by Scott Mackay
They were in the mess bay. The situation was difficult. The Chinese on board knew something was amiss. John Quang peered in through the access corridor, the third time he had done so, looking embarrassed, as if he had barged in on the wrong birthday party. Fye swiveled his fat, doughy face toward the chief Chinese observer, and Quang backed away, reminding Cam of a gopher going back into its hole.
If circumstances had been different, and the stakes not so great, Cam might have descried in the current turn of events an exquisite irony, or at least a dark humor that deserved acknowledgment. In its way, this was Moonstone all over again, another demonstration that perhaps the human race didn’t deserve to survive after all. Cam was fighting to save things, while those he had to work with were hell-bent on wrecking them. He didn’t understand it. He was flabbergasted by the unfathomable Machiavellian logic that was in play here. Between gentle hacks, Fye tried to explain it to Cam and Lesha.
‘‘Restitution,’’ he said, as if it were a kind of panacea. ‘‘You have Boston and New York. You have Philadelphia, Washington, and Atlanta. You have Chicago. We’re all appreciative of the great human cost. The president thinks of that every minute of the day, and so does the First Lady. But do you have any idea of what the loss of those cities means to the United States in terms of their economic value? And, yes, I realize the PRNC lost Beijing, Shanghai, and Tianjin, and we all grieve and mourn their countless dead, and the president has extended his special sympathy to the new rulers in Beijing. But there comes a time when any nation at war must consider reparations, and hold its aggressors accountable.’’
At this point, the impossibly dry air inside Tecumsehexacerbated Fye’s lungs into a fit of space asthma, and he coughed for nearly a minute, stopping only when he had inhaled some of the puffers Dr. Ochoa had prescribed for him.
‘‘The president and his closest advisers know they can never bring back all those lives, but as I say, at some point they have to consider the good of the country, and how they might at least repair the economic damage that the former rulers in Beijing have caused. I’m pleased to say that the new government has decided to be responsible. It’s agreed to restitution. We’re not the great power we once were, and we have to look after our own house. It’s not just the loss of six primary cities. The whole reason for the PRNC War—New Sumeria selling off its U.S. dollars and buying PRNC Yuan, that whole realignment of the Middle East with the Far East, and the subsequent economic isolation of America—that’s come at a great financial cost to us. I don’t have to tell you how high the deficit is. And so we’ve used the PRNC’s unprovoked attack to . . . what’s the word the president used? Leverage? Influence?’’
Fye went back to his customary sighing, now that he had his coughing under control. ‘‘Bear in mind that we have many friends in the PRNC, and we always knew that it was just a matter of time before they went the same route as the Democratic Republic of Canton. So when the overthrow came, I can’t say that we were really happy about the loss of six cities, but at least there was a groundswell of support for us, as well as for the DRC, and we capitalized on it, even to the extent of structuring certain economic outcomes in regard to . . . uh . . . the Guarneri mission.’’
Cam was even more flabbergasted. ‘‘Economic outcomes?’’ The phrase was vintage Langdon-speak. ‘‘The sun is going to go red giant in less than three weeks and you’re talking about economic outcomes?’’
Lesha glanced at Cam. ‘‘This is unbelievable.’’
Fye raised his chubby white hands. ‘‘Dr. Conrad, Dr. Weeks, money is always a concern. And so we had the new government in the PRNC—the factions supported both by ourselves as well as the DRC— guarantee that the U.S. will have full exclusive rights to any technological offerings the Builders might produce for us when and if we are successful in reestablishing communications with them. Now it seems as if the new government in Beijing doesn’t have as firm control over its people or agencies we would have hoped or expected. It appears that someone on board—someone loyal to Po Pin-Yen—has tried to undermine our objectives. And in fact, while you were investigating the node problem in the science bay, I spoke to the president using the new pierce-wave relay—what a dandy system—and the president assures me that he’s doing everything he can to gather all the extra available intelligence we can on John Quang, Loftus Hua, and the other team members of the observer force to see if they ever had any previous party affiliation with the Po Pin-Yen regime in Beijing. As much as you might deride the president’s legitimate concerns about economic outcomes and alien-based technological gains, I think it might be a better idea if, at least for the time being, you retire the more unfortunate aspects of your left-leaning ideology. For the time being it might be better if you focused on the science.’’
Questioning Oren Fye’s role aboard the Tecumseh, and puzzled about the exact contribution he was making toward the Guarneri Project, Cam now understood the phlegmatic man’s presence with chilling clarity. He was here as political officer. Cam lifted his chin, assessed his own role, and decided, for different reasons, that Fye was right. He should concentrate on the science.
‘‘I was unable to find any corrupting code in the software. Whatever Mark fed into the system now seems to be completely invisible. But I have no doubt that it’s there somewhere.’’
‘‘Neither do I.’’
Cam shook his head in mystification. ‘‘Why would they want to sabotage something like this?’’
Lesha said, ‘‘Don’t they understand everyone might be fried in the red giant if all this doesn’t work out?’’
Fye’s eyebrows rose. ‘‘The president had his strategists at the DNI study possible PRNC objectives, and they all tend to agree that Pin-Yen loyalists want to obtain the Guarneri plans, and then implement their own communications attempt in the hope of securing for themselves whatever technological booty the Builders might offer.’’
Cam grew still. He glanced at Lesha. She’d gone pale. She sucked her lower lip under her upper one, an unconscious gesture that, combined with her freckles and big blue eyes, made her look girlish. She spoke. ‘‘So, in other words, the leaders who Cam has entrusted with his efforts, not only in the U.S. but in the PRNC—the exact same ones who are supposed to save us from the red giant event in the sun—these leaders have willfully engaged in a proxy war that is going to reduce our chances of salvation to practically nil.’’ She threw up her hands and turned to Cam, exasperation in her eyes. ‘‘We might as well close the whole project down, Cam. Langdon got greedy and now John Quang and company have filled the Tecumseh with macrogenic brain implants that are going to crawl their way into our cerebral cortexes. The Builders should abandon us. We’re primitive. We don’t deserve to live.’’
Fye sighed deeply. ‘‘The president has never subscribed to defeatist attitudes, Dr. Weeks. And he’s always been a man for contingencies. In a situation like this, he expects unconditional loyalty. I admit, with scientific as well as economic concerns, Guarneri has always been a two-track program. But neither of you need concern yourself with the economic track. Let’s just say the economic track is my problem. As far as the two of you are concerned, your objective hasn’t changed. You’re to create an anti-Ostrander environment that will boomerang at least some of the bleeding hydrogen back into the sun. The secondary and hoped-for result of this first objective will be to illustrate to the Builders that we can not only think in higher dimensions but also operate in them as well. The final expected yield is to reestablish communications with the Builders, get them to stand down, and work toward mutually beneficial trade relations.’’ Oren Fye’s voice hardened, and Cam was surprised because up until this time he had considered the Orbops lieutenant colonel passive and ineffective. Now he was showing a whole new side to his personality. ‘‘Your mission hasn’t changed, Dr. Conrad. What’s changed, I guess, are your obstacles. Let’s see how flexible the two of you can be when it comes to adapting to new situations. Let’s see if you can succeed in your mission despite w
hat appears to be an organized sabotage attempt by agents of the former Po Pin-Yen regime.’’
Cam stared at Fye, feeling a new admiration for the man, but still perplexed by the problems they now faced. ‘‘How do you expect us to do that when we can’t even see the code that Mark has apparently inputted into the Guarneri nodes? And how can we possibly begin to guess the intent of that code?’’
Fye lifted his plump index finger, a digit that reminded Cam of an uncooked breakfast sausage, and waved it a few times in his face. ‘‘Good. This is exactly what I want to hear. We ask questions, and answer them one by one. You see, Dr. Conrad? You and I aren’t so different from each other. We observe, we ask questions, we come up with hypotheses. We either prove or disprove those hypotheses through experimentation. Simple grade-ten science. It’s amazing how well it works in all facets of life.’’ Fye cleared his throat. ‘‘To answer your first question, we have to get Mark to help us find the code. Once we find the code, the second question will answer itself. I have, stowed behind a panel in the engineering section, a wide range of weapons, serums, and other tools. Also available to me are certain systems that will interrupt whatever behavior modification programs the Chinese implant has initiated in Mark. This is what I mean when I say the president plans for all contingencies. What we have to do is make Mark his old self again. This might take some doing, and unfortunately he might suffer some long-term health effects, but considering everybody’s future is now measured in weeks, I think this is a small price to pay.’’
Fye motioned to Cam.
‘‘You’ll of course have to be present when we . . . talk to Mark. I’ll need someone there who has complete knowledge of the Guarneri nodes. And I’m afraid we’ll have to make it known to the crew that the entire PRNC observer staff might in fact pose a threat. To that end, you’ll all be issued weapons. Not that I expect you’ll have to use them. Any misguided weapons’ fire might result in a hull breach, and I’m sure the Chinese understand the danger of armed confrontation aboard the Tecumseh as well as we do. Your weapons will be more for a show of force. Like when Pin-Yen sent his carrier task group into the Pacific, and in response we shifted the USS Terpsichore and USS Rondon from other theaters to observe. My own experience tells me that often, saber rattling is enough.’’
27
Pittman drove along a rural road in Pennsylvania. The rain came down hard, and he couldn’t see much past his hood. What was odd was how bright it was. In a rainstorm, it was generally dim, but what he saw before him was pure whiteness, as if he were driving through a big bale of cotton. This weather, they said on the radio, was a direct result of climate change from the bloating sun. Time was growing desperately short, and everybody was pinning their hopes on Guarneri.
He gripped the wheel—the wind wanted to blow the truck off the road. He was afraid he was going to run into something. The rain made his windshield opaque; his wipers couldn’t cope. And the heat! He was stripped to his boxers, had the air conditioner on full, but was still dripping with sweat.
It took him another ten minutes before he reached Blossburg, Haydn’s hometown. Buildings came into view as if through a white glaze. A drugstore. An auto garage. An animal medicine clinic. The local coal miners’ office. A mall with box superstores. He proceeded into the older section of town. No one was about. With the convergence of three new hurricanes pummeling the East Coast, the first making landfall in Florida, the second in North Carolina, and the third—bizarrely, terrifyingly, and historically—in Connecticut, everyone was battening down.
He soon came to the Haydn residence. The blue spruce out front had blown over, and was angled across the walk. Cones lay scattered on the flooded grass, some floating in their own puddles. He parked the car at the end of the drive, reached for his jeans and T-shirt, pulled them on, then yanked on his cowboy boots. He could hardly get into them because they were so wet. He uttered a few dispirited obscenities, then got out of his truck.
He closed the door and headed off through the rain to the porch. He knocked on the door. The knocking sounded faint, overpowered by the roar of the wind and rain. So he rapped louder, and after a minute, a middle-aged woman came to the door.
She had on green denims, and a flower-print summer shirt with yellow daisies mixed with green garland. She was plump, and peered at him through thick glasses, her face flushed, the first three buttons of her blouse undone, her damp red skin just the other side of full perspiration.
‘‘I’m Colonel Pittman,’’ he called over the howl of the freakish weather. ‘‘I was Lieutenant Haydn’s commanding officer on the Moon. I tried to call but the lines were down. I was with the lieutenant when he died.’’
It was as if at first she didn’t register anything, for she just continued looking at him, her pale eyes blank, her face as still as a pond on a calm day. But then the corners of her lips turned downward slowly. Her eyes glistened with sudden moisture. She stared at him for several seconds, and he didn’t know if it was because she knew about his unauthorized nuclear strike, its attendant consequences, and his subsequent discharge—all public knowledge, thanks to the media—or because she could sense, the way mothers could sense things about their children, that he had murdered her son.
‘‘I’m Vivian Haydn, Gunther’s mom.’’ Her voice, though small, was deeper than expected, throaty but fragile. ‘‘It’s just me and Joe now.’’ She motioned toward the interior of the house, her hand limp, her wedding ring too tight around her finger, a mark from a missing watch indenting her fleshy wrist. ‘‘The kids are with their own families.’’ Then she looked out at the weather and said, ‘‘We’re all trying to make . . . peace with this.’’
He nodded. ‘‘Ma’am, I’ll just take a moment of your time.’’
She made way for him and he stepped into the hall. He looked around. He saw framed photographs of children, three in all, the last showing a much younger Gunther, twelve or thirteen years old, blond brush cut, blue eyes, a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, his shirt patterned with hick-town checks.
A young German shepherd came out of the kitchen, his claws clicking against the hardwood floor.
‘‘This is Gun’s dog,’’ said Vivian. ‘‘Butch, say hello to the colonel.’’
The dog came up to him, friendly as could be, panting, and shoved his nose into Pittman’s palms. ‘‘He didn’t say he had a dog.’’
Pittman felt awkward as he patted Haydn’s dog; it came back to him with poignant force, the monochromatic surface of the Moon, the sharp demarcation of gray ground and black sky, Haydn’s suit foaming away with lime-green StopGap as the man went down face-forward. ‘‘Ma’am, he died bravely. I just want you to know that.’’
She shuddered nervously, her hands, seemingly of their own accord, rising, clasping, wringing, then freezing into a deformed and misshapen gesture of prayer. ‘‘Come into the kitchen, Colonel. Joe’s in there.’’
He followed her down the hall into the kitchen. The windows had been boarded up. As there was no power, Joe sat at the kitchen table by the light of a few candles, working his way through a bowl of split pea soup and six crackers. He peered up from his lunch. He was many years older than Vivian, close to sixty, with grayish brown hair styled in a comb-over. His spoon was poised halfway to his lips.
Vivian said, ‘‘Joe, this is Colonel Pittman, from Orbops. He’s done us the honor of paying a visit.’’ She was speaking to her husband as if her husband had lost touch with reality.
And—oh God—it was terrifying, the change that came over Gunther’s father, because he suddenly pushed out from his chair, stood to attention, and saluted Pittman with a hard but shaking hand. His jaw clenched, his lips tightened, and two seconds later, tears came to his eyes.
‘‘Sir, it is indeed an honor to meet you. Gunther had nothing but the highest words of praise for you. You are a household name in Blossburg. And you did the right thing; don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.’’
Pittman was momen
tarily confused. Did the right thing by shooting Gunther in the back? Then he realized Mr. Haydn meant the nuclear strike. ‘‘We were incommunicado and in dire straits, like my attorney told the media, and we had no choice.’’
Joe gestured to one of the kitchen chairs. ‘‘Please, Colonel, join us for lunch. Viv, if you want to get the colonel a bowl of soup.’’
‘‘I can’t stay long. I have to get to Philadelphia.’’
‘‘Philadelphia?’’ The man said the city’s name with a mixture of alarm and mystification, and he now inspected Pittman with bulging eyes that seemed to glow with quiet panic. ‘‘The military’s not letting anybody in or out of Philadelphia.’’
The shrill quality in Joe’s voice told Pittman he was a man who didn’t handle calamity well. ‘‘I’m not anybody.’’
Joe stared at him a moment more, and his panic seemed to ebb as he absently brushed some cracker crumbs from his tie. Why a tie? Why now? It wasn’t an attractive tie, brown and broad, with a stain on it. ‘‘No, I guess you’re not.’’ And then, more conversationally, added, ‘‘I think Gun mentioned you had family there.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
In a more conspiratorial tone Joe asked, ‘‘You heard the casualty figures?’’
As always, Pittman put on a brave front, even though he was worried sick about his family. ‘‘I have.’’
The two men stared at each other solemnly. The silence lingered.
Vivian interrupted with an excess of nervous energy. ‘‘You sit yourself down, Colonel. Have some soup. It’s not out of a can. I make it myself. We have a camp stove we’re cooking on now. The power’s been out awhile.’’
Pittman sat down. ‘‘Are you getting radio out here? I haven’t heard any in my truck. I assume you have batteries.’’
Joe’s nostrils flared, and his chin dipped, and he looked like a man who was considering the quality of goods at a flea market. ‘‘We’re getting a little out of Pittsburgh from time to time.’’ Then he looked up at the dim ceiling and out to the hall. ‘‘But not since these storms have blown in.’’