J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection
Page 30
"Jacobi—" he muttered, confused. Why on earth would Ephram need to talk to him? And then, with a start, he remembered: Clayton! With the stress and excitement, he had completely forgotten that Clayton should have arrived at the ranch yesterday at the very latest. Something must have happened.
"You only need to pick up the telephone by your bed," Mrs. Pennyworth told him. "I transferred the call for you."
"Thank you," Harrison answered abruptly, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He reached for the telephone on the nightstand and spoke into the receiver, totally awake and very worried. "Ephram?"
"Harrison," Jacobi said quietly, and something in his tone told Harrison with horrible certainty exactly why he was calling.
Harrison leaned forward on the edge of the bed. "Dear God, Clayton—"
"I'm so sorry, Harrison." Jacobi's voice was gentle and full of sympathy. "I found him day before yesterday. He'd had another heart attack." He paused, and continued with some difficulty. "We rushed him to the hospital, but he never regained consciousness. I was with him when he died early this morning."
"This morning," Harrison repeated, having difficulty making sense of what Ephram was saying.
"I would have called sooner," Ephram continued apologetically, "but I knew you couldn't have come to see him ... and he wouldn't have known you were there anyway. The doctor said there was no chance of his waking."
"It's all right, Ephram," Harrison said blankly, hardly realizing what he was saying. A heavy numbness had settled over him, making it difficult to breathe or think or speak. There was an odd, painful tightness in the back of his throat that made his eyes water. "You're right, I couldn't have come. But thank you for staying with him."
Jacobi was silent for a while. "I want you to know," he said finally, "that I found him in his office, with all those other files he had wanted to give you. I'd spoken to him the night before, and he sounded better than he had in years, like the old Clayton. Being useful was the best medicine of all for him; I know that he was very happy just to be back at the Institute."
"I think so," Harrison whispered.
"I'm taking care of the arrangements. Clayton didn't want any fuss, but I'll call later and let you know. If there's anything else I can do—"
"Nothing. Thank you," Harrison said. "Thank you for everything, Ephram."
He placed the receiver back in its cradle and stared at the telephone for a long time. There was a need to grieve, and he would not deny himself that; yet at the same time, he felt an odd sense of relief. Clayton's suffering was over, and he had died in his office, surrounded by stacks of his precious files.
Remember, he died a long time ago. . . .
He undressed, got into the shower, and wept.
Suzanne poured herself another glass of champagne and settled back in her place on the couch to enjoy the
modest celebration: Mrs. Pennyworth had baked a pie for dessert, which was set out on the coffee table along with a sterling silver coffeepot and a bottle of Piper Heidsieck Kensington had brought up from the wine cellar. Next to her, Debi was stuffing herself on the remains of her second—or was it her third?—piece of apple pie, but Suzanne didn't discourage her. She felt too relieved, too indulgent, and a little giddy from the glass of champagne and the euphoria. Everything was going to be all right. The ships were destroyed ... the aliens were no longer a real threat. All that remained now was a simple clean-up operation, finding the few aliens that remained. And then she and Deb could go home.
In a way, she'd be sorry to leave the ranch—in a way, she'd found a home there—but she also knew she had, like Harrison, found a home at the Institute as well. She glanced over at Harrison, who sat quietly , i at one end of the sofa, holding his flute of champagne. He hadn't touched it, and seemed oddly withdrawn. His wildly fluctuating moods still mystified her. Of all of them, he had the most right to be celebrating now.
"Your apple pie is the best, Mrs. Pennyworth," Debi mumbled with her mouth full.
Mrs. Pennyworth smiled, pleased. "Why, thank you, Deborah. If you like, I can show you how to make one."
A kind offer, Suzanne thought, but I doubt we'll be around long enough for you to do it. She wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to Deb that they'd be
leaving soon—the girl would be heartbroken about leaving Spirit.
Kensington frowned at Debi. He was only feigning displeasure, Suzanne realized in her expansive, generous mood. Underneath his stern exterior, the man had a wry wit and seemed genuinely fond of Debi. "Aren't you going to thank me too, young lady?" Kensington arched a gray brow. "After all, I picked the apples."
Deb giggled. "And thank you, Mr. Kensington."
Mrs. Pennyworth rose and began clearing away the empty dessert plates.
"Here." Deb rose, swallowing the last bit of pie. "I'll help you, Mrs. Pennyworth."
"What a kind girl." Mrs. Pennyworth winked at Suzanne. "I think she really wants to learn how to make that pie." The two of them carried stacks of dishes to the kitchen as Kensington went over to tend the fire.
Ironhorse, dressed as usual in fatigues, took a sip of his coffee. He had refused to join the other adults in a glass of champagne. "General Wilson is taking care of the Joint Military Forces Board of Inquiry," he said after Debi and Mrs. Pennyworth were well out of earshot. "I'm told—unofficially, of course—that the board is predisposed to lay all the blame on an unnamed terrorist organization."
Norton, next to the colonel, snickered and studied the fire through his champagne. "Actually, that's probably a whole lot closer to the truth than they'll ever realize."
Ironhorse nodded, and gazed into the fire.
Suzanne set her glass down on the table. "Well, I for one am glad this is all behind us." She turned to Harrison. "When this is all over, I'd like to continue to work with you—that is, if you still need a microbiologist. I figure there's a lot of analysis yet to be done on the aliens, and with Uncle Hank's help—"
Harrison regarded her with weary, bloodshot eyes. "What makes you think it's going to be over anytime soon?" His voice was soft, but there was a hostility beneath the surface that confused her.
She was a bit taken aback by his attitude. Somewhat stiffly, she replied, "Excuse me, but I seem to be laboring under the notion that destroying the three ships constituted a major victory. A number of aliens were killed—and now they won't be able to recover their weapons." She glanced at Ironhorse for support. "Isn't that right, Colonel?"
Ironhorse looked down into his coffee to avoid meeting her eyes. "There are an awful lot of barrels still missing. The army was never able to track down the tractor-trailer rig. I counted twenty people who boarded that ship, but there were more than three hundred barrels stolen from Jericho Valley."
"But they can't get to their ships or weapons now," Suzanne persisted as a cold sense of despair slowly began to settle over her, replacing her exuberance. "That was the real danger. And as soon as they contact their home planet again, we'll be able to find them and stop them for good."
"It's unlikely that the three ships warehoused at Nellis were the only three ships in existence," Harri-
son countered quietly. He took a swallow of his drink as if to draw courage from it for what he had to say.
"I know we're all tired, exhausted, ready for this thing to be over with. And I'm not asking anyone to stay." He stared into her eyes with a gaze so intense she wanted to look away. "God knows, we deserve to celebrate something. But—oh, hell, maybe I shouldn't talk about it now. I'm sorry. I'm ruining the party." He stared down into his champagne.
"You've already broken the mood," Suzanne said flatly, "so you may as well say what you were going to say."
He didn't look up. "All right. .." He sighed and squared Ms shoulders. "We already know 'the aliens are capable of inhabiting human bodies—the perfect cover, which allows them to roam freely, and makes them extremely dangerous. Plus there are probably other ships. And Jericho Valley wasn't the only place where the
alien barrels were stored. There were lots of other places, other barrels."
Suzanne stared at him, aghast, unwilling to understand what she had just heard.
Harrison's lips stretched into a thin line as he waited for his words to sink in. "Clayton Forrester was not privy to most of the locations," he continued after a pause. "There aren't hundreds of barrels, Suzanne—there are hundreds of thousands of them, and we don't even know where they are. Most of the documents relating to their location have long since been destroyed." He drew a hand wearily across Ms eyes, then shook his head. "I'm sorry ... I wish it were over. But I'm afraid it's just beginning for us."
The room fell silent.
In the comfortingly dark recesses of the cavern, Xana regarded the other two members of the Advocacy with disdain. They had just received another message from the Mor-Tax Council, this one a stern, almost threatening message which berated them for their defeat and reminded them that the Earth had to be prepared in less than a year's time for the arrival of the colonists.
It was all bluff, and Xana knew it. The Council could not touch them from such a great distance, and if the Earth were not prepared when the colonists arrived, what would be done about it? They would not kill their own soldiers as punishment.
Of course, they might take action against the Advocacy, but Xana no longer cared... at least, not for the moment. She was still grieving over Xashron's death at the hands of his human enemies, and could not be bothered with concerns about her own safety.
Horek, the idiot, seemed surprised by the Council's anger. "We were told the humans were primitive, unintelligent creatures," he said, trying, as usual, to defend his mistakes. Always ready with twenty-seven excuses, that was Horek. "But they have proven themselves unexpectedly clever. And without our ships— "
"Enough of your whining, Horek!" she snapped. "With or without our ships we will find a way to defeat them. They may be clever, but their cleverness cannot save them. We will improvise."
"As long as we meet the deadline," Oshar remarked mildly.
"We have no choice," Xana replied heatedly. "Our fellow colonists are on their way. Earth will be prepared for them when they arrive."
And by the Power, she swore silently, it would, for in her sorrow she had but one thought: to find those humans responsible for Xashron's death, and to take her revenge on them.