The Last Sword Maker

by Brian Nelson

  Eric looked for Bill, anxious to see his reaction, and caught sight of him slipping quietly out the back door. He thought to follow him, to congratulate him, but he was quickly pulled back into the revelry and forgot about him. He saw Olex and gave him a hug. Olex stepped back and straightened his shirt. “I’ll excuse it this once, but never do that again.”

  Around midnight, the lights came on, and it suddenly felt like a nightclub after last call. Everyone started heading for home. Fifteen minutes later, Eric looked around and found that it was just the three of them: Jane, Ryan, and himself.

  They looked at each other, and for no reason they could name, they all started laughing.

  “Come on,” Ryan said. “Let’s go celebrate!”

  They broke through the nearest exit and into the winter night. It was bitterly cold, but they didn’t care. Between the moonlight and the streetlights, the world was caught in that soft perpetual twilight the night has when everything is covered in snow.

  They joked and laughed on their way back to the apartment block, making ambitious plans.

  “Let’s go see the monuments at night. I love that!”

  “Fuck that, let’s take the bullet train to New York.”

  “Naw, naw, naw, if we’re going to do it, we do it right. We take the next flight to Vegas.”

  In the end, they settled for raiding a vending machine and sitting on the floor of Jane’s apartment, drinking beer and eating Pop-Tarts, Oreos, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

  “You’re eating it all wrong,” Eric said to Jane. “You have to start on the edges.”

  “Says the guy who eats Oreos without disassembling them first.”

  “It’s not my fault. You don’t have any milk.”

  “That’s no excuse.” She gave him a sly grin.

  There was a light in her eyes tonight. A confidence. Even when he turned away from her, he could feel her eyes warming the side of his face. He was doing it, too: looking at her more. They were feeding off each other. In tune. And perhaps because of that, he noticed something he had never noticed before.

  Jane’s apartment was a like a gym. A rack of free weights against one wall. A treadmill. A speed bag. On the walls were posters of famous athletes. Great moments in sports. Jesse Owens in the grass with Luz Long. Nadia Comaneci on the balance beam. Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston.

  Eric had been here dozens of times, of course, but he’d never noticed that something was missing. There were almost no pictures of Jane’s friends or family. Jane’s mother had abandoned her and her father when Jane was very young, so he wasn’t surprised to find no pictures of her. But there were no pictures of any friends, either—nothing from high school or college. Nothing to recall a life being lived. In fact, there was only one picture: a portrait of her father, the Marine Corps colonel in his dress blues. An official picture, like the portrait of the president hanging in a government office.

  That was when it clicked. Her huge emphasis on goals—for fitness, science, genetic engineering. Yet the absence, the complete denial, of the personal. Her obsession with fitness, with its steady dose of endorphins, was her way of … of what? Keeping her mind off something? He wasn’t sure, but he recognized the strategy immediately. Hadn’t he done the same thing after his father’s death, when wrestling was all he cared about? It had helped him keep his sanity. But what was Jane trying to get away from?

  He turned his head to her. She was beautiful tonight, the bright eyes and proud forehead. But he was seeing her in a new way. He and Ryan had always teased her about being a fitness freak. How she was so butch and strong, yet socially awkward. But now he felt sorry he had said some of those things. Yes, she had tough skin and would always throw their insults right back at them. But he suspected that beneath her veneer of strength was someone vulnerable.

  “What?” she said.

  “Huh? Oh, nothing.”

  She smiled, but she was searching his face. “Why were you looking at me like that?”

  “Because I want that last Pop-Tart.”

  She gave a short laugh. “It’s yours,” she said, holding it out. “If you can take it.”

  He lunged, and they began to fight over it. It was a surprisingly even match. She was just as strong as he was, and what she lacked in wrestling skills, she made up for in guile. Eventually, Eric won, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. When Jane realized all was lost, she mashed the Pop-Tart against the side of his face.

  “Totally uncalled for,” he said, standing over the sink, trying to unclog his ear. “Wasting a perfectly good Pop-Tart.”

  Jane and Ryan were still laughing.

  “All right,” Ryan announced. “I’m outta here!”

  “You!” Eric and Jane said in unison. “What about Vegas?”

  “Not tonight. I’ve been up four days straight.”

  “How about you?” Eric asked Jane.

  “I’m too wired for bed. Let’s do something brainless and lazy, like watch movies. I haven’t watched a movie in a year.”

  Eric nodded conspiratorially, liking the idea. “I think I know just the place.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in Simpson Hall, one of the old academic buildings, outside a set of old wooden doors that said, “Orion Theater.”

  “Ever been here?” Eric asked.

  “Never,” she said.

  “Then you’re in for a treat.”

  Eric swiped his pass card and dramatically pulled open the double doors.

  “Wow,” she gasped.

  It was an old-fashioned theater, complete with a balcony and velvet curtains in front of the screen. There were about forty rows of seats with soft burgundy cushions, and the walls had old murals of patriotic scenes of cadets in training. It felt like stepping back in time. It was easy to imagine this as a place where people had actually watched The Wizard of Oz.

  “Where do you want to sit?” he asked.

  “In the front row, of course!”

  They proceeded to stay up all night stuffing their faces with junk food and watching sci-fi classics: Avatar, The Wrath of Khan, Aliens.

  As the final credits rolled, they felt both the exhaustion and the euphoria of going through all those adventures. They were themselves, but they were also their heroes, because the residue of all those characters was so fresh inside them.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Jane cried. “It’s almost six!”

  Eric laughed. “Tired?”

  “No,” she said, grinning. “I feel great!”

  They looked at each other. Smiled and kept smiling.

  Eric felt like a kid on the last day of summer vacation, staying up all night, trying to hold on to something he didn’t want to end.

  “So,” Eric said, summoning his courage. “After replication, you kissed me.”

  “Did I? Sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “No, it’s fine, I just didn’t—”

  “Expect it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, me, either.”

  “Oh, okay.” Eric looked down at his hands, feeling suddenly foolish. Had he really misread her? He had known it was stupid to read too much into a kiss. It was just a spontaneous thing. Yet she had kissed him, hadn’t she? And no one else.

  “What I mean,” she said, “was that I hadn’t really imagined it like that.”

  It took a moment for the light to come on. Then Eric’s fears dissipated, replaced by nervous excitement.

  “How, exactly, did you imagine it?”

  “Well, I guess …” She met his gaze. “Something like this.”

  And she leaned in and kissed him.

  It was a soft kiss, hesitant and unsure. When their fingertips touched, he felt her trembling as if she were cold. He couldn’t help remembering her room. His realization. But she seemed to get over her inhibitions q
uickly. She was hungry for him, and he was hungry for her.

  But then she suddenly pulled back, drawing a long breath.

  “Wait. Can we do this?” she asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just … I want this, I really do, but we work together.”

  “So what? We’re not even on the same team.”

  “I know. It’s just, I don’t want to mess anything up. I mean, God, I don’t know what I mean. I just—”

  “Stop talking and kiss me,” he said.

  A smile. “Okay.”

  They kissed, and she seemed to forget herself, hungry all over again, biting his lip, then his ear.

  She stopped again. “You really like me, don’t you? I mean really? I just need to hear you say it.”

  “You know I do.”

  “Just say it.”

  He cupped her beautiful face in his hands. “I really like you. I wanted to do this before, in your room, but I was a little scared of losing you as a friend.”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding, thinking about it. “Okay, good answer. Oh, God, Eric, I just don’t know. I want you. God, I do. I’ve wanted you ever since the fire, since you saved my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  They kissed again, longer this time, and without breaking the kiss, she shifted out of her seat and onto his lap. He ran a hand over her hips and up her side, brushing her breast. She undid the top buttons of his shirt and ran her hands over his chest.

  Then she cupped his jaw in her hand and gave him a mischievous grin. Eyes bright. “Come on,” she said. She took his hand and led him toward the door. He trundled after her, looking down at their joined hands, still not really believing this was happening. Every atom of his being was focused on her. On this. He felt inexpressibly lucky and filled with the insane and stupid hope—premature, but a hope all the same—that a long search was over.

  They made their way back to the apartments, taking their time. They would talk and flirt and stop to kiss. Then Jane would take his hand again and lead him again.

  But then something happened. Just as they were getting back to the apartment block, he saw her eyes linger on a marine recruitment poster. A chill seemed to come over her. Her smile ebbed, and her walk lost its confidence. When they reached the elevator, she let go of his hand and didn’t take it again.

  He was still trying to make sense of the change when they reached her door. Her eyes went to the left and right, anywhere but him. “Hey, look,” she said, “it’s really late and I have to be in the lab in a few hours. Olex will be expecting me.”

  “Hey, what happened? What did I say? Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s not you. I thought I could do this. I really did. But it was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  She finally made eye contact. Then came the tears. She didn’t fight them or wipe them away. She just held his gaze.

  He went to touch her cheek, but she took his hand, cupped it, and gave it back to him.

  “I’m sorry, Eric. I’m really sorry.” She turned, entered her apartment, and closed the door.

  Eric heard the door latch, then the chain slide onto its receptacle.

  He stood there for a long time looking at the door, examining the metal frame. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty minutes. He put his hand on the door. It was what separated them. He had to get to the other side somehow, to make her understand. But the door …

  * * *

  A few inches away, Jane leaned into the door, watching him through the eyehole. Her stomach roiling in a storm of conflicting emotions. Fear and desire. Insecurity and lust. And something she was trying hard to convince herself wasn’t love. The tears kept coming, hot on her cheeks, but she suppressed her sobs. Her eye stayed transfixed on him. Praying he would come to her. Try the door, she thought. Just try. It’s not even locked. He could turn the handle. It would open. Only the cheap chain separated them.

  What was he waiting for? All he had to do was give the most token effort, absolve her of responsibility, and she was his.

  * * *

  Eric stood on the other side of the door and shook his head in exasperation. Nice job, Hill. You were a couple for what, twenty-five minutes? That has to be a record, even for you. I’m beginning to think it’s best for everyone if you just keep to yourself.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, took his hand off the door, and walked away.

  * * *

  Jane let out a whimper and sank to the floor. She sat there for a long time, her head in her hands.

  When she looked up, her eyes fell on the photograph of her father, Col. Jonathan C. Hunter, USMC. You’re the reason I’m here, she thought, the reason I’ve made it so far. Then she said aloud, “And the reason my head is so fucked up.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Time

  December 25, 2025

  Washington, DC

  Admiral Curtiss had been up all night, writing in his private log, reviewing ideas, checking plans. Now that they had achieved replication, he could finally get down to the business of using the new technology to wage war.

  About fucking time.

  His thoughts kept returning to four men. It was as if they were in the room with him, watching him, making sure he did what he had to do.

  The men were Bo Li, Johnny Cloud, Tommy Evans, and Isaac Zyrckowski. The four he had lost. Only a month ago, he had feared that they all had died in vain, that despite their sacrifices, the Chinese were going to win. But the project had turned around, and now their deaths might not be so empty. He was determined to make sure of it. It was up to him to see that China failed, that they never caught up, that they never again threatened him or his people.

  Suddenly, Curtiss cocked his head, listening in the darkness. Yes, there was something there. He heard the creaking of the stairs, then a scramble of light footsteps. A moment later, River, his seven-year-old son, appeared in the doorway in his fire-engine pajamas.

  The boy, his youngest (born when Evelyn was forty-two), went through cycles where he had bad dreams. Every three or four months, he would have a week of nightmares and come padding into his dad’s office. Most of the time Curtiss was good about comforting the boy. But sometimes he became impatient and chided River for bothering him. The boy knew this well enough, so he waited in the doorway, trying to gauge his father’s mood.

  But tonight Curtiss was happy to see him. He had barely seen his family in the past month, and he missed them.

  “Come on, then,” he said. The boy scampered across the room and climbed into his lap. He cuddled up as he always did, nestling his head under Curtiss’s chin.

  “More bad dreams?”

  A nod. “Monsters,” the boy said. Curtiss gave a grunt of understanding and rubbed the boy’s back. He made it a point never to tell his boys that monsters didn’t exist, because, of course, they did.

  “Will you protect me, Daddy?”

  “Always,” Curtiss said with irrevocable finality. “Always.”

  The boy snuggled closer, and Curtiss felt him relax in the security of his embrace. When the boy began to nod off, he picked him up and carried him up to his room. But when he tried to put River in his bed, the boy clung to him. “Don’t leave me. Please, Daddy.”

  “Just this once,” he said, and he lay down beside him. The boy was asleep almost immediately, but Curtiss lay there for a time, staring at the glowing stars the boy had stuck to the ceiling.

  His thoughts returned to the four men he had lost and how they had died, but now he thought of his three boys, too, and that they must never have to face what those men faced. He never wanted them to play any of those roles: soldier, spy, innocent bystander. More than his oath to God, more than his allegiance to his country and to his men, there was the oath to his boys. As their father, as a warri
or, as a Choctaw, he wanted to make sure they never became casualties. Luckily, the Pentagon had authorized him to do exactly what the hardness told him he must do. He must use the new weapons, the most powerful the world had ever seen, to annihilate the enemy.

  It was about time.

  And these atomic bombs which science burst upon the world that night were strange even to the men who used them.

  —H. G. Wells, The World Set Free, 1914

  Dear Undersecretary Tan:

  As you are now aware, the Americans successfully replicated on December 24.

  It is a most critical time. With their self-replicating assemblers, the Americans can now develop weapon systems that will far outclass anything in the arsenal of the People’s Liberation Army or in any arsenal on the globe. We will be largely defenseless against these new weapons. Indeed, if we don’t regain the lead quickly, American military hegemony will likely continue for the next generation. Only with decisive action can China take her rightful place as the sole superpower, free of the yoke of the imperialists.

  While we may be tempted to dwell on the fact that much of the Americans’ success came by stealing from us, we must also acknowledge that they made several key advances that still elude us.

  How should we proceed? I believe that asking the right question will lead us to the right course of action.

  What is the quickest path to replication? Since the Americans have already done it, the answer becomes obvious: we steal the secret from them. However, this is no ordinary invention. It is a life-form, so stealing samples of their nanosites is not enough, just as stealing a monkey is not enough to teach us how to bring a monkey to life. So I am proposing a different type of espionage—one that will ensure that we replicate as quickly as possible while simultaneously hindering the Americans’ progress. I want to ***** ***** **********.