Aftermath

by Charles Sheffield

  "Oh, no." Yasmin was reaching for her pocket again. "Auden or I were supposed to give this to you the second you got back, but we got sidetracked because of the meeting."

  "What is it?"

  "It's a message. From Tricia Goldsmith. She'll be in Washington again, the day after tomorrow. She wants to know if you're free for dinner."

  "Then I'd better call her, hadn't I?"

  "You're not going to do it, are you? I mean, you're not going to have dinner with her?"

  "Yes, I am. If she wants to, I will certainly have dinner with her." Saul waited just long enough, and added, "And so will you, if you are willing. You'll come with me as my companion. I'm over her, Yasmin. I want you to see that for yourself."

  "She'll flame out. So you did check what I told you about Crossley and Himmelfarb. And you told me you hadn't."

  "I didn't. And I don't give a damn about Crossley, or Himmelfarb, or Crossley and Himmelfarb, or who did and didn't say what and to whom when Tricia and I broke up before the election. That's all history. I need to start running. The country, and for the next term. With what's left in this term, I certainly can't get more than a good start on what has to be done."

  "You should. Run again, I mean. Definitely."

  In spite of Saul's declaration that they were leaving, they still stood in front of the window. He turned to her. "I'll need a new campaign slogan."

  "You certainly will. The last one was lousy. You need something that reminds people that the President needs enormous powers if he's to carry out the global job you're tackling."

  "Do you have ideas? Practical ones?"

  "I might." Yasmin slipped her arm into Saul's. "I'll work on it. 'End White House impotence.' What do you think of that?"

  45

  Helen cooked an outstanding dinner, venison and pork with broad beans and potatoes and spinach and applesauce. Joe brought over a special wine, "wine I paid money for." It was like an evening on Catoctin Mountain before Supernova Alpha, made better for Art by Dana's presence. But a couple of things spoiled it.

  First, the window was in the wrong part of the room, so he couldn't see his house. He kept glancing in that direction, as though the wall might have suddenly become transparent. Finally Dana leaned across, took his hand, and said, "I wanted to go with you, you know. But Helen hadn't been told anything, and she saw your faces and the guns. I couldn't leave her here. I had to stay and explain. When this is all over, I want you and me to go in your house and not come out for a week."

  The other worrying factor was Ed. He kept his rifle by his side all the time, even when they were eating dinner. Art didn't ask, but he was willing to bet that the safety catch was not on.

  The women were making a deliberate attempt to cheer everybody up. Helen said, "Why, now that you two are here I can give six-person dinner parties, something I've wanted to do for years. I'd have done it tonight if I'd known."

  "Anne-Marie's up in Lantz with her cousin," Joe said. "We'll do it next week."

  The assumption was clear: Art had Dana with him, so there was no possible reason why he would ever want to go back "down there" as Helen put it, with a strong suggestion that Route I-270 led a traveler to the gates of hell. Or to Washington, which in her view was not much different.

  "We won't be here," Art said. "Not next week."

  "Why ever not?"

  "We have things to do. I promised to give a personal report." He did not add "to the President," but went on, "And I think those two idlers"—he pointed to Joe and Ed—"ought to go with us."

  "What the hell for?" Joe asked. "They're all rogues down there."

  "And you're not? You're missing the point. Did you ever fly a C-5A?"

  "Damn right. I could fly one with my eyes closed. A lovely plane, they don't make anything like that these days."

  "Did you know that they're in regular use again, because none of the new equipment works anymore? I think one of them has been converted to become Air Force One. With your background, you could probably get a job as a pilot tomorrow. And, Dana, tell them about the drivers in Washington."

  She inspected Joe and Ed carefully before she answered. "I'm not sure today's drivers in D.C. would think you two were old enough to get a license. You look like teenagers compared with most of them."

  "And anybody who can drive without an AVC in the car is in demand," Art added. "If you can drive a stick shift, or know how to install a carburetor in place of a chip-based fuel injection system—" He stopped. "No, Ed!"

  Out of the corner of his eye he had noticed the gun barrel coming up, at the same time as he saw the dark face peering in at the window.

  "Don't shoot, it's Seth." He waved, to indicate that Seth should go around to the front door. "How the hell did he know where we were?"

  He pulled the door open. "Where's Guest?"

  "He's safe and sound," Seth said, and then to Ed, "I'd rather you aimed that thing someplace other than my gut. I'm one of the good guys."

  The rifle was trained squarely on Seth's navel. Ed lowered it to point at the floor. "Pardon me. You just don't look like one of the good guys."

  Seth's clothes and face were filthy, and mud coated his legs up past the knees. "That's 'cause I've been fartin' an' fandango-in' around this place looking for you all. It don't help none that it's startin' to rain out there. I didn't see the light from this window 'til three minutes back. See, I could tell that Art had been in his house today, but he didn't leave no word where he was goin' when he left."

  "We didn't want your friend Oliver dropping in." Joe took one good look at Seth and poured not the wine he had paid money for, but a big shot of Ed's moonshine. "Here."

  Seth took the glass, drained it in one gulp, and rolled his eyes. "Jeez. That don't take prisoners, do it? Look, the main thing is, Guest came up with what we need."

  "The treatment?" Dana asked.

  "You got it. We'll be able to keep goin' with the telomods. He worked up a wet chemistry method, and the test kits are in the car we came here in. He still hasn't told me how to use any of this stuff, an' I'm sure that's gonna be his big bargainin' chip. So the sooner we get back over to your house—"

  "Hold it," Ed interrupted in a strange, hoarse voice. He had been looking not at Seth in the doorway, but past him. "What's that?"

  He and Art crowded Seth backward. "That's my house!" Art shouted. "It's on fire."

  "An' Guest's inside—tied to the bed, he can't get out." Seth started as though he was going to run, then swung around. "You got a car or anythin', ready to go? Otherwise, he's a goner."

  "The tractor." Ed turned as flames from the burning house roared to double their height. "In the barn—but it only carries one, and it's not fast."

  "Forget it." Seth was already on the move. "Come on."

  The fire was a beacon to draw them on, but it did nothing to light up the muddy road. Seth moved out ahead, with Dana not far behind. Art decided that if he was ever going to ruin his knee completely, this was the time. He ran full tilt along the dark path. Rain made the mud more than usually treacherous, but he had walked this way a hundred times. He had the advantage of knowing the twists and turns. By the time they reached the house he had passed Dana and was only a few yards behind Seth.

  They skidded to a halt twenty yards short of the building. Orange flames were shooting from the roof and licking out of two of the windows. Art could feel the heat on his face.

  "We can't go in there," he said. "We can't do anything."

  Seth shook his head and ran forward. He got to within ten feet of the front door when a cloud of red-hot sparks gushed out over the transom. He turned and came reeling back, gasping for air.

  The heat from the burning house was increasing. Raindrops turned to puffs of steam as they hit the slate roof. "The tank," Art cried. "The propane will blow. We have to get away."

  He took Dana by the arm and started along the road. Joe, Ed, and Helen were approaching. He waved them away. As he did so Dana pulled free from his grasp and turned
back.

  "Come on, Seth," she cried. "You can't do anything."

  Seth had not run. He was a dark figure against the burning house. Flames were spewing out of the walls. As the front door cracked and burst open, Seth shook his head and ran to the car. There was no place to turn it without driving closer to the house. Art heard the engine race, then the car came zooming crazily backward, almost hit Dana, and veered at the last moment into a thicket of rhododendrons.

  Art ran across to yank open the driver's door. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Seth was panting, leaning over, pulling at something in the rear compartment. He emerged with his arms full of boxes and a batch of papers.

  "The telomod kits." He nodded toward the load of boxes. "I told you, we left them in the car. It was too close to the house. But this should be far enough—"

  The explosion was a vivid flash of red and white. The sound was a flat, heavy thump. Moments later, burning debris from the house showered all around them. Art cowered back, shielding his face with his forearm. Seth dropped the papers that he was holding. A blast of hot air blew them along the ground. Dana, standing farther back, dived and managed to trap them on the muddy ground.

  Art stared at the ruin of his house. The front wall tilted inward at a crazy angle. The chimney stood intact, but all around it roof slates were cracking in the heat. Each one as it split threw off random sputters of red sparks. Flames poured from the bedroom window, and the whole structure was beginning to settle. Nothing inside could possibly have survived.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Joe. "Come on. Let's get back to Ed's place. Don't even think of trying to go in there. It's not worth dying for objects."

  Joe hadn't heard Seth's shout before they started running to the burning house. Art turned to him. "You don't understand, Joe. I'm not worried about my things—I've got spares at my house in Olney. But Oliver Guest was inside there."

  "Then I say it again. You don't go in. That murdering sod's the last person to risk your life for."

  "He was tied up and helpless."

  "Good. He deserved to die like that. And good riddance." Joe walked away.

  Art went across to Dana and took her hand. In silence, the group moved slowly along the path. The rain fell steadily. By the time they reached Ed's house they were soaked, and the fire behind them was beginning to burn lower. Art took a last look back. The cabin was settling in the downpour, in gouts of blue flame and dying spurts of red-hot ash.

  They went inside. Without being asked, Ed poured drinks of moonshine for everyone. Seth set the test kit boxes carefully on a table at the entrance. Dana brushed mud from the batch of wet papers and took a casual look at the top sheet. After a moment she frowned and read more carefully. Finally she went across to where Seth was sitting.

  "I thought you said Guest didn't tell you how to use the test kits."

  "He didn't." Seth was drinking fast, and too much. "Unless we can figure it out for ourselves—pretty long shot—we're nowhere."

  Dana held out a sheet. "But this is the description of how to use the test kit. You can see, the first test is described here, how to do it and how to interpret it. The other pages give the same thing for the other tests."

  "Gimme a look at that." Seth grabbed the sheets in a filthy hand and bent over them. After a couple of minutes he scowled and shook his head. "Ain't that the damnedest. You're right, this is the whole shebang. He never told me he'd written it out."

  "I think he intended to use this when he bargained with us for his own future. Naturally, he wouldn't say ahead of time that he'd documented everything. But there it is."

  Art had been listening in on the conversation. "Let me take a look."

  He skimmed the first couple of pages, not reading as carefully as Dana. Seth waited until he looked up, then said, "Well?"

  "It's the document we need. But this is all too pat."

  "That's what I thought. Too neat."

  "What do you mean?" Dana asked. "Isn't this just what we want?"

  "It is. And it ties everything up." Art handed the sheets back to Dana. "Guest is officially dead, so the government doesn't hunt for him. We have the telomod test kits, and we know how to use them, so we don't have to look for him. Everybody lives happily ever after."

  "Including old Ollie," Seth added. "Tell you what, tomorrow morning we go over to your house. No good doin' it now, everything's too hot to touch. But I'll make a bet with you. We won't find a body in the bedroom. We won't see a sign of one, there or anywhere else."

  * * *

  By morning the rain had eased to a thin drizzle. Before breakfast, Art, Seth, and Dana were heading over to the cabin. They had slept in Joe's house, which had more space. It also had more dogs. Dana had been wakened by three of them soon after dawn, as they wandered in to scratch and sniff at the interesting new female scent. She had thrown them out of the bedroom, but remained up. Art soon joined her. He couldn't sleep. Seth was up already. For all Art knew, he had been awake all night.

  The burnt-out house had been reduced to a chaos of wet ash with an intact chimney protruding at one end. Everything was red-hot beneath the sodden upper layer of gray.

  It was easy enough to find the bed. The iron headboard and footboard were intact and upright, sticking up from a cluster of fallen roof slates.

  "See," Seth said. "Nothin'."

  He had a straight sapling that he had cut on the way over. Now he reached in from outside and raked the long stick across the mess next to the headboard.

  "Nothin'," he repeated. "Hey, wait a minute."

  The sapling had run across an uneven hump. He moved it a couple of feet, and poked again.

  "Son of a bitch. What's that?"

  Something irregular in shape lay between headboard and footboard. It was impossible to tell what it was without direct examination. The three walked gingerly forward, hearing the sizzle as their shoes went through the crust of ash to the still-smoldering layers beneath.

  "My feet are starting to burn," Dana said. "Can we pull the whole thing out? Unless it's too hot to hold."

  Working together, they dragged the remains of the bed onto bare ground. The iron end parts fell away as they went, creating showers of black ash and hot sparks. Slate fragments and patches of ash dropped off the object that lay on the bed. Once they were clear of the ruins of the house, Seth and Art carefully removed the rest of the debris.

  What came into sight was unmistakable. A human body lay faceup on the charred bed, most of its flesh burned away to reveal blackened bones.

  "Well, how about that," Seth said softly. He stood looking down at the skeleton. "I said I'd take bets, an' I was wrong. Dr. G., I guess I owe you an apology."

  "Or maybe you don't. Oliver Guest was a genius, but even a genius can't think of everything." Art squatted onto his haunches, staring at the scorched head with its naked cranium and empty eye sockets. He reached down and carefully removed something from the corpse's grinning mouth. "When Guest was sentenced to judicial sleep, he was stored away naked. We know, because we found him that way."

  He held up what he had taken out of the mouth, showing Dana and Seth a partially melted object made of plastic and metal. "They put him into judicial sleep for six centuries. What do you think the chances are that they'd have stuck him into the syncope facility wearing dentures?"

  They stared at what Art was holding, then at the burned body. Finally Dana said, "Who?"

  "I doubt we'll ever know." Art tossed the melted dental bridge back into the ashes. "I'd like to believe that Guest found a corpse somewhere. There are plenty around, we saw signs all the way here."

  "Or maybe he dug one up," Seth said cheerfully. "But knowin' old Ollie, it's more likely that's number nineteen on his little list. Look on the bright side, though—it could easily have been one of us."

  Each of them straightened, turned, and scanned the trees and bushes.

  "Come on." Art took Dana's hand. "Let's get back to Ed and Joe. For once i
n my life I'll feel safer with a few more guns around."

  46

  As the full moon slid behind clouds and darkness became absolute, Celine gave it one last try. "I know the layout of the corridors and the feel of the place. You don't. It could make all the difference."

  "I realize that, ma'am." The captain, no more than five years younger than Celine, treated her with the deference appropriate to some great and venerable head of state. "Your help in bringing us here and your description of what we are likely to find underground were really important. But you don't know how to use any of this."

  He gestured around them. He, Celine, and nine black-clad strike team members were sitting in a vehicle that from the outside might be taken as a standard and old-fashioned electric van. Inside, gas masks, gas bombs, rifle mortars, and suits of body armor lined the walls. Four small screens showed black-and-white images. Two displayed the terrain using thermal infrared and active microwave sensors. The third observed in visible wavelengths, and was at the moment dark. The fourth was a general purpose television. Once it would have picked up any of ten thousand channels. Now there was one channel only, and that was dedicated to official government broadcasts and announcements.

  "I wouldn't have to know how to use everything," Celine said. "You would do all that. I would just help you to find your way in the underground tunnels."

  "Yes, ma'am. I know you are keen to help. But let me ask you this. You trained for many years before you went to Mars. What would you have said if, the day you left, someone without any training came along and told you they wanted to go along, too? My team has worked together for six years in this type of exercise. We know each other, we trust each other."

  When Celine said nothing, he went on, "And there's one other reason, ma'am, why we don't want you along. This one sounds selfish, and maybe it is. But it's true. You went to Mars and you made it back. You're a legend. How do you think we'd feel, all of us, if you went along and somehow we got you killed? We'd never get over that."

  Celine admitted defeat. This was supposed to be a neat surgical operation, fast in and fast out, with minimum violence and no casualties. But the Mars expedition had provided the ultimate proof that, plan as you liked, things went wrong.