“I appreciate that, Sam. Thank you.”
“But if you’re right, and the NRO really is orchestrating all this to forward its social agenda . . . then I don’t think there’s much hope. For any of us.”
In the corner, the antique clock ticked.
Sam Archer struck Dex as an optimistic man, more so than his husband Moses. But a crushed, colorless aura emanated from him now. Dex recognized the feeling as one he himself had experienced. It was despair, the anguish caused by a sense of utter helplessness against the machine of power. It begged a hundred questions, the most important of which was: What was the value of life if one had to live it without freedom, under an ever-looming penalty of death? But Dex had seen the answer on the train.
Structure surrounds every society, whether it’s peaceful or not, and everybody dies.
“What matters is what you do,” Dex said aloud. “And maybe you have to create hope. For the people who come later, I mean. Even if it will never be perfect.”
Sam chuckled, but his lips were curled in a grimace. “Oh, listen to you, Mr. Fabulous Philosopher.” But the spark in his eyes had reignited, just a little.
OVER A DINNER of roasted chicken, beets, and green beans under a mango sauce, the Archers discussed their options regarding Dex. They were gracious enough to include him in the conversation, though they made him repeat a good chunk of his story again. This time, they focused more on the parts Dex did not know about for sure: the Queen’s conspiracy and the Opposition’s possible routes of retaliation. They worked through the logic behind each possible theory. Ultimately, there was no way they could know for sure who had orchestrated last Sunday’s attacks, but they did know that the story conveyed by the government had obvious gaps. First, if they could assume Dex was being truthful, the prisoners whose faces WorldCom was flashing around the world, the ones caught in the Sterile Me Susan’s raid in Minneapolis, could not be associated with the attacks, because they had been on a train to the supposed dumping pit that morning. Second, they had seen nothing on the news about a train derailment in Missouri, nor had there been any public explanation for the train’s construction. Whatever torment Dex had suffered, the Queen was keeping it under wraps, which suggested there was truth in the story about the dumping pit. If that was the case, the world’s only legal authority had bowed to the simple, terrible answer of genocide to forward its agenda. This left every living soul on earth at risk.
After finishing his food, Moses leaned forward on the table, holding both sides of his head. “We more or less became rebels by taking you in, didn’t we?”
Sam inhaled, loading an arsenal of words to reprimand his husband, but stopped when Dex nodded and said, “Yeah, you pretty much did.”
Moses sighed. “Well, that could be a problem.”
“What about St. Louis?” Dex asked. “How close are we to there?”
“Two hours.”
“Do you know of any places that could replace my TruthChip?”
“I told you, we weren’t rebels before tonight.”
Sam waved a fork at Moses. “Don’t you act like you regret taking this poor boy in, Moses Aaron Archer. Efron wouldn’t have it any other way, not with what the NRO has become.”
“But where does it leave us?” Moses asked.
“In a major fucking pickle. But we’ll hide him in the old bio shelter if necessary. And in the meantime, we’ll feed this lucky man and treat him like we’d treat our own boy. But where in Dorothy’s name do we find someone to replace his chip?”
Moses rolled his eyes at Dex and, referring to his husband, said, “This is how she is. Think first, act later, and then think again in circles.” But as he licked a bit of mango sauce off his knife, he grinned.
FOR THREE DAYS, Dex recovered. Sam was like a mother goose caring for a lost chick, fluttering about him at all hours of the day, making sure he was comfortable and well fed. Moses, on the other hand, was more fatherly in nature. On their fourth night together, he and Dex stayed up late into the darkness, musing about and guessing at the secrets of the New Rainbow Order and the secrets of the Opposition. Moses smoked a pipe, just as Dex’s grandfather had. Its warm smell in the quiet evening filled the comforting silences between them long after Sam had retired to bed.
“You’re fighting a tough battle, dear,” Moses said at one point. In the corner, the clock ticked away.
“Yes I am,” Dex replied.
“Do you think it’s worth the effort?”
After a pause of consideration, Dex said, “It must be, because I’m getting a second chance to do it. Maybe that’s all that matters.”
Moses’s pipe burned out. Outside, a crescent moon grinned over them.
CHAPTER 41 (HER)
THE MOON AGAIN. Grace watched the eclipsed ball rise to its spot of nightly authority. Back home, her fathers would be able to see it, too. And, somewhere, Dex as well, if he was still alive.
Tonight was the night.
The grounded Cher Airlines Flight 212 hydro plane was about to disintegrate into a ball of fire and smoke. In relation to the other three airliners, it lay around the corner of the old terminal, which, according to Lieutenant Helio, would block the explosion from causing any severe damage to the other planes and the hangar’s main section. “Now, don’t act any differently tonight,” he had told her before disappearing. “Do what you always do, but after it happens, round up the women from your flight.”
Grace waited. One hour, two. The hangar door where she liked to watch the night sky became uncomfortable against her back, so she walked back to her cot among the other stranded passengers. Most were sleeping, but a few were up late, whispering. The failsafes on Grace’s flight had done a good job of acting homosexual; they had indeed abandoned their women by all appearances, and two were even in the early stages of an orgy with a small group of civilian male travelers on the far left side of the partition. When it came to survival, people would do anything, it seemed, even change themselves.
Grace tried to drift into sleep. That way, when the blast happened, it would shock her awake with everyone else, and any suspicion that she had somehow known about it could be lost in the fray.
But anticipation kept her awake. When would it be? What was the lieutenant going to do? He had mentioned a store of weapons the army had confiscated from the natives; in it, he said, there was an old-fashioned rocket launcher. He was on night guard duty tonight on that side of the base, and nobody would immediately suspect him of taking it. Fire would mix with the plane’s liquid hydrogen fuel, and mayhem would follow. Then panic. Then the evacuation of the non-military personnel who were relying on the remaining planes.
Survival was mingling with prospects of failure, however, and anything could go wrong. Somewhere in that horrible thought, Grace found sleep.
IT WAS HAPPENING AGAIN—a dream about her child. As always, it was a girl, but this time they were running down a dark alley, toward a mountain lit by giant spotlights. Behind them was a wall of water, chasing them through the narrow brick tunnel.
“Run!” Grace tried to scream at her daughter, but it was no use. She couldn’t speak, and her strides were impossibly slow, as if she were stuck in glue.
And the little girl was slipping behind her.
Cold water was just sprinkling on her neck when the mountain in front of her exploded in a ball of white light.
What—?
Grace woke to the sounds of the hangar’s rumbling metal ceiling and people shrieking in panic.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” one of the fags on a nearby cot was repeating. Grace took only a moment to orient herself to the sounds of booted soldiers running down the hangar’s makeshift hallways, screaming at each other to move, move, move! This was it. Lieutenant Helio had done it, and now it was time to keep her group of breeding passengers together. It turned out to be an easy job, as all the civilians on the premises were already being escorted to their night quarters if they were not there already. The lights came on, and G
race stood up to make a quick count of all the passengers from Frederik Carnevale’s flight.
Forty-two.
There were supposed to be forty-three.
But I counted everyone! She thought, counting again. Nearly all the women from her plane had congregated in the back right corner of the open chamber, and she recognized every face. All but four of the failsafes were there as well, but those missing had made friends with other passengers near the front, and they were all accounted for.
Then she remembered.
Marvel. She’s the one who’s missing.
Now, the only thing Grace could do was wait. Speculation and terror rippled through the crowd. Was the explosion one of the four civilian carriers, they wondered? Had the natives somehow known the military at LAX had visitors? Did they somehow have coms, or at least the technology to intercept news about the worldwide attacks? Nobody suspected outright that it had been caused by one of the soldiers.
Ten minutes later, Grace heard Lieutenant Helio’s voice, screaming in what now served as the hangar’s main foyer. She moved away from her crowd, closer to the makeshift wall that separated the civilian sleeping area. “It came out of nowhere!” he was telling a group of soldiers. “I had the area on a constant scan, and it didn’t pick up a thing until the last second! Jesus, it was close!”
“Which direction did the missile come from?” one of the men asked him. Grace recognized his voice. It was the major who had become incensed when WorldCom had accidentally aired footage of that derailed train the morning of the attacks.
“From the southeast,” Lieutenant Helio, said, still gasping, even making sure to apply a slight lisp to his words. “Lit up the infrared sensor, but it was too fast. One of their rockets, you think?”
“It would make sense,” the older man said. “Squads Three and Four to the plane! We need to get that fire out, or the whole terminal’ll go up! Move! One and Two are already combing the perimeters. Private Salin, take Johnson and run a check on the weapons bunker. Make sure they’re not making a try for the ones we’ve confiscated.”
Lieutenant Helio had planned to steal one of the natives’ confiscated rocket launchers. If these two privates were privy to the exact number of weapons the bunker had in store, there would be questions. The general’s son was already aware of this, and he was prepared to take the fall should it come to an investigation. His primary goal was to get the pregnant women back in the air.
Now, he was standing no more than forty feet away from Grace. A long, red shrapnel wound and glistening sweat tarnished his sharp, terror-stricken face. The act was impressive, complete, save for his shifting eyes. Their gaze found Grace for a split second, and their shared secret sang in the empty space between them, dancing in the light from the fire outside.
Then, he turned to join his rainbow brethren in the fight.
CHAPTER 42 (HIM)
THE CHIMES of Sam and Moses Archer’s doorbell broke the night’s stillness. Dex was still on the couch and fast asleep, but the living room lamp was off. Moses was unconscious in his lounge chair with his mouth hanging open, and snores choked the back of his throat, sounding like a broken hydro motor. Through windows to the back yard, the nighttime security light perched atop the first greenhouse washed the room in a cool glow and inky shadows.
The doorbell chimed again.
The feather-light steps of Sam creaking down the stairs brought Dex back into this witching hour’s reality. Moses, too, opened his eyes at the sound of his husband’s footsteps. He glanced around the room in confusion, as if wondering where he was.
“Must have fallen asleep.”
“Maybe your husband turned off the light,” Dex said.
But Sam’s whisper cut through the darkness. “Quiet, both of you! There’s a military truck out front!”
Moses came to alertness, then stood up from the chair. “How many soldiers?”
“I don’t know! But Dex, you’ve got to sneak out the back! Run for the first greenhouse, in the space between it and the garage. I kept the third door down the length of it unlocked in case we needed to hide you. If you hear the soldiers coming into the house, go. But check the back yard first! Make sure they’re not waiting for you! Shoes by the back door. Moses keeps his tied so he can slip them on easily. When I open the front door, be ready at the back. If you hear me flirting with the guards and inviting them inside, run.”
Moses nodded in agreement. “Harder to hear you make any noise if Sam is talking.”
Dex didn’t think; he followed Sam’s directions at once, shaking off his sleep. As the two farmers shuffled toward their front door, Dex peeked out the window to the back. The yard was clear. The light from the greenhouse was shining toward the back porch, so Dex’s shadow would fall in that same line if he had to run. The house would block it from the view of any soldiers out front. Its rear exit was made of thick sliding glass, and he eased it open, then stepped onto the back deck. It was made of newer wood than the front deck, and it remained silent under his feet.
With his head still stuck into the house, Dex heard the front door open and Sam say, “Can we help you?” Whoever spoke back to him had a voice too low to carry, so Dex was at the mercy of his new friend’s uncanny ability to make himself heard from anywhere. “Well, sugar, I don’t quite understand how having a yard sign would make us harbor any fugitives, but be my guest,” Sam said with a forced yawn. “But mind this hallway . . . there’s some clutter. Wouldn’t want you falling down and showing us that fine little tush, now, would we?” More muttering, then the sound of boots on hard wood.
Dex slid out the door, pulled it shut, and ran down the deck’s wooden steps. The frost on the grass glistened under the large security light. Dex ran straight for it, fighting the urge to slow down and check if Sam and Moses had led the soldiers into the living room. It took him only ten seconds to clear the yard, and when he passed into the narrow corridor formed between the garage’s left side and the greenhouse’s glass wall, shadows engulfed him. The garish light disappeared from his eyes, and the cold clarity of night took its place.
Behind him, from beyond the house, came the whirring of a motor. The truck was still there. That it was still running suggested the soldiers were making a cursory pass across the Archer farm. Yet Sam had mentioned his yard sign, which implied some sort of suspicion.
Not to mention that they showed up in the middle of the night to catch the Archers off guard, Dex thought.
The greenhouse stretched as far as Dex’s eyes could make out, but he found the third side door three hundred feet in and pulled up on its horizontal handle. It loosened as the air pressure changed, and the glass door swung open. Dex stepped into the greenhouse’s intermediate entry and closed the door behind him. A small number pad blinked red, urging him to activate the lock, but he did not know the code. He would have to test his luck. Ahead of him, the small chamber led to another door, which opened automatically. Humidity dampened his face, and he entered a jungle of papaya trees.
The greenhouse looked larger from the inside. Its width spanned at least a hundred feet, and the clear, arched ceiling reached at least four stories upward. The stringy tree limbs hung on either side of Dex as he ran along the path that trailed inward from the door. The smell of plants and soil teased his winterized nose, clashing with the February chill he had just experienced outside.
Dex turned right at the first aisle and moved deeper into the greenhouse.
He chose a random row of papaya trees to hide under. Their trunks were thin, and all their leaves ran together. There were enough trees to confuse anyone looking through them; if he remained still and covered by darkness, he would be almost invisible.
Dex waited. Moonlight filtered through the glass roof and broke against the canopy of papaya tree leaves, offering just enough illumination for the thin trunks below to imitate a crowd of emaciated captives. Somehow, his imagination pasted faces on them, and the effect sent a cold finger up his spine. He thought of the screaming men on t
he train.
They’re trees. Just trees.
But those faces haunted him through the night, accentuating the artificial jungle’s eerie silence. He leaned up against one of the narrow tree trunks to chase sleep, but he never caught it. It was a nicer hell than the train car, but in this darkness, with those gaunt trunks awake and climbing out of the ground around him, Dex recognized a shred of his old fear. It whispered in the leaves above him, rapped on the glass ceiling, settled like a cold wind next to him as he waited to hear an army of soldiers storm the greenhouse. But none came.
THE SHREDS OF SKY VISIBLE through the papaya tree canopy had just begun to glow a warm pink when Dex heard one of the greenhouse’s outer doors decompress, then open. The whoosh of the second door followed.
“Dex?”
It was Moses.
“Dex, my boy, are you in here? They’re gone! We had to make sure before we came and got you!”
Dex heard his joints creak as he got to his feet and began fighting his way through the papaya trees, which were now just trunks and leaves and fruit, faceless. Moses was walking down the first aisle when Dex emerged from the jungle.
“They found Sam’s drag outfits and made him give them a show,” Moses said. “His performance was one for the ages, actually.” He smiled, then shook it out of his wrinkled face. “You think they actually had a clue you were here, or d’you think their visit was just routine?”
“I don’t think we should wait to find out. I need to get out of here. Get my chip replaced.”
“Well, Poplar Bluff is the closest town with any size to it,” Moses said. “We can get out of here on the back roads. I’ll have Sam run a com search on chip replacement, and so be it if they’re somehow snooping in on that, too.”
“Why did they show up? What was their excuse?”
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