Forced Conversion

by Donald J. Bingle

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  On she pedaled, her pace a steady beat, her legs like the rhythmic pistons of an automaton—ever forward despite the throbbing ache of her back, the searing pain of her calves, and the ever more frequent cramps in her hands, feet, and thighs.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Only the numbness of her seat and the delirium of her mind permitted her to continue.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  She still had a long way to go, her befuddled brain told her, but she would make it, unless she died. That would be bad. She didn’t have time to die. She could do that later.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Right now, she had to press onward, a Christian soldier pedaling as to war.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  The setting sun hung low over the mountains, a beam of light bursting between peaks, pointing the way, beckoning her to Sanctuary, beckoning her as a Believer. Her legs thrust again and again with a fixed discipline that her meandering mind had long since abandoned.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Over field and fountain, moor and mountain.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Westward leading, still proceeding.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Bearing a gift . . . of wrinkled, folded paper . . . she comes from afar.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Following yonder star.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Following yonder star.

  Deep down, she knew she was losing it, that she was becoming delirious from dehydration and exhaustion, but her mind’s musings were no longer in her control. She knew, though, that something was wrong. Nobody did that. Nobody followed a yonder star. Not anymore.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  * * * * *

  Nobody followed the stars. Not anymore.

  Chapter 18

  “It’s moved.”

  Maria looked up to see where Derek was pointing. The sun, already caressing the horizon directly ahead of them as they headed west, made it difficult to see clearly. She shaded her eyes with her hand. In the distance was a series of large, very large, circular concave-shaped structures—like satellite television dishes from the olden days grown to monstrous proportions. “Huh? What is that? What moved?”

  Derek slowed the truck to a stop at the top of a small rise in the road on Route 60, about fifty miles west of Socorro, New Mexico. They got out and stood in front of the truck.

  “The array. The configuration is different.”

  “I repeat, huh?”

  “They’re big old radio telescopes. They used to use them to listen to stars.”

  “Listen to stars?”

  “You know, track their electromagnetic emissions—radio waves and stuff—then figure out what kind of stars they were and how fast they were moving, and whether they had planets. All sorts of scientific crap like that—space stuff that nobody cares about anymore.”

  “Okay,” said Maria slowly, “but what moved?”

  “The big dishes, they move. They can be put in different configurations to listen to different kinds of things at different distances or something. Look, I don’t really know why they move, just that they can, or, at least, used to.”

  Maria squinted at the structures. “None of them look like they’re moving to me. Are they real slow?” She shielded her eyes from the sun again and peered at the monstrous towers one by one.

  “Nah. I mean, yes, they move slow, but they’re not moving now. They’ve moved since the last time I was here.” He swept his right arm from left to right in gesture. “The configuration is different.” He pointed toward the center, where the axis of the east, west, and north lines of towers came together. “They’re more bunched up in the middle.”

  Maria turned toward him, her mind focused on matters other than the towers now. “So, you pass by here often,” she said: a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah,” Derek confirmed. “Look, we’re about a half a day from where . . . from where I planned to . . . send you back to Colorado.”

  “From where you want me to shoot you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “From where you can communicate with your superiors.”

  Derek swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

  “Look, Derek, I trust you, but my life is on the line here. Isn’t it about time you explained exactly how your plan is going to work?”

  “I was going to go over the whole thing when we stopped for the night in just a bit.”

  “Don’t you think that this . . .” she gestured toward the rearranged array “. . . means we should talk now? Your buddies may be just down at the control building for the radio dishes.”

  Derek pondered for a few moments. “I don’t think so. We don’t pay this place much mind. Went over to it one afternoon years ago; it was all locked up. Can’t imagine why anyone would want to be there. We always pass it right by.”

  “Well, then who moved those things?”

  “You tell me. Mals, most likely.”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Maria replied, a hint of ice in her tone. “Just because there aren’t many of us left, doesn’t mean we all know each other.”

  * * * * *

  Derek looked at the huge radio dishes and their attendant control buildings and then back at himself, Maria, and the SolarFord. Other than the hidden scanner and his old uniform and other items in his pack, all hidden away in the back of the pick-up, there was nothing to identify them as ConFoes. “Why not just drive up and see if anyone’s there?”

  Maria rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s a good way to get shot, isn’t it? Why not just pass the place by?”

  “Except for the gangs in the cities—and they . . . aren’t the problem they used to be—mals don’t usually shoot other mals without asking questions first,” Derek reported without emotion, verbatim from one of his training sessions. “Besides, I need to see if anyone’s there.”

  “You need to? Why?”

  Derek put his hands in his pockets and began to circle aimlessly as he thought. The sun set, providing a backdrop of fading crimson radiance to his pacing cogitation. Finally, he stopped in front of Maria, who waited with her arms folded and her hip thrust slightly to one side.

  “First, it’s my job.”

  Maria snorted lightly in disgust, but said nothing.

  “Second, if they’re hostile, I don’t want them behind us . . . or in front of you when you’re making your escape tomorrow.”

  Maria nodded lightly in appreciation, as if agreeing that this reason at least made some sense.

  “And third . . .” Derek looked down at his feet, his hands still deep in his pockets. “. . . well, third, the plan’s kind of risky. I was hoping maybe to find a better one and, well, you never know what you’ll find ‘til you look.”

  * * * * *

  “They look like ConFoes to you?” asked Hank anxiously.

  Ali leaned forward and peered through the tripod-mounted recreational telescope they had long ago liberated from the press office of the Very Large Array. “No, I do not think that is the case. The vehicle is an old civilian model and they are not in uniform.” He deftly changed eyepieces for one of higher magnification and adjusted the focus. “Besides,” he said, standing erect again and smiling broadly, “I do not believe the Conversion Forces include any women in active service at this time.”

  Hank’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. “Damn. What do you think we should do?”

  “Invite them in. They might be able to give us some information.”

  “Okay. But housing quarters only. Nobody gets into the data storage areas. That’s sealed for perpetuity.”

  Ali nodded. “I quite agree. How do you think we should invite them? They may just pass by.”
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  Hank rubbed his stubble and glanced about at the fading light. “Hell, turn on the outside lights. Doesn’t matter anymore if the ConFoes see ‘em. Hell, that would simplify things quite a bit, long as they do what they’re supposed to.”

  “Bold, but simple. An excellent scientific solution.” Ali stepped into the guest hut and threw a switch. “Let there be light,” he murmured to himself. Three of the four floodlights on the exterior of the building crackled to life. He quickly rejoined Hank, who was now leaning over the eyepiece to the telescope, back outside.

  Hank was chuckling as he watched the hilltop to the east in the dimming twilight.

  “That got ‘em moving.”

  * * * * *

  “Jesus!” exclaimed Maria, as she saw the lights come on outside one of the buildings in the distance.

  Derek whirled around to see what had happened, then turned back around and grabbed Maria’s arm. “Quick! Get in the truck. We have to get down there before the ConFoes see ‘em.”

  Maria and Derek both raced for the truck and jumped in. Derek had the vehicle in motion before Maria even got her door closed. He slammed the accelerator to the floor hard and kept it there, unmindful of the fact that the SolarFord was no longer charging in the dim light.

  Derek was focused on one thing, getting the lights turned off before any ConFoes could spy them. His plan wasn’t ready; he didn’t even have the scanner set up. If the ConFoes showed up in the area now, Maria was a goner and he would be forced to finish his tour of duty.

  * * * * *

  Maria’s mind raced. Why had she jumped in the truck? Who was down there? She could trust Derek—at least his good intentions, if not his unknown and possibly unworkable plan. Whoever was down there, though, might never let her go. She might never see Sanctuary again. The thoughts tumbled across her mind as her body was tumbled in the cab of the truck while Derek pressed forward. He drove as if possessed, at full speed, with no heed for the potholes in the ancient road or the deepening darkness of the night.

  Maria wanted to slow him, wanted to think the situation through calmly, but had no opportunity. Derek abandoned the main road, making a sharp right turn into the entryway for the Very Large Array. Ignoring any directional signs, he headed straight for the lights, stopping only when he saw two men sitting in lawn chairs near a small telescope in front of the lighted building. He jammed the truck into park and bailed out of the driver’s-side door, leaving Maria to turn off the vehicle to save the batteries. She quickly dropped the keys into her bra for safekeeping. She might need to make a get-away.

  * * * * *

  Derek charged toward the men excitedly. He had to get whoever was in charge of this place to turn off the damn lights.

  “Take me to your leader,” he shouted as he came up to the first lawn chair.

  Hank looked up at the excited young man and smiled as broadly as he ever had.

  “I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear that.”

  * * * * *

  As a military leader, General Fontana had spent much of his life preparing for a battle that he had prayed would never need to be fought. Now it was upon him and he was immersed in the technical logistical details of men, materiel, and distance-to-objective.

  The men (and a smattering of women) were trained. The weapons and rations and ammunition were broken out of storage, the canteens filled, the rifles oiled and cleaned. The objective had been debated and chosen and the approach route calculated and considered. Their target, though, was a long, long way away from their hideaway in the Colorado Rockies.

  The troops referred to the upcoming trek as the March, but they wouldn’t, couldn’t, really march that far. It was too slow, too visible to the ConFoe satellites high in the sky. An army moving on foot can only move so fast, especially when it lacks an even more numerous support and supply chain to back it up. Without that, it would have to live off the land as it traveled, reducing its already meager pace toward objective.

  Fontana had confronted his troop’s mobility issues long ago and done his level best in the intervening years to mitigate them as well as he could. He had, of course, assembled a motley collage of solar-powered vehicles from the oil-shortage years that preceded the Mandatory Conversion Act. There weren’t nearly enough to move his troops, but they were useful for hauling the heavier equipment and bulk supplies, lightening the backpacks of the rank and file and, thus, facilitating more rapid movement of the assembled forces than would have otherwise been possible. Still, the Utah salt dome he had selected as their target was far, far to the west over rugged terrain. Too far to march his soldiers.

  No, like many a war back before mankind decided to solve its problems by running away from them into an etched wafer of silicon, this war would depend on the railroads. And that meant he would start off in the morning marching his eager recruits away from Utah, east to Golden, Colorado.

  The great diesel locomotives of the last century had been abandoned as conversion gained sway, the movement of bulk commodities becoming less and less necessary as the population dwindled and supply shortages were solved by conversion rather than freight. Fuel, itself, which had become so scarce as to be one of the motivators for mass conversion, became rarer and rarer. Eventually, the remaining reserves were seized by the government and allocated to the use of the ConFoes in enforcing the Mandatory Conversion Act. One by one, the powerful engines of the railroads, some of which had run continuously for more than twenty years between overhauls, alternatingly straining with heavy loads and idling on sidetracks or in enormous switching yards, fell silent.

  The Believers could do nothing to awaken those diesel-fed iron dragons, asleep and rusting at the termini of their last loads, but years ago a scout in Golden had discovered something along West 44th Avenue, behind the old Coors plant, that could make the rails sing once again. General Fontana had gone himself, with a crew of his best mechanics and engineers, and surveyed the find, the Colorado Railroad Museum.

  The sign on the building read: “Delay Junction, Golden 2 Miles, Elevation 5,636 Feet, Denver 12 Miles.” In the basement of the facility was an elaborate HO model railroad, with mountains, buildings, and gate crossings. But it wasn’t the building or its contents that was of interest.

  In the tall grass and weeds surrounding the squat building filled with books and displays about the Santa Fe and the Union Pacific and the narrow-gauge mining lines, were flatcars and boxcars and ancient passenger cars and cabooses. There were cars from the Denver & Rio Grande Western, the Denver & Salt Lake, the Colorado & Southern, the Union Pacific, and the Burlington railroads, among others. The museum boasted the old No. 1 engine from the Manitou & Pikes Peak Railway and a half-dozen or so narrow-gauge engines once used in now-abandoned lines in the mountains.

  But most importantly, there was Chicago, Burlington & Quincy No. 5629, a giant, standard-gauge, steam locomotive, with a full coal car right behind it. The three-hundred-seventeen-ton behemoth had regularly hauled twenty-car passenger runs and much longer freight runs on the Denver to Chicago mainline. It could take the Army of the Believers anywhere standard rail lines would go.

  The team had inspected the engine, fixed what needed to be fixed (using manuals and even some parts from the museum’s displays), oiled what needed to be oiled, and stoked the boiler with coal. Finally, they lit the boiler and started the engine up one dark, stormy night when the ConFoes would be unlikely to hear or see what they were doing. With a horrendous, groaning screech of metal on metal, the beast moved forward in a sudden lurch.

  The team fired everything back down and made the locomotive look as innocuous and decrepit as possible to dissuade others from investigating the site. Then, they celebrated their engineering feat by installing a bevy of nasty booby-traps to fatally discourage any others who might come this way to seek out the hulking transportation relics. Thus, the locomotive was saved against the Believers’ time of final need.

  Now was that time. An advance team was traveling during the night to
Golden to prepare things for the arrival of the army that would march in the morning. Booby-traps would be dismantled, the engine stoked and readied, and temporary tracks laid across the road to connect the museum grounds to the Burlington Northern Santa Fe mainline. Then, with God’s blessing, it would be Santa Fe, south and west across New Mexico and Arizona, then north, all the way to Utah.

  There used to be a route, the old Denver, Rio Grande, and Western right-of-way, through the mountains, but he rejected the notion of taking it. Mountainous routes were exposed to landslides, had few industrial spurs where they might garner additional cars or equipment for repairs, and required more power for the steep grade and were, thus, much harder on the engine. No, to go west, he needed to go south.

  The General whistled to himself softly, the toot-toot of the steam whistle of a locomotive rushing down the tracks, telling all the world to stand aside while it passed.

  Chug, chug, chug, chug. Chug, chug, chug, chug. Toot-toot!

  * * * * *

  Kelly couldn’t whistle. Her mouth was too dry, her lips too wind-burned and swollen, her tongue too thick, and her breath too ragged to whistle.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Kelly pedaled on, surrounded now by ash and burned-out stumps as she approached Sanctuary.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  Even wracked with pain and weary beyond comprehension, she somehow still knew that she was supposed to give the tell-tale birdcalls: a magpie, a lark bunting, a Steller’s jay. She tried to purse her cracked lips, but was rewarded with no sound, not even a meager toot, just a mournful wheeze in time to the thrusts of her searing, leaden legs.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  But still, her heart gladdened as she saw the entrance of Sanctuary down-slope. She was going to make it.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

  The sentries should have known better. Kelly’s return should have been anticipated. They should have been informed. But, they weren’t. And, like most soldiers who pull late night guard duty, they were of the most junior rank. Simultaneously rattled by recent events and hyped up by the heightened alert due to the impending March, they could not really be blamed for what happened next. As Kelly shakily turned her replacement bike around the upper edge of a large boulder and headed further downhill toward the entrance of Sanctuary without giving the required birdcalls, a metal baton was thrust out from behind the boulder into the spokes of the unfamiliar, red mountain bike’s front wheel to thwart the approach of the unidentified interloper.