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

by J. M. Dillard

  The office was huge. Not only did it contain the same transmission equipment as his office at the Institute, and then some, but over in one corner— now he knew he was hallucinating—sat a Cray supercomputer operator's console, complete with laserjet printer. "Gertie—rotate forty-five left, ahead ten." The chair rolled him up alongside the computer console, which he stroked lovingly. "Colonel, pinch me if I'm dreaming, but am I to understand that this is my very own Cray?"

  The barest hint of a smile crossed Ironhorse's thin lips, then vanished; obviously, the colonel was pleased with Norton's reaction. "The computer engineers

  didn't have much set-up time," he replied nonchalantly. "But this baby can still access the DDN the Defense Data Network." "Where are you hiding the CPU?" "In the next room," Ironhorse replied. "I understand it's pretty noisy . .. and I figured you might not enjoy working at a constant fifty-five degrees. Like I said, if you find there's anything else you need, more memory, more peripheral storage—"

  Norton grinned and shook his head. He'd clearly underestimated the man. So he was an uptight military asshole, but there was actually a working brain hidden beneath that ultratough exterior. "This'll do fine for now. I don't think anything else has been invented yet. What'd you do? Read my Christmas

  list?"

  The colonel crossed the room as Norton spoke, picked up a Melitta glass pitcher and poured coffee into a mug. "You can't be expected to do the job if you don't have the equipment." He set the pitcher of coffee back on a hotplate and walked over to Norton and the Cray.

  "Keep up that attitude, Colonel, and I might even get to like you."

  Ironhorse handed him the cup of steaming coffee. "If I can offer this as a common courtesy, Mr. Drake—without adding to that chip of yours."

  Norton hesitated only for a split second before taking it.

  Ironhorse stepped across the hallway to Dr. McCullough's office. There was something he liked

  about Drake in spite of the guy's smart mouth. Maybe it was the fact that like the colonel himself Drake had overcome the odds, had come out the victor in an impossible situation. He'd read Drake's dossier: bom into a poor family, which, like Blackwood's, had been killed in an alien attack that left the three-year-old child orphaned. After that he'd lived in a children's home, then a couple of foster homes . . . but instead of turning sour, Drake had harnessed his bitterness and set it to work for him. The kid had been a National Merit scholar, had won math scholarships to the best universities. Ironhorse had to admire him.

  Learning about Blackwood's tragic past had eased Ironhorse's contempt for him somewhat, but he doubted he'd ever come to like the guy. Dr. McCullough was a different story. Now, there was a responsible, hardworking individual who would have done well in the military. Ironhorse peered into the doorway of her office and did his best to assume a pleasant expression—something he was quite unused to doing. "Finding everything you need, Doctor?"

  The windowless office was about two-thirds the size of Drake's. Glossy black-topped counters ran the length of two interior walls; above them, glass-front cabinets displayed every conceivable type of lab equipment: beakers, test tubes, petri dishes, and a lot of instruments Ironhorse didn't recognize. The exterior wall was a bookshelf stocked with reference volumes; next to it, in one comer, stood a computer terminal and leather ergonomic chair. One of the cabinet doors was open, and McCullough had unloaded some instruments onto the counter and was studying them. At the sound of the colonel's voice, she looked up with a distracted expression.

  Give her horn-rimmed glasses and a white smock instead of the blue jeans and red checked shirt, Ironhorse decided, and she'd be the perfect caricature of the absent-minded scientist. Brains and looks, the whole package—yet the lady seemed quite unaware of it.

  "Yes, thank you," Dr. McCuIlough answered blankly. "There are things here / don't even understand. Somebody must have spent a fortune."

  Ironhorse squared his shoulders, proud that his work had not gone unappreciated. "The government wants everyone happy."

  McCuIlough sighed and frowned down at the mysterious instrument before her. "I'm happy enough, I suppose. Now all I have to do is find a bacteria harmless to man, impervious to radiation, and lethal to the aliens." She shook her head. "Maybe I should just cure the common cold first."

  "If anyone can do it, ma'am, I'm sure you can," Ironhorse answered encouragingly. He withdrew and headed down the corridor for Blackwood's office.

  The door was closed; Ironhorse rapped on the wood with his knuckles. At the muffled "Come in," the colonel entered.

  Dressed, as usual, as if he were about to embark on a hike rather than research, Blackwood stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, craning his neck back to admire the ceiling. Of all the offices, Ironhorse was particularly proud of this one; it was a virtually exact replica of Blackwood's office back at the Pacific

  Institute, right down to the inflatable starship Enterprise.

  "Basement window's too high, and the view's wrong," Blackwood murmured, still surveying the ceiling. "And the room's bigger. But when I close the door, I can forget that I'm not at the Institute." He gave the colonel a curious look. "Someone obviously wanted to make me feel right at home."

  "A perfect copy, isn't it?" Ironhorse asked, swelling with pride.

  Blackwood nodded and stared up again. "As if my life before this thing didn't matter"—he looked back at Ironhorse with an expression of wonder—"or never existed at all."

  "It never existed," Ironhorse said with conviction. "Not for any of us."

  After dinner that night Suzanne sat on the living room sofa with Debi snuggled next to her and watched as Kensington carefully added two more logs to the blaze in the fireplace. The room looked as if a family had lovingly decorated it with simple country furniture, even a handmade quilt draped across the back of the couch.

  "More coffee?" Mrs. Pennyworth gestured with the coffeepot at Suzanne's empty cup on the table.

  "No, thanks." Suzanne shook her head. She was sinking into luxurious drowsiness here in the fire's warm glow, surrounded by a circle of friends: Harrison a circumspect distance away on the couch, Norton nearby in the wheelchair, Ironhorse settled into a leather wing-back chair, obviously the seat of authority. And in two days, Clayton Forrester would he arriving. It was very hard not to feel a sense of. . . family, of belonging, and very easy to feel safe, to forget the terror hidden somewhere outside the haven of the ranch. She reached out and idly stroked her daughter's hair, but Debi was far too enthralled by the tale Ironhorse was spinning to notice.

  Even the colonel seemed affected by the mellow setting; as unfeeling and unapproachable as he seemed in his military persona, now he leaned forward in the wingback as he spoke, a cup of coffee balanced on one thigh, clearly relishing his role of storyteller. "Actually, it's short for 'one-who-shoots-the-iron-horse.'" He was explaining the origin of his family name in response to Deb's question. "I'll bet you can figure that one out."

  Deb wrinkled her forehead. "Iron horse? I don't get it. Sounds like a car or truck."

  Ironhorse shook his head. "Nope. Think back about a hundred years or so."

  Deb thought for a minute, then burst forth with: "I got it! A train!"

  Norton, who'd been close to dozing off, jerked his head up sharply. Suzanne laid a gentle hand on her daughter's arm to quiet her.

  "Excellent," the colonel said approvingly, his black eyes dancing with firelight. "Your daughter's very sharp, Dr. McCullough."

  "I'm afraid she knows it already," Suzanne answered, smiling, and reached out to fondle a lock of Debi's blond hair.

  "Oh, Mommm . . ." Deb batted at her mother's

  hand with adolescent disgust and asked the colonel, "Your family fought the trains?"

  Ironhorse nodded somberly. "As the railroad moved west, it pushed my people off their land. Unfortunately, you know how it comes out. The Blackfoot tribes were spread all over Montana, Utah, up into Alberta. And now we're crowded onto a few tiny reser
vations."

  "That's awful!" Deb's eyes were round with dismay. "Is it really true?"

  Ironhorse's bronze features hardened. "It's true all right. I grew up on a reservation." He shifted the topic abruptly, as if it were too painful to consider for long. "But where were we in the story?"

  "Your great-great-grandfather," Debi prompted.

  "That's right." Ironhorse's expression warmed. "Anyway, since my great-great-grandfather was shaman of the tribe—"

  "What's a shaman?"

  Suzanne clicked her tongue. "If you keep interrupting Colonel Ironhorse, Debi, he'll never be able to finish his story."

  Ironhorse smiled indulgently at the girl. While telling the story, he was transformed into a completely different person. Why, Suzanne thought, amazed, he really is a kind-hearted man.

  "That's all right, Dr. McCuIlough," the colonel replied. "I enjoy answering her questions. A shaman is the tribe's spiritual leader, Debi, sometimes called a medicine man. He was the most respected person in the tribe, more even than the chief. The shaman used

  his magical powers to enter the bodies of animals and learn their wisdom."

  "Neat. You mean, like if I entered Spirit's body to try to find out what it was like to be a horse?"

  "Something like that. Anyway, the warriors brought their strange discovery to my great-great-grandfather to find out what it meant."

  Deb was on the edge of the couch. "What was it? The discovery, I mean."

  "It was a flat rock"—Ironhorse drew one hand, palm down, horizontally through the air to indicate just how flat—"covered with drawings no one had ever seen before. And they were very, very old too."

  "How old?"

  Suzanne frowned. "For goodness' sake, Deb, let him finish the story." She was actually becoming rather interested in it herself.

  The colonel continued, unfazed by the interruption. As he spoke, his tone became increasingly dramatic, that of a real storyteller. "Older than the nearby cave drawings, or the drawings on ancient pieces of buffalo hide passed down through generations."

  "What kind of draw—oops." Deb clamped a hand over her mouth and looked guiltily at her mother, who shook her head with a tolerant smile. There was no controlling Deb's curiosity.

  "What kind of drawings?" Ironhorse intoned me-lodically, tilting his head. "Well now, I'm glad you asked. They were of a man wearing a bowl that covered his entire head. His eyes glowed, and he carried a wand."

  Suzanne shifted, unsure as to whether or not she liked the direction this story was going.

  "A magic wand?" Deb breathed.

  "It seemed like magic because the wand threw out great bolts of light." The colonel paused to take a sip of coffee. Suzanne shot him a warning glance, now certain that she didn't like this particular tale at all. Surely the colonel realized that Debi had no idea about the nature of the Blackwood Project... and that stories about aliens were bound to scare such a young girl.

  But Ironhorse continued, seemingly oblivious to Suzanne's disapproval. "My great-great-grandfather took this rock and went out into the desert for one moon—that's about a month. When he came back, he gathered everyone in the tribe together." Ironhorse set his cup on the coffee table and acted out the part with sweeping gestures and a booming voice. " 'We know that our people were the first people ever to walk this earth,' the shaman said in a strong voice, even though he was weak and hungry. 'But others came before us.'"

  "Wow!" Deb grinned. "What did they do then?"

  Ironhorse finally seemed to catch Suzanne's warning look; he picked up his cup and said offhandedly, "They fired him and got themselves a new shaman."

  The adults snickered, except for Norton, who stirred from his reverie and looked about, disoriented.

  Debi groaned with disgust. "And / really thought they'd been visited by a space man. You made that all up!"

  Ironhorse's expression became serious. "Only that last part."

  "Bedtime," Suzanne said quickly. Actually, it was way past Deb's usual bedtime, but Suzanne had so enjoyed having Deb around that she hadn't had the heart to send her daughter to bed. But now she wanted a word with Ironhorse before any more stories about alien visitors were told.

  "Aw, Mom ..."

  "Complain while you get ready for bed." She gave the girl a playful swat on the bottom as Deb rose. "Now, scoot."

  Deb sighed. "Okay. Good night, everybody. And thank you for the story, Colonel ironhorse."

  "You're welcome, Debi. Good night."

  The other adults murmured their good-nights as Debi padded off to her room.

  Kensington, who'd been squatting, back poker-straight, by the fireplace, spoke up for the first time that evening. "You folks going to be here long?" A strangely cold little man, his question came out sounding more like a challenge than a casual, friendly inquiry.

  Harrison looked up from contemplating the fire. "We hope not, Mr. Kensington. No offense intended."

  Mrs. Pennyworth spoke up from her place in the armchair farthest from the fireplace, her tone as warm as Kensington's had been cool. "And none taken, Harrison. You stay as long as you have to." She shot Kensington a dirty look; from the familiarity of her disdain, Suzanne assumed the two knew each other very well. "And what kind of question was that, Thomas?"

  Kensington sniffed and replied, his tone defensive, "We might need to restock the pantry, that's all."

  "I take care of the pantry." Mrs. Pennyworth jabbed at herself with a thick finger. "You take care of the grounds."

  Kensington sighed as he rose from his place by the fire. The corner of his mouth quirked up; it could have been the beginnings of a smile, or a sign of irritation. "Then I guess I'd better check the security system and turn in. Good night, all." He walked off stiffly in the direction of the kitchen.

  "To check my pantry, no doubt." Mrs. Pennyworth shook her head.

  "Colonel—" Suzanne began.

  Ironhorse didn't give her a chance to speak. "I'm sorry, Dr. McCullough. I didn't realize when I started that the story was so directly related to what we were doing. A subconscious slip-up. I take it Debi has no idea—"

  "Of course she has no idea," Suzanne said, feeling a twinge of irritation. "I'm not in the habit of informing my daughter about the secret government projects I happen to be working on."

  "I'll be careful about my choice of stories next time, Doctor," Ironhorse promised, his expression contrite.

  "Colonel. . ." Norton was suddenly completely alert. "You believe that story?"

  Ironhorse shrugged. "Indian folklore, if you ask me. Nothing more, nothing less."

  "Funny thing about folklore," Harrison said, rising. "Almost always there's an element of truth in it."

  He paused to give Suzanne a look that seemed to go right through her. "I agree that your daughter doesn't need to know what we're doing, but it's hardly fair to try to protect her from history, from what really happened. Good night."

  They watched him leave in silence. That night Suzanne dreamed about the mysterious drawing on the rock.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning at eight, a taxi deposited Clayton Forrester at the entrance to the Institute. From there he walked to the cafeteria and got himself a cup of coffee. He wasn't allowed caffeine, and the walk was longer than what he was used to, but it left him pleasantly winded. Besides, old habits were hard to break. For thirty years Forrester had arrived at the Institute every morning at precisely eight o'clock, walked to the cafeteria for his coffee, then headed to his office almost a full hour before anyone else arrived. It was his favorite part of the day, the quiet time when he could contemplate the tasks ahead without interruption, the time when he got three-quarters of the day's work done.

  As he walked along the sidewalk through the cool morning air and stared out at the sprawling grassy landscape, he realized with mild surprise that he,

  Clayton Forrester, was actually enjoying this walk, enjoying the taste and smell of the forbidden coffee, enjoying the familiar scenery, enjoying the fac
t that there was important work to be done. It was his closest brush with pleasure in years, and there was a faint smile on his lips.

  All this in spite of the totally sleepless night he'd spent. He'd lain on the living room sofa for his customary nap during Johnny Carson—and the second he drifted off he was awakened by the screams of a frightened child. Heart pounding, he'd dashed through the shadows to Harrison's old room before he remembered that the boy had moved out years ago. He forced himself to settle back on the couch with the admonition that he needed rest.

  The second time he was roused by the roll of thunder. He ran to the window to see heat lightning redden the dark sky, and for an instant he'd panicked at the sight, thinking it was the aliens' death rays. After that he resigned himself to staying awake. Yet, at the same time, his horror that the aliens had returned was mixed with genuine excitement at the thought of working again. And in this morning's sunlight, the terror was gone, replaced by a genuine sense of purpose.

  By the time he made it past the security guard and into his building, Forrester was puffing a bit. The heart was, of course, bad—had been bad for some time. The first attack had come at age sixty, and a few years back, when the pacemaker was installed, the doctor (just a kid Harrison's age) made it clear in no uncertain terms that Clayton was living on borrowed

  time. Which suited Forrester just fine. It was only the memory of his promise to the boy You aren't going to die, are you? No, Harrison, I'm not going to die. that kept him from finishing off an entire bottle of sleeping pills at once and being done with it. Harrison had suffered enough for one lifetime, and Clayton refused to add to the boy's grief. Harrison already had enough guilt at being a survivor.

  Forrester walked silently down the hallway—the carpet was a new addition since he'd retired—into the older wing, and finally arrived at his old office. It felt right being there, even though the plastic imitation woodgrain plaque on the door read McCullough now. The door was unlocked, as Forrester had known it would be—everything of value belonging to its current occupant had been removed a day and a half ago. He turned the doorknob and entered.