs. Pennyworth gave her a sharp look. After a pause she said, "I think you should know that Clayton Forrester was a colleague of mine. I also know Harrison very well. When I saw all this traveling in the middle of the night, all this urgency—well, it is enough to make an old woman like myself frightened."

  She knew. Suzanne stared down at her own lap, feeling a curious mixture of relief and shock at the fact. She turned to face her. "I wish I could tell you something reassuring, Mrs. Pennyworth, but I can't." She propped her elbows on her knees and lowered her forehead into her hands. "It looks bad . . . very bad."

  Mrs. Pennyworth bowed her head for a moment. "I see." She seemed to come to a decision, then looked back over at Suzanne. "If things get too dangerous, you call me, yes? That way, I can be sure to get Deborah to someplace that is safe."

  Suzanne nodded, unable to speak.

  "Mom?" Debi asked quizzically as she came back i
nto the room. "Why are you crying?"

  FIFTEEN

  All of it—the flight, the taxicab ride to the hotel in Crystal City, an ugly patch of urban high-rises that sprouted up near the Pentagon, the restless night, the ride the next morning to the Pentagon with its endless parking lot, the waiting to get inside, the wait once inside to see General Wilson—all of it blurred into one hugely frustrating waste of time for Harrison. Everything was taking far too much time—and in the meanwhile, the aliens were free to roam the countryside, to make what plans they could.

  And now, at approximately eight a.m. Eastern Standard Time, a bleary-eyed Harrison found himself staring across the polished sheen of the government-issue desk at Brigadier General Henry J. Wilson. This was it—quite literally, do or die. If they couldn't convince Wilson, then it was the three of them—he, Norton, and Suzanne—against God knew how many

  revived alien forces. Not good odds at all; and, for one of the very rare instances in his life, Harrison felt truly nervous. It didn't help matters that he hated the general instantly, and the way he figured it, he had at least three very good reasons to do so. First, because of the harm done Clayton Forrester and his project by the military; second, because Harrison had tried all last night and this morning to call Charlotte and kept getting her answering machine; and third, because the general's face had lit up like the Fourth of July at the sight of Suzanne. He'd climbed out of his chair, the smug bastard, and given her a bear hug right in front of Harrison. Then Suzanne had shocked him by giving Wilson a chaste (hah!) peck on the cheek. Oh, they tried hard enough to make it look like an affectionate sister-brother, haven't-seen-you-in-a-long-time sort of embrace, but Harrison knew better.

  And then Wilson had introduced himself without even having the decency to look embarrassed at his lechery. Obviously, the man wasn't one to give a damn about appearances. A wonder he'd ever made it this far in the military.

  And so, Harrison narrated silently, glancing at Suzanne in the chair next to his, the staid, upright Dr. McCullough reveals the truth about her less-than-upright past. And he resented Wilson for it. Resentment, or jealousy?

  Oh, hell, Blackwood, knock it off. Who cares that he's old enough to be her father? None of your damn business. Besides, you've got another woman you're supposed to be worrying about at the moment.

  Wilson was old enough to be her father, of course,

  with his salt-and-pepper hair and bushy eyebrows, and his pipe. He was a stocky, meticulous man in his starched uniform, and he had an air of importance about him—not arrogance or conceit, exactly, but the easy confidence of a man who is used to his every order being obeyed.

  "So . . . Dr. Blackwood. I'm very interested in hearing what you have to say." His expression one of pleasant attentiveness, Wilson pulled a package of Borkum Riff from the top desk drawer and stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, then tamped it down with practiced skill. On the wall above his head, a boldly lettered sign proclaimed designated smoking area. "I'm willing to listen because Suzanne here speaks very highly of you." He winked fondly at her. "Er ... do you mind?" Wilson nodded at the pipe and looked questioningly at them.

  "Not at all," Suzanne said; Harrison shook his head. Actually, he did mind, but for the time being, he wanted to stay on the general's good side.

  "Nasty habit, actually," Wilson said cheerfully. "I've tried several times to quit, since the army's going to be smokeless by 1990, but not with much success. I may be forced into early retirement." He chuckled at his own humor.

  Harrison cleared his throat, ignoring the curious look Suzanne was giving him—surprised to see him nervous, no doubt—and ran a finger under his collar. Damn tie. How could anyone think with one of these stupid things cutting off the blood flow to the brain? He never wore the torturous things, and had a good notion to pull it off right now. What the hell difference would it make? A lousy tie wouldn't be the deciding factor on whether or not the general believed what he had to say. Still, insecurity held him back.

  "I had hoped you would listen, General, for the simple reason that what I have to say is vitally important to all of us . . . and to our national security." Harrison managed to say it respectfully enough so that the general didn't take offense but raised an interested brow.

  Wilson struck a match, held it to the bowl, and sucked in. "Go ahead," he said between puffs. "You've certainly got my attention."

  "All right." Harrison paused, choosing his words carefully. "Have you ever heard of the Forrester Project, General?"

  Wilson drew on his pipe, one elbow resting on his desk, and furrowed his brow. "Forrester . . . that was a long time ago, wasn't it? Back in the fifties?"

  "Nineteen fifty-three, to be exact." Harrison leaned forward, encouraged that Wilson should remember.

  "We're talking about the invasion, then."

  "The alien invasion, yes. I don't see why everyone in the military is so reluctant to say that word."

  Wilson narrowed pale blue eyes behind a puff of smoke. "For a scientist, you have a tendency to overgeneralize, Doctor. I'm a military man, and I'm willing to say the word alien. But if the military is reluctant to use it, perhaps it's because of the hysteria that followed." He glanced from Suzanne to Harrison. "I'm sure you're both too young to remem—"

  "/ remember," Harrison interrupted hotly. "I was there." Suzanne shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  "I see." Wilson's teeth clicked against the stem of his pipe. He held two fingers to the pipe bowl to steady it as he spoke. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. You must have been terribly young." His tone was sympathetic, but matter-of-fact. "Yes, I remember the Forrester Project. As a matter of fact, I'm old enough to remember it well—I had just enlisted. Forrester was the one who went around scaring people, saying the aliens weren't really dead. The army interred the aliens at great cost to the government to prevent a full-scale panic. I was on clean-up detail."

  Out of the corner of his eye Harrison saw Suzanne cringe. "I kept my parents' surname," Harrison said, "but I'm Clayton Forrester's adopted son." His tone was heavy with repressed anger. "And he was right."

  The pipe clicked against Wilson's teeth again as he digested this without any outward reaction. "That's a very startling claim. I trust you brought proof."

  Harrison smiled thinly and reached for the briefcase by his feet. Handsome oxblood leather, another expensive present from Char he almost never used, like the yellow silk tie around his neck. He set the briefcase on his lap, snapped it open, and pulled out a file that he tossed onto Wilson's desk. "I'm glad you remember the Forrester Project; it saves me a lot of explanation. But there's a copy of the report issued by Forrester's research group in there, just to refresh your memory."

  Wilson opened the file and began to glance through

  it.

  "To summarize," Harrison continued, "Forrester was worried about the fact that the alien bodies and

  tissue samples simply didn't demonstrate any deterio ration as dead, decaying tissues should. It seemed as if they were in a type of"-—he decided against using the scientific term for Wilson's sake—"suspended animation, so to speak. Forrester asked the government for funding to do more research, more analysis so that we'd know enough about the aliens to stop them the next time—"

  "The next time?" Wilson asked with gentle surprise, and tilted his broad, jowly face up at Harrison.

  Harrison smiled wryly. "I should have said, in the event of another alien attack." He shut the briefcase and put it back down by his feet. "It's not a particularly popular topic; Dr. Forrester and I have become used to being labeled paranoid." Next to him, Suzanne squirmed guiltily. "Why don't you just take a look at the old photographs in there, General?" He nodded at the file in Wilson's hands. "The ones of the barrels stamped 1953. I'll bet you can even tell me what's inside them."

  Wilson riffled through the file and found what he was looking for. "I can," he said cautiously, scrutinizing Harrison. "But it's classified."

  "Maybe," Harrison's tone beca
me confidential, "you've also heard of a place called Jericho Valley."

  Wilson put the file down and stared at Harrison with his full attention. "What do you know about Jericho Valley, Dr. Blackwood?"

  Harrison and Suzanne glanced triumphantly at each other. So he'd finally struck a nerve. "It's a long story," Harrison began. "One of my colleagues intercepted a very unusual transmission emanating from inside the Jericho Valley installation. One that was answered—"

  "By whom?" Wilson leaned forward across his desk.

  "A resident of one of the star systems in the constellation Taurus. That's as much as we know right now. I gave a recording of that very transmission to a Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse—I suspect he's having it analyzed right now. A copy of the computer runs are in there for you." Harrison nodded at the file. "If you let your people look at it, they'll come to the same conclusion we did—that a bona fide communication took place."

  Wilson unfolded the printout onto the desk; he studied it for a long time before he muttered, "Incredible." He addressed Harrison. "But I fail to see how this proves anything about your aliens."

  "Unfortunately, I don't have pictures of the barrels I saw at Jericho Valley. Colonel Ironhorse let us have a look." At Wilson's sharp glance, he hastily explained. "Both Suzanne and I have the necessary security clearance to do so. Anyway, I noticed something very alarming. The barrels—the same barrels you see in that photo-—were gone. Hundreds of them, vanished . .. and six of them were on their sides, empty —as if whatever was inside forced its way out."

  "It's true," Suzanne volunteered. "I saw them too. I can verify that the markings on the empty barrels at Jericho Valley are identical to those on the barrels in the photograph."

  "And if you don't believe us," Harrison added, heartened by the fact that Wilson actually seemed to be listening thus far, "you can check with a Colonel Paul Ironhorse to get the markings stamped on those barrels. The point of all this is, there was a nuclear waste spill at Jericho Valley. The place was hot with radiation. I believe the level was high enough to kill off the bacteria in the aliens' systems, which in turn brought them out of their suspended state." He stopped and anxiously searched the general's face for a reaction; Wilson's expression was one of concern but otherwise unreadable.