by Robert Reed
What about rumors? asked someone. Rumors about a deal cut between the U.N. and Florida? Was there any amnesty granted in exchange for technical cooperation?
A hush fell over the auditorium.
Lillith told them, “Certain people have been cleared of criminal wrongdoing, but no,” and she seemed very cool and collected, gazing out at the faces, at us. “No,” she said, “Dr. Florida himself will face full criminal charges at the end of this incident. Naturally.”
What about the hounds themselves?
“What about them?” asked Dr. Samuelson. He seemed relieved to have the subject changed.
Some authorities were projecting that the entire comet would become a single nest inside eight weeks—
“There are thirty to forty nests today,” said Dr. Samuelson. “I don’t know your familiarity with hound social systems, but all valid experts are on my staff. And we don’t see any single-nest scenario. The hounds will increase their numbers, yes, and weaker nests will succumb—”
Will they kill one another off? asked a lone voice.
“Unlikely,” he admitted. “Our best simulations show several months of slowing growth and increasing competition for the comet’s organics, and for sunlight. The only new energy source is sunlight, and the U.N. is sensibly pursuing several schemes to put the entire comet into shadow. Which would be an enormous help.” He breathed and said, “If they are given ample time, ladies and gentlemen, those nests will become large enough and strong enough to generate vast amounts of energy. The hounds are aggressive by any definition. They were intended for aggressive environments. If we wait too long before attacking…well, there’s a remote chance that our worst fears will be realized. The heat and blast effects of hounds and nest fights could perhaps demolish the comet, scattering its pieces through the sky.” He paused, scanning the room and then adding, “Of course, by then our soldiers will have attacked and the war will be won. So this is an academic problem, and I’m digressing. My apologies.”
No one spoke for a long instant.
I saw sober expressions as a camera panned the auditorium. Then out from the back of the stage came an aged figure. I didn’t know him for an instant. Dr. Florida had aged thirty years in these last days. At least. Lillith and Dr. Samuelson went to him and spoke to him with quiet voices, telling him to please return to bed, please, and rest. Just rest. But he waved them aside and shuffled to the podium, gripping its sides and shivering for a moment.
His face was torn with anguish. His colorless skin was waxen, virtually dead. He put his mouth to a microphone and moaned, “I’m…I’m so terribly sorry,” and then he slumped forward and collapsed.
People grasped him under the arms, lifting, and more people held his legs and helped carry him from the auditorium. The news conference ended in chaos. I kept seeing him collapsing, in my mind and on TV, and then we turned off the TV and sat in the gathering darkness, talking and then not talking. Then we turned on the TV once again.
Dr. Florida was resting comfortably, we learned. The weather for the next week would be wet and warmer than normal. Cody plucked a snowball from a freezer, offering it to me, and then she found three more of them and we ate them with the TV’s sound down and none of us watching it.
Jack finally announced, “I’ve got to pee.”
We turned our backs. He did it out the window. It was a moonless night, dark despite the stars, and the warm wind broke up the stream of urine before it hit the ground. I know because I listened. There were the sounds of bugs and sleepless birds, and we sat still and listened for the urine to hit. Only it didn’t hit. Not anything. We sat and sat, and it was like Jack was peeing off into nothing.
Mostly people were mad, sure. Even furious. But it didn’t last.
They would say, “Florida shouldn’t have done it and we’ll see him poor before he’s dead, sure, but what the hell? The guy’s done a helluva lot of good in his life, and you can’t fault him for everything. We’re still miles better for having him around, and we’ve got to figure that into any final equation.”
My dad went farther. “What if it had worked?” he asked.
“What if what had worked?” answered Mom.
“Stocking Jupiter with those hounds.” He laughed and told us, “That would have been some legacy, wouldn’t it? He populates the biggest planet with his own critters, making it his own biosphere…isn’t that the word, Ryder? Biosphere?”
“I guess.”
“Legacy?” said Mom. “Legacy? For a man who thought himself immune to human laws?” She was angrier than most people, and I think she took pride in her anger. “That’s the situation, isn’t it? He got caught and now he should be charged with murder. Fifteen hundred counts of murder. And probably more on the way.”
“Gwinn,” said Dad. He shook his head and wondered, “How many people has he saved in his life? Guess.” He looked at both of us, pushing aside his plate. “Medicines. Tailoring. Help me count them, Ryder. Would you? He’s got one division that makes the best artificial hearts in the business. Doesn’t he? And what else—?”
“Stop,” said Mom. “I know what you’re doing. You’re defending him because he’s done us some favors. Aren’t you?”
“No,” he said. “I’d defend him in any case. I would.”
Mom shrugged and said, “I just want the nightmare finished.”
“They’re working on it, Gwinn.”
She rose and carried her half-filled plate to the sink, giving its contents to the drain. To the sewers. To the bottoms, I thought.
“We’re going to win,” said Dad. “There’s no doubt.”
“I know.” She seemed to believe him. I could tell by the way she stood straight, nodding her head and gripping the sides of the sink. “I just wish it was done now. Now. Not tomorrow. Not next month, or whenever they’re promising—”
“I know what you mean,” he told her.
“I don’t appreciate the tension. I hate it.”
“Sure.”
“Ryder? Love?” Mom asked, “Can you clear now please?”
Then there was a different night. I had eaten a light meal, and I was dressed for Marshall’s birthday party. I was clearing the table and Dad said, “I caught a minute of the news on the way home. Another couple hundred soldiers arrived at Tranquility City—”
“So?” asked Mom.
“Usual enough, I admit. But then they said something about bringing back half a thousand kids too. Coming here—”
“Earth?”
“All those damaged farms,” explained Dad, “and a chance for serious fighting…I guess they’re coming here for their own safety. And so they don’t have so many mouths to feed up there.”
I remembered hearing about the moon kids. They tended toward tall and ridiculously lean, Marshall muscle-bound by comparison, and it wasn’t altogether good for them to be plopped down on the earth without preparation. They lacked strength and durable bones—particularly those born up there—and I couldn’t help but wonder how alien things must seem to them. No domes. No shortages of water and air. Clouds and rain and trees all tending themselves—
“Ryder?” asked Dad. “What’s on the agenda tonight?”
“Marshall’s birthday.” I felt a pang of excitement.
“That’s right. I wasn’t thinking.” He grinned and asked, “What’d you get him this year?”
“A puzzle.”
“Appropriate,” Dad decided. “Have a grand time!”
I climbed the hill with the present under one arm. I paused just short of Marshall’s house, for a moment, and glanced down at the dark rooftops and the treetops and thought about the moon’s kids. Then I turned and went on.
Marshall’s mom met me at the door. “Just put that over there. With the rest,” she told me, gesturing toward a tottering stack of brightly wrapped gifts. “All right, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Everyone’s out in the back. You just go right on.”
I did. I saw Beth a
mong the faces. Then Marshall. And Cody with Jack. There were other friends—Marshall’s neighbors and so-so pals—plus a few cousins thrown into the mix. Everyone stood about the backyard holding cans of cold pop, most of them watching Marshall tinkering with the day’s biggest present. It was a huge white tube set on a tripod, the tripod itself set on the concrete lid where his father stored gasoline underground. The tube was a large telescope with electronic enhancements and a big flexible mirror aligned and adjusted by on-board personals. It was very expensive, I knew. Such things were nearly impossible to find in stores, what with everyone eager to look at the sky. Marshall was plugging the telescope into a portable TV. Sometimes a bambi or pig would come close and sniff, and he cried, “Get! Get out of here, get!” He would flip his hands and chase them off, and they would race between the kids and come back again. They thought this was some wondrous new game.
Marshall’s mom brought cake and more drinks outside, his dad helping. Marshall’s dad was small like his wife, quiet and somehow distant. Beth helped him carry, and he thanked her. Then he didn’t speak for hours. We formed two groups and ate the cake. There were five of us on the concrete lid, including Marshall, and the others stood scattered on the yard itself.
At one point Cody nudged Jack and motioned, and Jack cleared his throat and thanked Marshall for inviting him.
“You’re welcome,” said Marshall, and he shrugged.
Cody came tonight because Jack was invited. That was the deal.
“What’s this thing?” asked Jack. He took the heel of his shoe and struck a metal plug at the center of the big lid. “Huh?”
“It’s the valve. To the gasoline—”
“What’s gasoline?”
Marshall said, “They used to burn it for fuel,” and he rolled his eyes in amusement. “My father’s got a bunch of old, old cars in the garage. Big gas burners. He’s got to pay all sorts of taxes just to own them, and he buys his gas special. There’s a big tank way underground.”
“Yeah?” said Jack. “What do you know?”
Marshall’s folks returned with the gifts. It was nearly night, and the kids came together and watched Marshall tearing away the colored paper. The bambis loved the paper, stealing pieces and running wild in the yard while they chewed it. Marshall liked my puzzle gift. Cody had brought him a game, and he said, “Thanks!” Beth got him a puzzle too, and he said, “Neat!” and set it with the rest. That left him with a paper sack, brown and plain, taped shut and marked with the simple declaration: “From Jack W.”
Marshall held the sack with both hands.
Jack said, “Go on.”
So Marshall tore away the tape and opened the sack, reaching inside and removing…something.
“What’s this?” he wondered.
“A puzzle too.” Jack was smiling. I couldn’t tell what the smile meant. “Try guessing,” he told Marshall. “What do you think?”
Marshall was holding a lumpy piece of something. A rock? Only it wasn’t a rock. It was solid and heavy, but not rock-heavy. He shook his head and said, “I don’t know. What is it?”
“Look at it,” Jack prodded. “Close.”
“Where’d you find it?”
Jack said nothing.
Beth asked, “Where did you get it, Jack?”
“Near our place.” His smile grew. “Down in the woods.”
“So what’s it made of?” asked Marshall. His curiosity was pricked now. He pulled a hand lens from the tool kit beneath the tripod, opening it and squinting at the strange puzzle by the soft bluish light of the porch. “It looks like hair, this stuff,” he admitted. “What’s this? Squirrel hair?”
Jack kept quiet.
“And these are what? Bone? Bits of bone?”
Jack started to nod.
“And this!” Marshall looked at Jack’s smile, his confusion balanced with a desire to know. “This thing here…it’s a snake tag, right? One of yours, right? It’s mashed in with everything else.”
Cody glanced at Jack. She understood what was happening, and I almost understood. Almost. Marshall peered through the hand lens for another long moment, then he stared at Jack’s smiling eyes and said, “What? Has this got something to do with the dragon?”
“I guess so,” said Jack.
“What do you mean?”
“I think the dragon must have coughed it up.”
“What? A hair ball?” Marshall shrieked and dropped the puzzle, and it hit the ground with a substantial thud. Everyone stared at it. One tiny bambi came forward and gave it a tentative lick. “You gave me what? An old ugly hairball?” cried Marshall.
“Hey!” Jack protested. “I thought you’d be interested.”
“What the hell kind of gift is this?” Marshall knelt and wiped his hands on the grass. “God…that’s just so gross! Just gross!”
“You still hunt it, don’t you? The dragon?”
Marshall’s mom stood behind Jack. She was watching us and listening.
Marshall said, “I sure do.”
“So this is a clue,” Jack told him.
“For what?”
“Don’t you want to know what it eats?” Jack was honestly amazed. He had expected thanks—I could see as much as on his face—and now he was turning angry, a little bit, hands on his hips and his lower jaw thrust forward.
“You’re an ugly little shit,” Marshall decided.
“And you’re not so smart, you asshole.”
I glanced at Marshall’s mom. She was angriest of anyone.
Marshall said, “Get out of my yard!”
Jack said, “Fuck you!”
Marshall’s mom pressed forward. “That language,” she said with a disgusted voice. “I forbid such language in my house! I’m going to ask you to leave, young man. I mean now!”
“Fuck both of you,” Jack said with passion, no hesitations or qualifications or room for apologies later. “You asshole shits with your fucking money—!”
Cody grabbed him, saying, “Enough. Okay?” and she practically carried him from the yard. Everyone stood silent, embarrassed or furious or maybe amused. I heard Cody talking to Jack, telling him, “It’s his fault, okay? Don’t worry. You came and tried, all right?”
Jack said, “He could use that thing, if he wanted—!”
“I know.”
“He could study it!”
“I know.”
“I’d even show him where I found it, the shithole!”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she told him.
Then I turned and saw Marshall. He was listening to Jack too, his face empty. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Marshall’s mom came with a rag and picked up the hair ball and carried it to the garbage without speaking. I watched her set it and the rag into the chute, then she wiped her hands on a clean second rag. “Got rid of two uglies,” she muttered. The night sounds weren’t loud, but she didn’t notice me listening. “Two uglies.” She didn’t care if anyone else could hear.
It became a clear, fine night, the moon a thin crescent over the western horizon. It looked pretty and insubstantial, and Marshall said, “There,” when the focus was right. We were standing around the big TV screen. He said, “I checked the schedules and we’ll see it soon.” We could see the darkened limb of the moon and some vivid green patches inside small craters, and there was a sprinkling of lights and an eerie sense of depth that didn’t come with binoculars. Marshall pointed to the little cities, naming them. Then he checked the time and said, “Now,” and something rose from behind the moon.
It had changed since the first explosions.
Marshall tinkered with the magnification, bringing out minuscule details. I saw the blackish facets of the nests bursting from the blacker surface of the moon’s moon, and I could make out the longish hairs protruding from the largest nests. I felt cold and strange to be looking at the scene. It was as if we were hanging in space, exposed and vulnerable, and I had to shake my head and look away for a moment. For reassurance.
Beth was
beside me.
She took my hand and said, “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“What?” I asked.
“Bother them.” She said it and breathed and squeezed my hand. “If we left the spark-hounds alone—”
“They’d come after us,” said Cody. “If we let them.”
“Maybe we could push it all into space.” She gave me a look, fearful and confused. “Why not? Just let them live somewhere else?”
Marshall said, “It’s not so simple.”
“Why?”
“You can’t just push big things like that,” Marshall told her. “I mean, wouldn’t Dr. Florida have thought about that? If it were possible?”
It seemed an easy answer to me, but then I didn’t know enough about such things. Marshall must be right, I thought. It couldn’t be done.
One of his cousins said, “Look!” and I saw lightning on the moon’s moon. Everyone became quiet, watching the screen. There came another bright flash, and Marshall said, “They’re fighting,” with his matter-of-fact voice.
“We’ll finish them soon,” Cody told Beth. She grinned and told us about the army’s commanding officer—a handsome, tallish man from Old Israel. “No reason to worry. Six thousand soldiers and they’re almost ready. Any time.”
People began to drift away in the darkness.
We watched the moon’s moon, but there were no more bursts of lightning. So Marshall turned the telescope to Jupiter. He focused it and we saw the colored bands and three big moons and listened to Marshall’s sudden lecture on Jovian weather and the harsh environment and the tough old Red Spot. Then his mom came to us, his dad shadowing her. “One last event for the evening,” she said, and she clapped her hands. “Kids? Kids? Would you please come with us? Marshall? Come on, son.”
“Oh, gosh.” He rolled his eyes.
“It’s a tradition!” she said brightly. “This minute. Right now!”
We filed inside the kitchen. The air was humid and warm and filled with the heavy odors of drying cakes. I walked to the corner in the back, knowing what to expect, and Marshall lingered at the door, his eyes dipped.