Beneath the Gated Sky Page 14

  She was astonished, and pleased. “This will delay things, I suppose—”

  “‘Thank you, Trinidad,’” he coaxed.

  “Thanks.” She set the notebook on her lap, out of sight. “But isn’t open charity against the rules?”

  “Call my father, if you want.” He showed his most charming smile. “Seriously, if anyone bothers to look, they’ll find a perfectly legitimate path leading from the agency straight to you. The Few are not in the picture.”

  The youthful waitress was returning, balancing twin plates.

  “Breakfast,” Porsche warned.

  “Perfect timing!”

  Trinidad spent a moment flirting. Porsche looked out the window, watching the traffic pass on the highway below. A thin cold March rain was falling. She found herself wondering if it was raining at the farm, and was their roof leaking?

  “No,” said Trinidad suddenly. “I never feel homesick.”

  What was that?

  The waitress had vanished. Leaning over an ostrich omelet, Trinidad’s face looked buoyant and very boyish, save around the edges. “Homesick for Jarrtee? Never. On its worst day, the earth is a much better place.”

  “I know.”

  “Particularly now,” he commented obliquely.

  “What are you talking about?”

  A look of mischievous joy ended with a wink. “Remember the Order of Fire? That bizarre faith that we belonged to for a day?”

  “I remember.”

  Trinidad paused, sighed. “The Order’s grown considerably since we left. In our City, and in the surrounding city-states, too.”

  “What of it?”

  “The Order is fighting for political power. And I mean fighting. There’s a genuine civil insurrection tearing through Jarrtee.”

  She shook her head. “I had no idea.”

  “And there’s no reason you should even care,” he assured her.

  A mixture of vivid, conflicting feelings sprang on her. There was concern and grief, but mostly there was a secret glee. Yet she put on a proper face, saying, “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Trinidad knew better. With a razored laugh, he told her, “Don’t pretend. You’re not that sorry.”

  She sighed, then asked, “How bad have things gotten?”

  “It’s bad enough that the Few have virtually abandoned the planet.”

  “Since when?”

  “Over the last few years.” He shrugged, saying, “I guess we were just a little ahead of our time, cousin.”

  The ironies rose up before her.

  “My humble-free opinion?” he said. “I blame the jarrtees. They’re a bunch of incestuous, doomed shits, if you want the truth.”

  He was insulting an entire species—the ultimate impropriety—yet Porsche couldn’t help but nod and smile.

  Trinidad snatched the bill. “My treat.”

  She stuffed the notebook into her bag, telling him, “I don’t want us being forced off this world. Let’s work to keep it stable. Agreed?”

  “If this project of ours works out,” he promised, “you’ll be an old human woman playing basketball against your grandchildren. And probably beating them, too.”

  She didn’t laugh as expected.

  Instead, Porsche closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. “We leave a lot of worlds behind, don’t we?”

  “Of course.” Her cousin laughed for both of them, stabbing at the egg and shaking his head in a dismissive fashion. “They’re almost infinite, all in easy reach. If we’re facing an insurmountable problem on one, plenty of others are ready for us.”

  It was the genetic mandate of the Few, and a cultural linchpin.

  Porsche couldn’t help but believe the logic in her blood, even as a secret, traitorous voice whispered a very different answer.

  Hawthorne Klay appeared on the screen, conjured from the blackness.

  His professional reserve—the hallmark of his career—was swamped by his obvious pain. After weeks of debate, including several out-and-out arguments, they had decided to use the mental patient at the end of the broadcast, delivering a final emotional blow before Hawthorne’s concluding remarks.

  Speaking to his audience of four, the apparition gave a quick review. He repeated tales of corruption and cruelty, of fortunes spent and goals unachieved—snatches of the more dramatic video flanking him. Then in a very un-Hawthorne moment, his voice broke, and he visibly gathered himself before saying:

  “From this chair, I have reported the assassination of a president, the progress of many wars, and a litany of crimes of every complexion, every scale. But what we have seen here tonight staggers me. To think that a democracy like ours can knowingly commit and condone these crimes…well, this is not my government, and this is not my nation.

  “The people responsible should be tried in open court, then punished in full.

  “At the very least, the Cosmic Event Agency should be stripped to the bone and reborn. And this wondrous technology—this capacity to move from world to world—should be given to all of humankind.

  “It should be given without charge, accompanied with our heartfelt apologies and blessings.

  “If human beings aren’t mature enough to hold this power, then we should fall together, as a species.

  “I am Hawthorne Klay, wishing you…

  “…a good evening.”

  “And good evening to you,” said Timothy, cutting the audio, a stream of fictional credits playing across the screen. Then, after a long pause, he asked the others, “Well…how do you like it?”

  Except for the midmorning sun seeping through the occasional window, the utility building was unlit. People stretched in their chairs. No one seemed willing or able to give an opinion, which was remarkable. They were finished. Except for tweaks and polish, they were done working on the project, and the project was done working on them. Yet for the first time since last September, this strong-willed group could offer nothing but a relentless, introverted silence.

  Finally, Nathan took the responsibility, telling everyone, “We should feel proud.”

  Pride was one of Porsche’s emotions.

  “Very proud,” he trumpeted, rising to his feet and twisting his stiff back. “The truth is definitely going to win out.”

  Cornell rose, then stretched. In the partial light, he looked very much like his father, adjusting his spine as he steered them toward more pragmatic matters. “When can we broadcast? What’s soonest, what’s best?”

  “We could go now, if we want.” Timothy referred to the terminal in his lap. “But the ratings would be lousy. If we wait until eight o’clock tonight, we’d have the largest possible audience. Unless we hold off to Sunday night, then steal away America Tonight’s audience of fifty million…”

  “I vote for Sunday,” said Cornell.

  “That’s what makes sense,” Timothy replied.

  “Or we go tonight, then repeat it in a few days,” Nathan suggested, his voice almost giddy. “And keep repeating it until they yank us off the air—”

  “As it is,” Timothy interrupted, “we’ve got a running time of sixty-eight minutes. Ten minutes more than the original plan, thanks to Porsche’s last-minute material.” He paused, then told them, “I can show it once. I’m certain. And then they’ll probably dynamite their emergency system, if that’s what it takes to stop us.”

  “You’re selling yourself short,” Nathan warned.

  Timothy gave a little laugh. “That’s something I never hear.”

  Porsche stood, finally.

  Eyes found her, then she said, “I think we should broadcast tonight.” Then with a brisk smile, she added, “Like my coaches always told me, sometimes the easy two points are better than the spectacular three.”

  Cornell nodded thoughtfully, allowing, “Maybe it would be best.”

  “I’ll hope for a reprise in a few days,” Nathan said.

  Suddenly, almost without warning, they realized that it had been decided.

  “Toni
ght,” four voices declared, in a chorus.

  Then half-jokingly, half-seriously, Porsche injected a dose of pragmatism. “I guess we should think about packing now.”

  Timothy laughed hardest, then with an edgy voice asked, “Why bother?”

  Everyone grew quiet.

  He stepped close to Porsche, close enough that she could smell coffee on his breath. “Where you’re going,” he told her, “you can’t exactly take your suitcase with you.”

  With her most reasonable voice, she said, “We’re going to Nathan’s house after the broadcast. That’s the plan. And after a few days of hard sleep, we’ll take a little drive down to Texas. Just as we’ve discussed for months, and of course you’re welcome to join us. If that’s what you want to do…”

  The man seemed puzzled, even surprised.

  “I’ve always assumed that we’d just vanish. You know where.”

  No one spoke.

  “You said you’d explain everything, too.” He sounded like a little boy who feared being cheated. “Wouldn’t this be a good time?”

  “Tonight,” she promised. “Right after the broadcast.”

  Then Nathan joined them, adding. “We’ll show you something in the sky. Something I’ve had the pleasure of seeing for myself.”

  “No,” Timothy replied. “I want more.”

  It was Cornell who responded, a bristling voice asking, “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t come to this goddamn wasteland and work my ass off, risking everything, just for a ‘thank you’ and get sent home again.” He spoke with a clear, practiced voice, never blinking, telling the others, “I want to step through. You know where. Just once, just so I can experience it.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Porsche.

  “Remember the madman,” Cornell cautioned. “There’s that risk—”

  “To my soul?” Then Timothy laughed, shaking his head as he said, “You don’t realize it, do you? What people would give up just for one minute…

  “For a moment, just to be somewhere else!”

  Porsche was stuffing socks into the last suitcase. Sunshine and a pleasant warm breeze poured through the bedroom window. Cornell was in his father’s room, helping him sort and pack. Timothy was out in the utility building, adding final touches to the documentary. She was alone when she heard, “People are approaching.” The voice was sudden and intimate, whispering deep in her right ear. “We don’t recognize the vehicle, or the passengers.”

  Before Porsche spoke, she took a deep breath.

  “How many onboard?”

  “Three,” the eavesdroppers reported. “Males. Two in the front seat. One behind.”

  “Armed?”

  “They carry knives.”

  “What kind of knives?”

  “Small. For filleting fish.”

  “They’re fishermen?”

  “Judging by their clothes and tackle, yes.”

  But Porsche wasn’t reassured. She dropped the last ball of socks on the bedspread, then went next door. “Company coming, maybe.”

  Father and son looked at her with a sturdy indifference, as if trying to hold on to the domestic peace. Then Cornell gave a nod, turned, and said, “Why don’t you keep packing, Dad? I’ll be right back.”

  Nathan didn’t say a word, his face turning to stone.

  “The vehicle is slowing,” said the eavesdroppers. “And now it is turning toward the house.”

  “Shit,” she muttered, the stairs creaking underfoot.

  “What is it?” asked Cornell.

  “Nothing, maybe.” It was unthinkable that the enemy would send three unarmed men. Besides, the Few-made defenses were awake, at the ready. Yet a nervous shiver passed beneath Porsche’s skin as she stepped out onto the sloping porch. The vehicle was a big Ford, a sportsman’s toy, its long and drab and very dusty body making a fishhook turn, then braking on the open ground just past her Humvee.

  With a word, she could knock the passengers unconscious.

  A few more words would bath them in a cleansing stream, making them forget the last ten minutes of their lives.

  But she didn’t use her weapons. Quietly, quietly, she said, “Walk with me,” and stepped off the porch, Cornell hovering on her left.

  The driver’s window dropped.

  A face emerged, a quick and too-friendly voice saying, “Hello, ma’am.”

  He was in his mid-twenties and called her ma’am. Reason enough to knock him senseless.

  “I guess I’m lost,” he continued, nothing about his face or his posture backing up those words. He seemed perfectly aware of his location, saying, “My friends and I are looking for a pond. Full of trophy bass, we’ve heard.”

  As promised, they were dressed like fishermen, their pocket-rich vests and north woods shirts looking too new, too bright, with three long fishing poles stuck in the back end, sure to be seen.

  “The only ponds here are mud holes,” said Cornell, his voice a little stiff, a little forced. “Bullhead and catfish, if that.”

  “Really,” the driver replied, without interest.

  The back window dropped, and another young man fired off his best smile. “Beautiful day,” he offered.

  “Too warm,” the driver complained. “For May, that is.”

  Beside the driver sat someone older, his window already down, his body large and solid in appearance and unnaturally still. Porsche couldn’t see his face. The back of his head was covered with a dark stubble. His neck was thicker than most thighs. With his right hand under his unseen chin, he was staring at the utility building, nothing subtle about his intentions. Obviously, the fishhook turn was for his benefit; he wanted a clear look at the target.

  If they tried anything—if they brandished even one filleting knife—the defense systems would act in a microsecond, dropping electronic anvils on their heads.

  For an instant, Porsche hoped the men would make that mistake.

  But they were professionals. The driver just kept smiling, saying, “I guess we should do a better job reading our maps.” But he didn’t show her any map or ask for directions. “Sorry, ma’am. We’ll get out of your way now.”

  The windows were rising, humming brightly.

  Porsche moved, sprinting in front of the vehicle.

  The older man had a square, simple face, as if he had decided at conception not to accept embellishments of any kind. He had the ruddy complexion of a European who had lived for years in the tropics. Tiny eyes were sunk into heavy bone. A calm and rugged and very wide mouth didn’t bother to pretend any smile. He sneered at Porsche, and in the tiny eyes, for an instant, there was a glint of cold amusement.

  She stared back at him, refusing to blink.

  Then he was laughing, something suddenly funny, and he kept laughing until his window sank into its jamb.

  She had recognized his face, easily.

  It was the same face that Timothy had found near a murder scene, the same face that the farmer had known at a glance. These were brazen pricks, implying an ignorance. They didn’t appreciate what they were up against. Again, she considered knocking them unconscious. But that would warn the agency, and there wouldn’t be time to broadcast. Nothing mattered except making the broadcast, she was thinking. She was thinking clearly and quickly, only a sliver of herself watching the Ford accelerate, watching it move back toward the county road.

  Cornell appeared beside her, or maybe he had always been there.

  “Coincidence,” he said, “or conspiracy?”

  Either way, they had exactly one choice left to them.

  11

  A cloud of soft choking dust swallowed the fishermen.

  Porsche never saw them vanish. She had already turned, sprinting for the utility building, grateful to see Timothy standing in the tiny east door. His long face wore a lost, almost baffled expression, eyes and the quizzical tilt of his head asking every imaginable question. Who were those men? What had happened? And of all people, why was Porsche scared?

 
“How soon?” she shouted.

  “Soon?”

  “To broadcast!” She slammed into the garage door, killing her momentum. “From right now, how soon?”

  Timothy opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he glanced at Cornell, as if expecting some kind of translation.

  Seconds mattered.

  Porsche drove her flattened hand into his sternum, shoving him backward into the cool interior. “We’re going now. Now!”

  “Those men?” Timothy sputtered.

  “One guess,” she warned.

  His eyes grew larger, but he couldn’t quite comprehend. “On a weekday afternoon…we won’t get the ratings…”

  Cornell spoke, saying the man’s name with a warning tone.

  Timothy turned, blinked. “But we’re safe here!” Then he looked at Porsche with a wounded expression. “You can fend them off. You have your…your tricks…”

  “What’s your start-up time?” Cornell pressed. “From this second. Three minutes? Four?”

  “Four, and forty seconds. About.”

  Porsche stepped away from both of them. “Status?” she asked the eavesdroppers.

  “Our visitors,” said the soft voice, “are continuing north at a responsible speed.”

  “What?” asked Cornell.

  “We’re all right,” she reported. “For now, at least.”

  “Why wouldn’t we be?” Timothy kept asking. He was moving toward the main terminal, almost strolling, doggedly determined not to worry. “They could launch scramjet missiles, and you’d just wish them away. You said it. You promised!”

  Bullies with guns she could delay. A full-scale military assault was an entirely different monster.

  Cornell joined Timothy. Glancing over her shoulder, Porsche saw him begin dissolving into the darkness. He said, “Would you get Dad?”

  “Sure.”

  Nathan was standing on the front porch. “I was watching,” he reported with a steady voice. “It was them, wasn’t it?”

  She said, “Absolutely.”

  The old man took the news with poise. A crisis was at the door, but a lifetime of paranoia left him able to accept the news.

  “What should I do?” he inquired.

  She hesitated, then decided. “The toolbox. Out by the basketball court—”