The Sudden Star

by Pamela Sargent

  "I know that."

  "Perhaps you don't know that there may be more than one strain of Stanford-B now, or that it apparently sharpens the senses for a time, or that the children of victims may actually carry the virus with no ill effects at all." Reese's eyes stared past Simon. "How impatient I was for that team to get here. Even after a year, I was still waiting, still not willing to give up. I'm not really sure when it was I realized they weren't coming."

  Simon tried to think of something to say. "You know," he began, and stopped. He cleared his throat. "You know," he continued, "there were always rumors in New York that the army was doing some research, that they didn't pay that much attention to the list. When I was drafted—all of us had to work in the army's medical service for a while after medical school—I know they always tried to get the ones who looked like good researchers to stay. They had better equipment than most of the civilians, though they usually kept it for the officers. Maybe you could get some army people to—"

  "Do you know what the army would do to this place? They're barbarians. They'd sack it and destroy anything they couldn't use."

  "I meant the army doctors."

  "I wouldn't trust them," Reese said. "They probably report to their superiors."

  Simon tugged at his beard. He couldn't afford to have Ved Reese's hostility. "Maybe," he said, trying to smile, "I could assist you here. We could—"

  Reese snorted. "Could you really? I'd have to spend time just training you in the use of the lab facilities, and by then—" The old man peered at Simon. He was saying he, Reese, was too old. He might be dead before then. "Anyway," Reese went on, "I've stored as much of what I know as I could. Someday, if it's ever found, those people may wonder what we worried about, they may be immune, or—"

  "Where?" Simon said. "Where did you store the information?"

  "You can go now," Reese replied, waving a hand. "Jeri's probably wondering what's taking us so long."

  Jeri sat underground, in a small windowless room. The room had been built before she came to the space center; she did not know what its original purpose was. It had become a sanctuary, a library, an underground treasure trove, a window into the past. A short tunnel connected it with the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building; the door leading into the tunnel was concealed. Supposedly the room could withstand even the total destruction of the area above it, though, without the elevator shaft and the tunnel, Jeri wondered who would reach it. The room would have to be dug out; they were counting on an archeological expedition.

  Jeri often was curious about how many other such facilities existed in the world. Many had probably been destroyed in conflicts. When her world had been larger, and it had still been possible to receive some news of other countries, she had followed, in sporadic broadcasts, the war between Russia and China, a war which, after the destruction of China's major cities, had apparently degenerated into a civil war within Russia itself. Chinese survivors, pushing into Russia's eastern domain, had driven those living there west; at last, Russians had pressed into Europe, seizing everything, leaving only Britain untouched. All those wars had involved nuclear weapons; the devastation and the suffering of those peoples had, Jeri knew, protected her own country. Some of the missiles in the United States had been disabled by rebellious soldiers, but others remained; a few had supposedly been used by Texas against Mexico. That was her world now: kill to survive, one locality against another, state against state, city against city. Maybe, she thought, it was better if everyone remained ignorant, unable to make use of the remaining weapons, better if this underground room was never found. That was the point of keeping things here; only people capable of organizing a cooperative group would find it.

  In the room sat what was probably one of the most complex computer minds in the world. It was contained in a small console only eight feet tall and eight feet across. The computer could not only express itself with lettering on the screen, it could also speak, in a toneless but oddly soothing voice. It had remained mute for years. Though information was still communicated to it, no one spoke to it. The computer had been responsible for pushing them toward their present course of action, assigning a higher probability to the possibility of preserving a record of humankind's accomplishments than to rebuilding. Sometimes Jeri, torn with despair, had wondered if the machine, like the human beings around it, was simply sacrificing others in an attempt to preserve itself.

  Files on the wall opposite the computer contained records, books, papers, journals, newspapers, pictures, and other information, all on microfiche, microdot, or tiny tape cassettes. Jeri, like most of the others, used to come down here and read, or play music, or look at photos. That had become too painful. Now she simply came to think, or to communicate a new piece of information to the computer. In the computer's data banks, along with more important things, was her diary. She had begun it thirty years ago, conscientiously typing it into the machine at least once a week. She had not made an entry for two years.

  Ifs tormented her here. If more of the technically skilled people had survived, if more of their children had lived or stayed at the center, if they hadn't had to fight off one horde after another in the early days, if there had been more money for the space program and a chance to preserve a human settlement in space, if the Stanford-B virus hadn't escaped from the laboratory, if there hadn't been an earthquake in California, if Mura's Star hadn't appeared, if, if—

  Jeri slouched in her chair, resting her head on her knees. Why do I keep coming here? she thought. She lifted her head, gazing at the silent computer. That is our child, she realized; that is what will make us live again.

  She stood up. Impulsively she reached behind her, then turned and fumbled through one tiny file drawer until she found the film. She inserted it in one of the wall viewers and sat down, watching the screen as she pressed the button.

  She was sitting under a palm tree, a thin, thirtyish woman holding a year-old child. Her wide grin made her nose seem more hawklike than usual. Cilla, the baby, was clutching her blouse. In the next picture, Gene Anders was lifting Cilla, holding his daughter over his head with his big arms. In the third, she and Gene were lying on their backs, Cilla sitting on Gene's chest. Her eyes stung. They had been laughing as Leo Carlson took the pictures, finally degenerating into making the most warped facial expressions they could think of as Leo snapped away.

  Iron bands seemed to clutch at her chest. She turned off the screen. She heard a hum; someone was opening the door to the room next to this one.

  The door behind her slid open and she saw Leo. "I thought you might be here," he said. "What did you do with the visitors?"

  "I took them back to their room after the physical, fed them breakfast, and locked them in. They're safe enough." She looked guiltily at Leo, knowing she should either have been guarding the three or helping in the fields or preparing some food.

  "Ved wants to see you."

  She got up quickly. "He couldn't have finished—"

  "He's with William."

  Puzzled, she followed Leo.

  Ved pulled her into the room quickly. "Don't go, Leo," he said, "I want you, too." Leo entered and Ved closed the door. "I trust both of you."

  It all seemed melodramatic to Jeri. She looked around the large room. It had once been an executive's office; it was now William Lorris's home. It contained a long beige sofa, a large bare desk, three chairs, and a well-stuffed bookcase. All the books had been put on microfiche already, and Lorris enjoyed having them nearby. Lorris's bed was in a smaller office next to this one. Jeri had once come here often and listened to the Colonel talk about his exploits. Lorris rarely asked anyone here now; she saw him only at meetings.

  "What is it, Ved?" Leo asked, looking as puzzled as Jeri felt.

  "Colonel Lorris is dead."

  Jeri drew in her breath. It shouldn't surprise me, she thought. He was so old. "Oh, Ved," she said, not knowing what else to say. She made her way to the sofa and sat down. Their last link to the past's achieve
ments was dead, the last astronaut gone. She wondered if there would ever be another. William Lorris had been the one person the fifty-four remaining survivors had all respected.

  She remembered the first sight she had of the man. He had walked away from the damaged shuttle, looking even taller than he actually was because of his erect posture. He had saved fifteen other people, scientists and astronauts, by bringing the shuttle in safely to the Kennedy Space Center. The others had all died, two from Stanford-B, the rest in defending the center; Lorris had suffered a stroke five years ago. But when Jeri closed her eyes and thought of him, she remembered the slender, energetic, brown-haired man who had climbed out of the shuttle, the shuttle that could never fly again, not the old man in a wheelchair.

  Bewildered, she looked at Leo, who seemed even more morose, then at Ved. "We'll have to tell the others," she murmured uncertainly. "We'll have to bury him now." She struggled with the words; she could not make herself accept the death.

  "That's what I wanted to talk about," Ved said. He sat down next to Jeri. Leo, after a glance around the room, sat in one of the chairs, shaking his head. "We can't tell them just yet."

  "Why not?" she asked.

  "What do you think will happen to those three visitors if we do?"

  Jeri folded her arms. "I don't know. What do they have to do with this?"

  "I'll be blunt," Ved replied. "They won't live long. If Lorris hadn't been sitting in on our meeting, I think they would have been dead by now. I'm willing to bet that within a day after we bury the colonel, Lorene is going to call a meeting and ask to be voted in as Director of the Center, and that'll be the death warrant for those three."

  Astonished, Jeri stared at the bald man. "Why, Belvedere Reese," she said, trying to smile, "you really are an old softie, aren't you?"

  "It's not for them," he said harshly. "I don't know if those three would be much of a loss to the species. The girl is the only one who seems to show the slightest sensitivity. But I don't want the colonel's death memorialized with their deaths. We've all seen enough killing. He wouldn't have wanted it either."

  "What can we do?" Leo said. "You tell us, we'll do it."

  "If anyone asks about the colonel," Ved responded, "I can tell them he's not feeling well, that he has to rest. That's simple enough. No one comes here without being asked. One of you can grab a Jeep. Make sure you charge it first so it doesn't stall on you. The other can go get those three and bring them out. Make sure you've got a good story in case you run into someone. Drop those three off next to the Banana River, put them in an old boat with a map, and send them off. Can you do that?"

  "It doesn't seem too hard," Leo replied.

  "Just be careful. Keep them covered the whole way. Give them a few packaged rations and some coins, just so they don't get the urge to rob you. You can even give them their knives back. They'll probably need them, but keep them covered until they're out of sight. I doubt they'll want to come back, they didn't want to stay here in the first place."

  Jeri put a hand on Ved's shoulder. "You amaze me," she said gently.

  He shook off her hand. "I just want to remember what we were once, Jeri." He got up and held out a hand to her. "I'll watch things here. You'd better go."

  Rocca had become uncontrollable, throwing himself aimlessly and violently around the room, picking up the plates that had held their breakfast and hurling them against the wall, shattering them. At last he sat down, drumming his fingers on the table, twitching as he turned his head from right to left.

  Simon stood over him, wanting to slap him but a bit afraid of him also. "What's the matter with you?"

  "I'm bored," Rocca said. "I wanna be back on the beach, can't take being shut up, I hate it."

  "This isn't going to help."

  "Fold it and shove it."

  Aisha seemed bewildered. She curled up on the sofa, hugging her legs. Simon was himself beginning to worry about what would happen. The old people here would not feed three able-bodied prisoners forever. Sooner or later they would put them to work or—

  The door to the room opened. Simon recognized the old black man they had seen with Jeri when they were first captured. The man, he noticed, was keeping his hand on the handle of his revolver. He said, "Come on."

  Aisha got up slowly. Rocca shrank back against the sofa. "I ain't going," he whined. "I don't want no more needles stuck in me."

  "We're not going there, we're going outside." The man paused. "We're going to pick oranges. Now get going."

  Rocca looked around suspiciously. Simon grabbed his arm and pulled him off the sofa. He dragged him toward the door.

  "I don't wanta pick no oranges."

  Simon slapped him as hard as he could. The boy stumbled back, rubbing his reddened cheek with one hand. "Come on," Simon said, clenching his teeth. Wherever they were going, he was sure it wasn't to pick oranges. He needed his wits about him until he knew what was happening, and he did not want to contend with the boy as well.

  Rocca, subdued for the moment, followed them out. They walked down the hallway; its antiseptic whiteness irritated Simon's eyes, making him blink. Aisha walked near him, brushing against his right arm. "Hurry up," the old man said, and Simon wondered why they had to hurry.

  "Hello, Mother."

  Jeri looked up from the wheel. Cilla stood there, next to the Jeep, one thin hand resting on the door.

  "Hello, Priscilla," she replied as calmly as she could. She gazed into her daughter's face, trying again, as she always did, to see the pretty, gentle face she remembered. Cilla's mouth was tight; the lines around it were deeper. She watched Jeri with Gene's eyes, dark blue eyes with thick dark lashes.

  "What do you need the Jeep for, Mother?"

  "We're going to the orchard," Jeri replied. "I think it's about time we got some useful work out of our guests."

  "It is," Cilla said. "But I thought we had enough fruit for a while."

  "We can always use more." Please go away, Jeri thought, once again afraid of her. "You didn't cover him!" Cilla had screamed at her after Gene died. "It's your fault, you should have died instead. I wish you were dead."

  Cilla shrugged and walked away, toward the crops. Jeri drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She often avoided Cilla, avoided even thinking about the conclusions she had drawn about her long before. Cilla, unlike Lorene Skalton and some of the others, really didn't care about saving the knowledge they had painstakingly recorded and stored; she had shown no interest in being trained by one of the older scientists or technicians. Cilla simply liked to kill. Sometimes she fought against it; more often she did not. Cilla had never had any difficulty killing a duck or chicken for food, a necessary task a few of the older people were still squeamish about. Jeri had never known whether her daughter took pleasure in any of this or simply did not feel anything one way or the other.

  She looked up and saw Leo walking toward her with the three visitors. She started the motor, hoping the Jeep, which was old, wouldn't give her trouble. Leo opened the door on the other side; the three climbed into the back. Leo sat next to her, turning so he could watch the prisoners. "Don't move," he said calmly, "or I'll shoot."

  Jeri began to drive north, bumping over the road toward the parkway. She drove slowly, steering around the cracks and potholes. "What's your destination?" she asked. No one answered. "Where is it you wanted to go before we found you?"

  "What difference does it make?" the man named Simon shouted back.

  "I'm trying to help you," she replied. "Don't get recalcitrant with me."

  "We were trying to get to Miami."

  "Really?" Leo said. "You can't get south of West Palm Beach without a permit. Or if you do, they'll turn you back."

  "I have a friend there who'll help me."

  The Jeep bounced over the road. Ahead, Jeri saw the parkway. She moved toward it, then turned right.

  Leo said, "Can you drive any faster?"

  "I can try. What's the problem?" She drove onto the wide, empty highway.<
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  "Someone's following us."

  She clutched the wheel; her hands were perspiring. "Who?"

  "I can't tell from this distance."

  She shifted. "Hang on, it might be bumpy." The warm wind whistled past her ears. "Tell them where we're going, Leo."

  "Now?"

  "Yes, now."

  "We're going to let you go," he shouted to the others. "We're taking you to the Banana River. Your job is to get out of here as fast as you can."

  "Why?" Simon shouted back.

  "Don't ask." Leo leaned closer to Jeri. "I think we're losing that Jeep."

  The highway curved; they were now heading southeast. Jeri drove more rapidly. The wind howled. She tried not to think about what she was doing and concentrated on the road, swerving around the potholes, hanging on to the wheel as they bounced over cracks in the asphalt.

  "It's still following us," Leo said.

  She saw the causeway ahead; it led over the river to the Cape. She drove toward it. On the other side of the river were a graveyard, unused launch pads, rusting gantries eroded by the salty ocean air. She slowed down on the causeway and stopped. A few old boats rested on the sandy ground beneath them.

  Jeri got out quickly. "Come on," she said, "we have to hurry." The others climbed out. She led them down the sloping ground to the boats, Leo following them, still keeping them covered. They stopped next to one rowboat that looked in reasonably good condition. "Get that boat in the water."

  Simon didn't move. "I don't know anything about boats."

  "Goddamn you, get it in the water, you can row. Head south, this river meets the Indian River farther down, and you can keep heading south along it." Simon and the children turned the boat over and pushed it toward the water. Jeri, walking near them, threw a canteen and two pouches into the boat. "There's some food and water. We even put a few old coins in there for you." She could hear the approaching Jeep.