Alternities

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “Do you want to tell me what this is all about, Rayne?”

  Wallace bit his lip, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.” He hesitated. “I don’t know where to start.”

  Bayshore reached for the machine on the desk and touched the controls. “Why don’t you tell me about the record. Start there.”

  Sipping coffee from a huge ceramic mug, Bayshore listened patiently for almost an hour, the cart player dutifully capturing every word. It took that long to sketch even a skeletal explanation of the record, of Shan, of Wallace/Wallach.

  Even as he offered them, Wallace felt his explanations to be painfully disjointed and full of digressions which were themselves incomplete. And he seemed to be talking more about himself than about anything Bayshore would be concerned with. But Bayshore did not seem to mind. He made no effort to steer Wallace toward or away from any subject, contenting himself with occasional questions highlighting or clarifying something Wallace had already said.

  “Is any of this helping?” Wallace asked finally. “Is any of it making sense? For that matter, do you believe any of it?”

  “The picture is coming together—slowly,” Bayshore admitted. “But I do believe you. Would you mind if I asked someone else to join us?”

  “Are you going to make me repeat it all?”

  “No. Just put a bookmark in your brain until I get back.”

  In five minutes, he returned with a white-haired black man and a matronly woman. After introductions—the man was something that sounded like “ethnologist,” the woman a counterterrorism specialist—they settled into empty seats to listen.

  By the end of the afternoon, there were a total of nine people in the room, two sitting crosslegged on the floor. They were an attentive audience, and he told them everything he thought they could want to know. He had few names to give them, and only three addresses—the gate house, the satellite station, and his apartment. But he detailed the organization of the station, the financial and operational structure, the roles of the analyst, the iceman, the mole.

  From time to time, he saw flickers of doubt and skepticism on some of their faces, a raised eyebrow, a sidewise glance, a curled lip. But he was not challenged or questioned, not interrogated at all. They wanted to hear his story, and he told it as well as he could.

  The one exception, the time he seemed to disappoint them was at the end, when the counterterrorism expert asked about O’Neill.

  “Gregory O’Neill is the Secretary of Defense,” Wallace said. “I can’t think why the Guard would kill his counterpart.”

  “But you would if there was a reason.”

  Wallace shrugged. “It’s something an iceman could do.”

  “Someone like Arens.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about you?” the woman pressed. “Would you have done it if there was a reason?”

  “I wasn’t trained for that kind of work.”

  “Did you ever kill anyone?”

  “Once,” he said, meeting her hard look without flinching. “A badge that was trying to keep me from getting Home.”

  Bayshore stepped in to end the exchange. “It’s almost seven o’clock, and it’s a mystery to me that Rayne has any voice left. Lot of people here with growling stomachs, too. Let’s—ah, let’s call it a night.”

  “Fine by me,” Wallace said.

  “Rayne, it’s going to be a day or two before we can get you out of here into someplace both safer and more comfortable. What can we get you to get you through?”

  Wallace stood, stretching protesting muscles. “Music. I’d really like to hear some music.”

  “What kind?”

  “Any kind.”

  “We’ll get you a player and some carts,” Bayshore promised.

  “Any chance for company? Other than a guard?”

  “That’s a little tougher. We’re going to leave somebody with you, just for our own peace of mind. But your door will be open, and I’ll try to see that it’s someone with a personality.”

  “Thanks. And dinner,” he added. “One of those growling stomachs is mine.”

  “Myra, my secretary, will take care of you.”

  “Okay.” He turned toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Rayne.”

  He half-expected them not to keep their promises, but they did. The door was unlocked. The guard, wearing neither uniform nor weapon, showed up with a portable television and a sense of humor. And by the time he was ready to turn out the lights, he had music, a half-dozen recordings to fill the room with melody, harmony, and rhythm, to take him away on a quiet ride to the most peaceful sleep of his captivity.

  When the prisoner was gone, there was an outburst of long-suppressed snickers and snide comments. But there was a nervous quality to the ridicule, as though no one was quite confident enough to pronounce the story a he.

  The ethnologist expressed it more openly. “Rich, in eight years here, I’ve been called out on reports of UFO sightings, satanic sex rings, cursed houses, mind-control drugs in drinking water, and minotaurs in the Jersey wetlands. I’ve listened to the nicest, most earnest people you’ve ever seen tell the wildest stories you can imagine. I’ve listened to sad people desperate for attention and wild-eyed psychopaths rounding up converts. But I’ve never had a chill run down my back like I did listening to that boy.”

  “Come on, Malcolm,” someone scoffed. “You don’t mean to say you believe all this.”

  Rummaging in his jacket pocket for a lighter, the ethnologist nodded gravely. “I always thought that if I stayed in this job long enough, I’d run into a story that was crazy and true. This feels like the one. You saw him. He didn’t proselytize, like so many of them do. He was glad to tell us, but he didn’t worry about whether we believed him. He didn’t need us to validate what he knows is the truth. Did anybody see it any differently?”

  No one raised a voice of dissent.

  “I have as much trouble with magic mazes and alternate worlds as anyone here,” Bayshore said at last. “Frankly, I don’t think I can judge those claims except on the basis of prejudice and emotion, and I’m fighting myself to withhold judgment until someone with better tools has a chance to look at it.”

  “Amen,” someone muttered.

  “But Rayne also made a lot of claims that can be checked right here, in our ‘alternity,’ on this side of his so-called gate,” Bayshore added. “Let’s get our people out on the street and check them. Then maybe we’ll have a better idea what to make of Rayne Wallace, and what we need to do about what we heard today.”

  Boston, The Home Alternity

  A courtesy visit, the Secretary’s traveling secretary had called it. Secretary O’Neill is in Boston on an inspection tour of military facilities, he had said. Would Director Tackett be available to receive the Secretary for private, casual discussion?

  It was the kind of dodge a friend might have used to say, Let’s get together for a beer and gossip. But O’Neill was practically a stranger. They came from different worlds—O’Neill a mix of Ivy League theorist and pennypinching business manager, Tackett all learn-by-doing street fighter. They reigned over distinct fiefdoms, brought together only rarely at the table of the king.

  A courtesy visit, they called it. And as a courtesy, Tackett had agreed, but not without wondering the real reason. Did O’Neill know about his Blue counterpart? But there was no way he could have known. Was it Alpha List and Rathole? Technically O’Neill was still part of both. But if he asked to tour the gate house, to know the details of the gate, the courtesies would end. Tackett would have to say no.

  O’Neill did not keep him wondering long. As soon as they were alone in the suite’s comfortable lounge, O’Neill turned to him and asked, “Are your offices monitored in any way?”

  Tackett was taken aback. “No.”

  “Do you sweep for outside bugs?”

  “Every day.”

  “Are you sure?”
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  “What makes you think my office might be wired?” Tackett asked with annoyance. “Is yours?”

  He was stunned when O’Neill said, “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been watched for months. I’m followed wherever I go. My office, my home, and my car have all been bugged.”

  “Have you reported it to the FBI?”

  “Enough times to discover there’s no point. The FBI takes them out, the NSA puts them back.”

  Tackett stared. “Let me get this straight—you claim you’re under surveillance by our guys?”

  “Yes,” O’Neill said.

  “Do you have any proof? I find that difficult to believe—spying on the Secretary of Defense. Who’d order such a thing?”

  “The President,” O’Neill said.

  “Come on.”

  “It’s no secret to you that I’m on the outside.”

  “I know that there’ve been some hard feelings,” Tackett acknowledged.

  “This whole inspection tour was put together to get me here, with you. I’ve been bused around to five Air Force bases in four states, Camp Edwards, and the Navy shipyard over at Charleston, all so people wouldn’t scratch their heads and wonder what the Secretary of Defense wanted with the Director of the National Information Agency.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your help.”

  The two men sat in chairs only a yard apart, but there was an ever-widening gulf between them. Tackett listened with growing incredulity as O’Neill related his versions of the Marjorie incident and the sinking of the D-57. Eventually his resistance to what he was hearing reached the point where he could not listen any more.

  “Mr. Secretary, I know the President hates the Russians and the status quo. I know that he is committed to a shift in the balance of power. But I just can’t credit the kind of recklessness you’re accusing him of.”

  O’Neill did not flinch. “You were there when he turned the CIA loose. You heard him say he was going to turn up the heat.”

  “Are you saying we actually went out and nuked a Red boat outside the limit just to see what the Russians would do?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I was there. He picked the target himself. There must have been thirty witnesses. Everybody knew the target was out beyond the twelve-mile limit.”

  “And the Joint Chiefs stood by for this?”

  “General Rauche dragged his feet a little beforehand. But afterward, he was just like the rest of them. They cheered, Albert. They stood up and cheered like they were at a football game and Robinson had just run back the opening kickoff.”

  “Gregory—” Tackett stopped and sighed. “For the sake of argument, let’s say it happened the way you and Pravda claim. It’s done. He got away with it. What’s to be done about it now?”

  “It’s not done,” O’Neill said, shaking his head. “It’s only the beginning. Two months ago the CIA brought Robinson a proposal to mock up a VC-24 like a Tu-85, fly it to Moscow, and drop a bomb on the Kremlin—”

  Wheels are turning, the President had said. “Dennis flies a lot of oddball ideas,” Tackett said, uncomfortable with the memory.

  “This time he had a sympathetic audience. The President gave him the go-ahead, behind my back. I found out when Blaze Matson called to ask what the CIA wanted with a Mark XII Super—that’s the biggest in our arsenal. One had been pulled from inventory at Wurtsmith and transferred to a special unit at Westover.”

  “Westover—that’s near Springfield.”

  “Yes. A transport wing base. Lots of VC-24s available.”

  “Didn’t Matson just retire?”

  “He was forced out. He thinks I was responsible, in fact,” O’Neill said. “Albert, I went to Westover Thursday. The Q-plane is gone. No one will tell me where it is. No one will even admit it was ever there. The base commander lied to me, to my face.”

  Wheels are turning—“Have you asked Robinson about this?”

  O’Neill shook his head. “It’s too late. They’ve already built a wall around him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Robinson doesn’t take my calls, and Rodman won’t let me in to see him. That’s why I need your help, Albert. Someone has to make the President take a second look at this. It has to be someone he trusts, someone who still has access to him.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Clifton—”

  “What does he say?”

  “Clifton’s gone to jelly. He saw what happened to me. He won’t stand up to Robinson.”

  “Who else?”

  “Rodman. Madison, of course.”

  “The Vice-President?”

  “No.”

  “So this hasn’t been run past the National Security Council.”

  “No. It’s all back-room, back-door. A lot of other people know parts of it. I don’t know if any others understand what it means.”

  Tackett scowled. “How could I explain knowing, then? How could I even raise the question with the President?”

  “Rathole is your entry point,” O’Neill said. “You’re part of this, Albert. You’re driving the getaway car.”

  The picture O’Neill painted—Robinson as gangster—caused Tackett’s resistance to stiffen. “He’s the President, Gregory. I just don’t know what I can do.”

  “How can you let this happen?” he asked, his expression exquisitely pained.

  “How do you know it will?”

  The Secretary stood and fired what he no doubt meant as an angry parting shot. “Because no one who can stop it has the nerve to act.”

  Anger begat anger. “What have you done, except crawl around looking for someone else to do it for you?” Tackett demanded, coming to his feet. “Have you gone to the Hill? Talked to the independent papers? All it will take is a little sunlight and this melts away.”

  “I don’t think my keepers will allow either of those conversations to take place,” O’Neill said darkly. “But when I run out of time or options, I’ll have to try.”

  “When do you run out of time?”

  “When they call for Asylum,” O’Neill said. “Then it’ll be too late.”

  Fairfax, Virginia, Alternity Blue

  One day turned to two, and two to four. To Rayne Wallace’s surprise, they were quiet days, with even fewer interruptions than before, and no note-taking, fire-breathing interrogators. In some ways, he felt as though he had merely been transferred to a larger cell.

  During the day, he watched television and played cards with his warden. After hours, he ran the empty halls for exercise, listened to his growing library of music, and wondered if he had been used.

  But at noon on the fourth day, Rayne Wallace looked up from his bed and his newspaper to find Bayshore standing in the doorway.

  “Moving day,” Bayshore said, tossing him a soft-sided roll bag. “Pack your things.”

  Wallace caught the bag in one hand and swung himself to a seated position. “Where to?”

  “Safe house. Pennsylvania.”

  “What took so long?”

  Bayshore shrugged. “We had to see if you were telling the truth.”

  “I thought you said you believed me,” Wallace said, crossing the room to where his modest inventory of clothing was arrayed on the shelves of a bookcase.

  “There are degrees of belief.”

  Wallace pushed a handful of music carts into the bag beside the clothing and laid the player atop it. “What degree are you at now?” he asked, looking up quizzically.

  “Off the scale,” Bayshore said with a grunt. “I have to tell you what’s been going on this morning. We’ve sent three closed vans out of here since eight this morning. Every one of them has been followed.”

  “By the Guard? They know I’m here?”

  “They may just be hoping. Anyway, we’re going to take you out of here by whirlybird.”

  Wallace zipped the bag closed. “I’ll get sick again,�
� he warned.

  “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll be happy. I trust your people don’t have any jet fighters or antiaircraft missiles.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Hope you’re right,” Bayshore said heartily. “Ready?”

  Wallace swallowed hard. “Ready.”

  Waiting in the tunnel for the helicopter, Wallace was surprised to find the world outside surprisingly springlike. The trees were still bare, but the snows had vanished to reveal a matted carpet of grass, and the air carried the promise of warmer days.

  “What’s the date?” Wallace asked Bayshore.

  “March 14.”

  “What happened to winter?”

  “Groundhog gave us a break. We’ve hit fifty a couple of days already. Buds are popping out. Might see crocuses in another week or so if this keeps up.”

  “Bird over the boundary,” the guard called to them from the guardhouse.

  Waving his acknowledgment, Bayshore led Wallace forward to the mouth of the tunnel. The blue and white twin-rotor helicopter came in low from the west, ground-skimming and tree-hopping. As delicate as a hovering hummingbird, it settled on the drive in front of them.

  “Come on,” Bayshore said, ducking his head and trotting forward.

  Wallace followed on his heels, painfully aware of the intermeshing rotors thrashing the air over his head. Bayshore held open the door of the small rear cabin, then nimbly climbed in after, slamming the door shut and much of the noise out. While Wallace was still fumbling with the seat harness, the machine rose up from the pavement and skidded off toward the east at treetop level.

  The helicopter was worse than the plane had been. Wallace succeeded in controlling his stomach, but failed to keep the stress of the struggle off his face.

  “I take it people don’t fly often where you come from,” Bayshore said.

  Tight-lipped, Wallace shook his head.

  “Would it help if you knew these were practically crashproof?”

  “How?”

  “The drive train has a centrifugal clutch. If the engine quits, the rotors will freewheel—like a maple seed. We might hit hard enough to bounce, but not to break.”