by Jason Frost
"Won't be able to call him Timmy anymore," Eric said. "He's grown. An inch, maybe more. Better start thinking of him as Tim now, or Timothy. No more Timmy." He slid his left hand along the frets of the guitar, finger picking and staring into the dark hole in the guitar. When he started to sing, Tracy realized for the first time that she had never heard him sing since that last night at University Camp. When Jenny and Annie had been murdered. The kids had given him a beat-up old cassette player with a tape of the Beatles' old songs. He'd sung along with them that night, but never again. Until now.
He sang softly, almost to himself, in a voice that was pleasant but not very good. Still, it made Tracy want to hug him, bury her face in his chest and keep hugging him for hours. Singing. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed it until now. She joined in.
Little sleepy boy
Do you know what time it is?
Well the hour of your bedtime's
Long been past
And though I know you're fighting it
I can tell when you rub your eyes
You're fading fast
Fading fast.
As they sang, Eric glanced out into the street and saw the sky suddenly filled with drifting paper. He recognized the familiar yellow paper of the government's bulletins, dropped on the first day of every month. It was the only way the survivors knew what was going on outside the island of California. It was also the only way most could keep the months separate. But something was wrong here. This wasn't the usual drop.
Eric slid the guitar onto the table and grabbed his crossbow. "Didn't they just drop these two weeks ago?"
"Uh-huh. Two weeks yesterday."
"I don't like it."
"What's not to like, aside from the litter problem? So they've decided to increase the frequency of distribution. Great. I wonder what Farrah's done with her hair now."
"It's not that simple. The government doesn't change routine unless something special's up." He stood on the seat and climbed out through the window. Once outside he scooped up a couple of the single-sheet flyers and climbed back through the window. He handed one to Tracy. They both read silently.
"Christ!" she said, balling it up and throwing it out the window. "Evacuate! To where?"
Eric read the paper again. Then again. His eyes narrowed and he chewed on his lower lip.
"What?" Tracy said.
He looked up. "Huh?"
"What're you thinking? I recognize that hunched expression. Something's going on."
"This," he said, tapping the paper. "They tell us to evacuate the whole area within a fifty-mile radius of Santa Barbara because they plan to conduct special experiments on the Long Beach Halo."
"Santa Barbara's only about twenty miles from here."
Eric ignored her. "They claim that the experiments will involve dangerous chemicals and radiation that can kill us, cause cancer, and give us bad breath."
"So? We've got a week to clear out. Even a gimp like me can make it out of here by then. Tell you the truth, I'm not so crazy about the local cuisine anyway. Eric?"
Eric crushed the paper in his fist. He was nodding to himself as he paced next to the table. His face was smooth, untroubled, as if he'd just made an important decision. There was a hint of a smile on his face. Suddenly he picked up the guitar and smashed it against a nearby table.
"Eric, you're starting to scare me," Tracy said.
"Let's pack up," he said. "We're going."
"Great, where? San Francisco? Fresno? Los Angeles?"
He flattened the yellow sheet on the table. At the bottom was a map of the island of California with a big red X where the experiments were scheduled to take place and concentric circles extending for fifty miles in every direction. The kill zone. Eric put his finger on the big red X and smiled. "This is where we're going. Santa Barbara."
Book Two: THE REGION OF SORROW
Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
- Milton
7.
Paige Lyons rolled over in her bed and nudged the guy snoring next to her. "Hey, Steve. Wer'e on TV."
Steve didn't budge.
She shook his naked shoulder, not pausing as she usually did to appreciate his sculpted muscles. "Steve. Wake up time, Captain."
Steve shrugged her hand from his shoulder and kept snoring.
"Shit." She sat up and looked at the blue digital clock set in the Hitachi VCR next to the TV. 2:30 a.m. She slid over to the edge of the bed, liking the way the satin sheets felt against her naked backside, and reached over for the remote control box on the bedstand. She knocked over an empty wine glass that bounced on the thick carpeting without breaking. The sudden movement frightened her black cat who'd been curled under the bed. The cat ran out of the room and down the stairs.
Paige Lyons stabbed the Mute button and the I sound came back on the TV. The newscaster was Cindy Treetown, an ex-classmate of Paige's from Bennington. They'd once double-dated to a Crosby, Stills amp; Nash concert with a couple of Yalies who'd tried to get them stoned on grass that turned out to be mostly oregano. The Yalies were both MBA candidates more angry at having made a bad business deal than the fact that their dates had been in the restroom for forty-five minutes. When the Yalies finally tumbled that something was wrong, Paige and Cindy had already sneaked out through the crowd with two Penn State guys they'd met near the restrooms. They'd both come a long way since then, Cindy had pointed out yesterday right before she'd interviewed Paige for the cable news channel.
"… About the space shuttle Columbia's mission, Cindy was saying, her face set in the typical newscaster's stony expression. "When interviewed yesterday, astronaut Paige Lyons insisted it was just a routine flight."
The screen filled with Paige's face. A hint of makeup, the long, blond hair parted down the middle, curving softly around her face "like the disheveled wings of a mischievous angel," Norman Mailer had described it for Life. A funny little man, she remembered, who over lunch told her there was one principle that guided his whole professional life. Alimony.
"Informed sources tell us that this mission was thrown together rather quickly, Dr. Lyons," Cindy was asking.
"That's somewhat true, Cindy," Paige said. "Part of the purpose of this mission is to see how flight-alert we are in case of a space emergency. How quickly can we activate a shuttle and be in space to affect repairs to a space station or a malfunctioning satellite? That's what we want to find out."
Paige smiled at her image on the screen. "What a good little liar you are, dear."
"So it's strictly routine," Cindy asked. "Including using the old Columbia!"
"The taxpayers bought it, they might as well get their money's worth, don't you think?"
"What about rumors that you intend to focus special attention on the California situation?"
"Sure, we intend to observe it, study it. We want to make sure the so-called Long Beach Halo isn't shifting and starting to move toward the continent. But that's all. Just observation for now."
Paige shook her finger at the screen. "If Sister Theresa could see your fibbing little butt now. Christ."
"… All wish you good luck."
Paige clicked the Mute button again. The best part was over. The lying.
She flicked the Play button to start the VCR. A bunch of the guys at NASA had given her this tape as a good luck gift. A blue movie called Insatiable starring Marilyn Chambers. She had started watching it alone that afternoon. Steve had already called twice, as he did every day, begging to come over. She'd refused. She was halfway through the movie when he'd called again. This time she'd said OK. Just for a while.
Now she couldn't get rid of him.
She looked around her dark Washington, D.C. bedroom. She studied it in the light of the flickering TV while Marilyn Chambers romped in the pool with another naked woman. The room, like the entire two-bedroom condominium, was perfect. It had taken her years to get everything just right, the wallpaper, the paintings, the furniture. Every detail was carefully
planned, from the shape and color of the soap bars to the type of plants. Not a speck of dust or slipper out of place. The place was like her life. In perfect order.
The cat slinked back in, sniffed the wine glass by the bed, pawed at it. Paige leaned over the bed and snagged the glass, setting it back on the nightstand.
No, it was more than orderly. It was luxurious. Satin sheets, down bedding, solid brass bathroom fixtures, skylight over the extra-large tub. Now that was the right stuff.
The only thing out of place was Naval Capt. Steve Connors, also scheduled for the Columbia's flight in two days. She looked at him and frowned. He was like a dirty dish or a full ash tray. He threw off the whole balance of the decor. She wished she could somehow vacuum him away.
She shook him roughly. "C'mon, Steve. Time to haul ass."
He stirred, opened one groggy eye. Christ, now he was smacking his lips. "Huh?"
"Get up, get dressed."
"Huh?" He sat up, scratched his head.
Paige shook her head. He'll scratch his crotch next, I swear. "You've got to go."
He scratched his crotch.
"I knew it," she said.
"Knew what? What time is it?"
"Time for you to get in your little red Porsche and get back to your own pad. Don't you miss those lovely posters of Tina Turner?"
"Quit it, Paige. You know I haven't had that one for years."
"That's always been one of your problems. No loyalty." She shoved his shoulder. "Go on. Scoot."
"Gee, Paige." She saw the hurt expression on his face as he climbed out of bed, standing there naked, a man's muscular body with a little boy's emotions. She felt a little guilty.
"Sorry, Steve. But you know how the reporters are keeping a watch on us. If the gang at NASA knew we were doing this, they'd can our asses. This is just the kind of publicity they don't want."
"That the real reason?" Christ, now he was pouting.
"Yeah, sure."
He smiled. "You weren't too worried about publicity two years, three months and eighteen days ago."
Here it comes, she thought. That's just the reason she'd kept him away from her for the past six months. He always came back to the same thing. Damn. "Look, Steve, we've been through all that. It was a mistake, we both agreed."
"I've changed my mind. I liked being married to you. Even if it was a secret between just us."
"That's the point, Steve. That's why we got divorced just as quietly. You know how they feel about relationships between people in the program. They'd boot us out in a minute. It's better this way."
Most of that was the truth. NASA used to discourage personal relationships between the sexes with their astronauts, but they stopped short of condemning a marriage once it occurred. That is until Tina Rydell and Phil Stewart got married. Phil was photographed in bed with a female NASA technician and an ugly divorce ensued, played out every night on national news. The publicity damaged the whole image of the astronauts and ever since, NASA lived in fear of the same thing happening again. Resulting, as such things often do, in a budget cut. NASA would fire them both if they knew. The press would hound them for months, not to mention women's groups who'd accuse her of single-handedly setting back the women's movement by a decade. Thing is, they'd be right. Oh God, why'd she let him come over?
"When do you want to get together again?" he asked as he pulled his jogging pants over his narrow waist. "Tomorrow?"
"It is tomorrow, Steve. I think we'd better just cool it for now. What with the mission and everything."
"Yeah, maybe you're right."
That was easy.
"But afterwards," he said, zipping his jacket over his bare chest. "Then we try again, OK? Make it work this time. You drop out of the program."
"We'll see, Steve. Right now, we've got enough to think about with this mission. This is no routine flight."
"Yeah." He glanced at the TV screen, watched Marilyn Chambers hike up her white skirt and lie back on the pool table while the chauffeur unzipped his pants.
"Bye, Steve." Paige stood up and held the bedroom door open. She placed a hand on her slender hip. He looked at her, grinned. She liked the reaction she got from men when they looked at her naked body. Surprise mostly the first time. It was even better than they'd imagined it to be. Lean, yet curvy too. Muscular, yet smooth. She never needed to stand on a scale; she always knew her exact weight. "See you in a few hours at the briefing."
"Right. Later." He marched down the stairs and out the front door.
She sighed with relief when the door closed. Steve was pretty easy to handle, like most men. She had yet to meet one who was more important to her than her career. OK, she'd made a mistake a couple years ago. At a moment when she'd had some doubts and fears about her future. Marriage seemed a good idea. At least she'd been smart enough to keep it a secret.
She climbed back in bed. Her cat had taken Steve's place under the covers. Paige leaned back against the slippery satin pillows and watched Marilyn Chambers's contortions. Anything to take her mind off the mission.
"Do you understand why you're here, Dr. Lyons?"
"Of course," Paige said.
"Good." The CIA man had said his name was Plummer, but Paige had been around Washington enough not to believe any information that was offered free. Plummer was about sixty with dark black hair. Not a single gray hair. They must all be using the president's barber, she thought. "You've already gone through the special training, as has your crew, Connors, Budd, La Porte and Piedmont. You should be able to handle the assortment of weapons we've stored in the craft."
"Yes, sir. I've been shooting since I was a kid."
Plummer glanced at the open file on the desk in front of him. "Yes. I see you even won a couple NRA trophies."
"Yeah, when I was twelve and fifteen. I stopped shooting competitively after I discovered boys."
"Twelve and fourteen," he corrected her, tapping the file in front of him. "Ever kill a man, Dr. Lyons?"
She thought of a dirty answer and laughed. "No."
"Don't hunt."
"Nope."
"Well." He looked disappointed. He closed the folder and pushed it aside as if to display that what came next was off the record. "I know your instructors have told you this before, but let me reaffirm their teaching. Shooting a person is not the same as shooting a target. The fact that you haven't even hunted disturbs me. If it were up to me, I'd pull you from this assignment right now."
"Because I'm a woman?"
"Because the nature of your mission is such that you are guaranteed to have to kill. It's not just a possibility. You will have to blow some people's brains out. Some people who used to be pillars of their communities, people with children, with grandchildren. Even women. I don't think you're up to it."
"Not like Steve Connors."
"At least he's had combat experience in Vietnam."
"Yeah, flying overhead in a jet fighter. He never saw one person he killed up close."
"True. Hell, if it were up to me, the whole damn mission would be run by CIA personnel. But we don't have any trained astronauts, so we have to rely on you people. Especially you, Dr. Lyons. You're the key to the whole operation."
"I know."
"This is really a first. NASA and the CIA on a joint venture. Could be the start of a beautiful friendship, eh?"
"I don't think that's what NASA's about, Mr. Plummer."
"Of course not. Still it can't hurt to help each other out on occasion. Remember, NASA came to us on this one."
"If I'm not mistaken, the president came to you and ordered you to help."
Plummer laughed for the first time and Paige noticed one dead tooth in the front among the gleaming white ones. "You know your politics, Dr. Lyons. But then, with your background, you would, eh?" He pulled the file folder in front of him again. "Then you won't be surprised when I tell you that if you blow it, I'll be the one who looks bad around here. You were selected for this mission because of your special, uh, know
ledge. Everything hinges on you. Certainly there's plenty to inspire your best efforts, but I'm going to offer you one more bit of motivation." He lifted a sheet of paper from the file and held it up to her. "Yup, it's a photocopy of your marriage license with Captain Steve Connors."
Paige Lyons didn't say anything. They had been so careful, driving all the way up to Pennsylvania and finding some tipsy justice of the peace to perform the ceremony. They'd been dressed in running suits and hats. And at the time, they hadn't even been famous. No one knew who they were. The whole thing had taken fifteen minutes and they'd figured it would be forgotten.
"Yes, Dr. Lyons, we were keeping tabs on you even then. This took some digging, especially after Captain Connors accidentally shook my men in that Maryland rainstorm, but eventually we asked enough questions to come up with this. Of course, we have a copy of the divorce, too." He held up the document and grinned.
"What do you expect me to do?"
"Your best, that's all any of us can do."
"For God's sake, Plummer, he's my father. Don't you think I'll do everything I can to get him out of there?"
"Yes, yes I do. Only getting your father out of there isn't enough. In fact, it isn't even the primary purpose of this mission. Getting those scientific papers of his out is. If he's still alive and you can get him out too, fine. If not, we still want those papers. Your father finally came up with a practical solution to the weapons in space program and we were sending agents to pick up those papers when the quake hit. Somewhere on that damn island is a packet of blueprints that will change the nature of this country's military defense. We're talking world survival here."
"So what you're saying is that finding my father is secondary to finding his papers."
"I just don't want you to waste time, Dr. Lyons. Your father may already be dead."
"Perhaps. In any event, I keep my mind on finding the papers. If I come back empty-handed, you get me thrown out of NASA. Right?"