Alternities

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  It helped, though Wallace could have done without the final speculation. “About the only flying back home is military or government,” he said. “Regular folks take the interurbans. Trains. When they travel at all.”

  Bayshore said, “Which isn’t often?”

  “No. The first long trip I took was moving from Indiana to Boston when I joined the Guard—”

  Talking helped more. Almost before Wallace realized it, the helicopter was whisking them a thousand feet above the rust-tinged soil and yellow winter wheat of Pennsylvania farms, above wooded valleys gouged by quiet streams. They flashed over an automated highway clinging to the side of one of the long fold ridges, over black iron trestles carrying old roads and rails across narrow gorges. Dense gray clouds formed a solid blanket overhead.

  Forty minutes after leaving Fairfax, the helicopter crossed over one last humpbacked ridge and then began to descend toward the gently undulating lowland. Wallace peered forward through the bubblelike front canopy and tried to pick out their destination from among the scattered farms.

  The pilot finally brought them to earth on a rolling meadow by a green-roofed two-story brick farmhouse. Boasting twin chimneys and a wooden porch that ran the full width between them, the house was encircled by low hedges in front and mature trees in back. A few hundred feet away was a battered red barn with an overthrust second story. Downslope in the meadow was a banked pond, the product of some past farmer’s ambition.

  Bag in hand, Wallace was the first out, grateful to have solid ground underfoot again. When Bayshore joined him, they started the long walk up to the house. The sound of the helicopter had drawn a trio of people out of the house, two of whom started down the walk to meet them.

  “Company?” Wallace asked.

  “Eh? No, not yet. Oh, we’ll be bringing some people in to talk to you. One or two will probably move in for the duration,” Bayshore said. “But the two you don’t know are staff here.”

  Wallace took a second look at the woman who had hung back on the porch, and this time realized who she was. “You didn’t say she was going to be here.”

  Bayshore shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

  “Does she have to be?”

  “Yes. She’s part of this.”

  The two walking parties met, and Wallace nodded through introductions to the house manager and the security chief, all the time looking past them to Shan on the porch. The anger of the first days was refreshed by the sight of her. But so were other memories, and he could not resolve the conflict.

  When the quartet filed back toward the house, Wallace trailed behind, wrestling with his ambivalence. He mounted the three porch steps slowly, pausing as he reached the top.

  “Hello, Rayne,” she said.

  Anger won. He continued past her without a word.

  Wallace ignored or avoided Shan for the better part of two hours, retreating to his second-story room and into his music when Bayshore was called away to the basement communications center. But he could not forget that she was there, could not stop the thoughts tumbling head-and-tail after each other in his mind.

  Even hiding behind the closed door of his room, he felt her presence in the house, felt it as both magnet and barb. His failure to shut her out was at first an irritation, then an annoyance, finally an obsession that drove him to throw his legs over the side of the bed and leave his room in search of her.

  He found her on the porch, sitting crosslegged in a gently swinging basket chair suspended from the porch rafters. She was sad and silent, gazing out at the meadow and the gray skies. The boards groaned under his feet, but she did not seem to know he was there until he spoke.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  She turned her head to look up at him. “All right,” she said.

  “Not there. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Nodding, she uncrossed her legs and eased herself out of the chair. “I’ll tell security.”

  While Shan was in the house, Wallace stood on the porch steps and studied the sky. The unbroken blanket of clouds was grayer and lower, rain-laden and threatening.

  “Okay,” she said, rejoining him. “Tom will alert the perimeter patrols.”

  “You’ve been here a while,” he observed. “You know all the rules.”

  They started down the walk, side by side but not touching.

  “I’ve been here for a week,” she said. “Since the trouble at my apartment.” She paused. “They told me that you knew him.”

  “He was my roommate for a while,” Wallace said. “He let me think he was a friend. Just like you did.”

  After that, they walked in silence for a time. The ground was soft underfoot, the air heavy with moisture. He waited, expecting an answer, an apology, even acknowledgment.

  Finally he stopped short and seized her wrist to turn her toward him. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did you do it?”

  With her free hand, she plucked at the viselike hand imprisoning her. “You’re hurting me—”

  “Damn it, answer me!” he shouted, grabbing her other wrist and shaking her. “Why did you have to do this? Why did you do this to me?”

  “I didn’t know—what you were. That’s what you do when there’s something you don’t understand. I didn’t know they would take you away like that.”

  In a single sudden motion, he pushed her away and released her. “I showed you what I was. I showed you everything I was.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s why I let you stay. Not to keep you there for them. Because I know that part of you, I knew I was safe with you.”

  “Then why?” he raged. “Why be afraid of me at the same time?”

  “If you were from here, you’d understand,” she said. “It’s not just a duty. It’s something you do because you care. I was ten, Rayne. Even the movie couldn’t teach you what it meant to us.”

  “I broke the rules for you,” he said hoarsely, the words stumbling out. “I risked—I gave up—and then you put them first. I felt so… so close… to you. I would have done anything—”

  She took a step toward him. “And I wouldn’t.”

  “No.”

  “I couldn’t. Not yet. Not this soon. The closeness is real, Rayne. Was real. But you don’t let go of everything for it—”

  He closed his eyes and shivered. “You do when you wait so long for it,” he whispered. “You do when it feels like your last chance.”

  Her gentle voice reached into the place where he was hiding. “Who am I in your reality, Rayne?”

  His laugh was brittle, bitter. “Someone I loved.”

  Just then it began to rain, fat soaking drops that slapped against the grass and splattered on bare skin. “Come on,” she said, taking his hand. “Run.”

  They ran for the barn, the closest structure. The skies opened just as they reached the shelter of the overhanging second story. The tangy odors of silage and moldy hay assaulted Wallace with ancient memories and associations.

  Shan clung to his hand and stood close to him. “I’m not her,” she said softly.

  “No,” he said. “But the two of you are—it’s like you’re one person in my mind.”

  “I know,” she said. “You didn’t say if she loved you.”

  “I never knew,” he said, looking away. “We didn’t have a chance to be anything.”

  The rain was rattling against the hollow shell of the barn, and a gust of water-laden wind drove them a step closer to the back wall and to each other.

  “Rayne, I’m not her,” she said. “I can’t be her for you. But the person I am, this different person—I love you. And I’m sorry—for what I did and for what it did to you. And for what it did to us.”

  The regret in her eyes was real, the hard edge of his anger gone. He opened his arms to her, and they clung together in an embrace that changed slowly from simple reassurance to something which felt like renewal, like reunion.

  AMERICA’S WHO’S WHO—17TH Edition

  * * *

  includ
e “Chromagraph” (elegy for brass choir), “Ruminations” (tone poem for chamber orchestra and electric ensemble), and the choral song cycle “An Exultation of Larks.” In 1976, after the premiere of his controversial atonal symphony Life −1, Edelman resigned his post with the New Orleans Symphony Orchestra to accept a chair with the North Texas State University School of Music.

  BIOGRAPHICAL/CRITICAL SOURCES:

  “Full Critical: The Genius of Erik Edelman,” Symphony, March, 1969

  New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 1974

  EDEN, Warren D(avid), physicist

  PERSONAL: born San Diego, May 12, 1938; s. William Kenneth and Jo Anne (Zane) Eden; in. Barbara Lee Newman June 26, 1965; 2 child., Mark David and Krystal Lynn; div. Oct. 7, 1969.

  EDUCATION: BS in physics, U. Cal. San Diego, 1953; MS in physics, Stanford U., 1955; MS in astronomy, Stanford U., 1956, PhD in astrophysics, U. Cal. Berkeley, 1959.

  AWARDS: Bohr Medal (American Chemical Society), 1961; Draper Medal (National Academy of Sciences), 1964; honorary doctorate, Princeton University, 1968; Gold Medal (Royal Astronomical Society), 1968; Charles Vernon Boys Prize (London Institute of Physics), 1968; Nobel Prize in Physics, 1969.

  BIOGRAPHY: Possibly America’s best-known, most-honored, and least-understood contemporary scientist, Warren D. Eden has in the first twenty years of his career made fundamental contributions to the disparate disciplines of physical chemistry, theoretical physics, and cosmology. His theory of synthetic elementalism revolutionized the study of high-energy particle physics and earned him international recognition. In recent years, Eden has devoted himself to the advocacy of his controversial cosmological system, known as “random structuralism,” or, more popularly, the “wild-card model.”

  Eden was a child prodigy, reading at age two and solving differential equations at age seven. One of the youngest doctoral candidates in the history of the University of California, Eden drew attention…

  CHAPTER 18

  * * *

  The Odd Perfect Number

  Washington, D.C, The Home Alternity

  The visitor’s part was ruler-straight, his cheeks freshly shaven, his teeth white and straight. His Capitol pass dangled from a tailored mouse-gray suit, and he wore a Cornell class ring on his right hand.

  For all of those reasons, Walter Endicott distrusted the man on sight.

  He knew the kind, had seen too many of them across his desk. Smooth-speaking advocates who tried to disguise the narrow interests they represented behind impassioned platitudes on public welfare, who cultivated an image of affluence and influence but came into the office with empty wallets and promises.

  They didn’t understand that real power came in through side doors and made its needs known in private. They didn’t understand that the currency of the Capitol was mutual consideration. And they did not understand that he did not need them.

  But he still received a trickle of supplicants, some few out of self-indulgence or idle curiosity, the larger fraction as favors to those to whom he was beholden. The visitor, a Rembert Wilkins from the International Commodities Exchange, belonged to the latter group. The majority leader, in whose state Wilkins’ firm was based, had asked Endicott to give him a hearing.

  “I’d suggest you get right to the point, Mr. Wilkins,” Endicott said. “Fifteen minutes go by in a hurry.”

  “As you wish. Senator,” Wilkins said, opening his briefcase. “If you prefer bluntness, I’ll be blunt. My firm trades in agricultural products, minerals—and information. I have a number of questions to ask you. Before I ask them, I want to give you a reason to answer.”

  Wilkins drew a small tape-tied portfolio from the briefcase and handed it to Endicott. For a moment, Endicott wondered if he had misjudged the visitor. Most bribes were not so nakedly offered. They came disguised as honorariums, campaign contributions, consulting fees, gifts.

  But the envelope contained a surprise. Instead of a bundle of cash, Endicott found a bundle of photos showing him with Rachel in the woods behind his house. Rachel nude, bound standing between two trees, barefoot in the snow. The photos were sharp enough to show both his features and the whip marks on her frost-white skin clearly. A few long shots showed a recognizable portion of his house.

  Endicott remembered the occasion but not the date. Was that three weeks ago, four? “I have better,” he said offhandedly, sliding the envelope back across the desk.

  “I don’t think you can afford to be casual about these, Senator,” Wilkins said, leaving the envelope where it rested.

  Rocking back in his chair, Endicott said, “Well, since you’re looking out for my welfare, why don’t you explain real clearly what you think I ought to do.”

  “You have a great deal to lose. Senator Endicott. Your position, your reputation. Your wife Grace. Your freedom. Kidnapping—torture—murder—those are the credentials of a psychopath, not a U.S, senator.”

  “Kidnapping? Murder? I see two adults playing a game. Perhaps a minority interest, but no felony.”

  “I don’t think you would enjoy trying to make that case in public, Senator,” Wilkins said. “And you know very well the skeletons your house conceals—as do some of those you’ve invited to share in your game. They will tell what they know, if we ask. But I didn’t come here to threaten you—”

  “No?”

  “No. If I reward you for your help only by allowing you to keep what’s already yours, then I’m no better than a thief We’re prepared to give good value for what we receive.”

  Turning to his briefcase a second time, the visitor pushed a small binder across the desk. Endicott found its several pages filled with photographs of women—Oriental, African, Nordic, many beautiful, most voluptuous, all strangers. He leafed through the binder slowly.

  “Answer my questions, and any one of them can be delivered to your front door by tomorrow night, yours without conditions or restrictions,” Wilkins said. “Work with us, and eventually you can have all of them, or others more to your taste.”

  “I see you’re not quite the moralist, after all.”

  “A pragmatist will grow fat while a moralist starves,” Wilkins said. “I have reason to think that you’re a pragmatist. Senator.”

  “What are you after?”

  “As I said, information. About the National Resource Center. About the gate, the Guard, and Rathole.”

  Though Endicott’s poker face never showed the faintest tremor, behind the mask he was reeling from the shock. Even the questions denoted a breach in secrecy so serious that Endicott had trouble crediting it. It was easier to think that this was Tackett’s doing, a little buddy-fuck meant to cost him the President’s confidence. “Who wants to know?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yeah. Who’s your client? Who’s buying?”

  “I don’t see that you should entangle yourself with my business dealings.”

  “I asked you a question. If you don’t have an answer, we’re done talking. Who’s buying?”

  Wilkins frowned. “A foreign interest.”

  “Who?”

  “That should be enough.”

  “Who?”

  The frown deepened. “A friendly power.”

  It felt like an evasion. “If you want the truth from me, you’d better give me the same.”

  For a long moment, the two men tried to stare each other down. “A Mr. K is the principal buyer,” Wilkins said finally.

  Kondratyev? “Jesus Christ, Wilkins, you’re one of us.”

  “I said I was a pragmatist. Just as you are.”

  Only fools left their guns hidden in drawers. Endicott’s four-shot pistol rested in an open soft-sided sleeve in the well of the desk, out of sight but close to hand. He did not need to worry that Wilkins was armed; the wand-carrying guards at the entrance were very thorough.

  “You don’t know me very well,” Endicott said, sitting forward and reaching for the pistol. “No woman’s worth that much/”

  “I didn’t wan
t to insult you with money. But we would consider sweetening the offer—”

  Tackett or the Russians, it did not matter. The same message needed to be sent. Endicott leaned back until his hands cleared the desk, then raised the pistol and smoothly squeezed the trigger twice. The pistol sounded like a cap gun, but the bullets left Wilkins slumping slack-jawed in his chair, fast-flowing blood darkening the fine fabrics of his shirt and coat.

  The office door flew open, and his secretary—rushed in, stopping short when she saw Wilkins.

  “Senator—”

  “It’s all right, Jo,” Endicott said, gathering in the tied envelope.

  She gaped disbelievingly. “You shot him?”

  “We still execute spies. I just saved us the cost of his trial.”

  “I’ll… I’ll call security—”

  “No. Get the FBI for me. Counterintelligence Division. Then I want you to leave and lock the door after yourself. Nothing should be touched until they get here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Please.”

  He held the line until he heard her leave, then hung up on the puzzled FBI agent. It took five minutes to make sure that neither the briefcase nor Wilkins’ clothing contained anything that would not bear scrutiny. Then he placed his own call.

  “This is Walter,” he said. “Peter, we have a problem.”

  Somerset County, Pennsylvania, Alternity Blue

  Richard Bayshore looked up from the clipboard at the sound of footsteps on the porch.

  “Where have you two been?” he asked as Wallace and Shan entered. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. But for future reference, please be informed that rain does not wash straw out of a sweater.”

  Wallace flashed a guilty smile as he looked down at his clothing. Shan’s smile was the kind that went with childish secrets.

  “You remember Malcolm Davis?” Bayshore continued, inclining his head toward the ethnologist seated across the table.

  “Sure. From headquarters. Look, I’m sorry—”

  Bayshore held up his hand. “It’s just as well you took the opportunity. I don’t know the next time you’re going to get a free moment. There’s a lot of work ahead.”