Beneath the Gated Sky Page 17

  Again, Porsche reassured him that she had taken no offense.

  He took a deep breath, gathering himself. “Perhaps my son mentioned,” he began. “His mother was a very beautiful woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “Beautiful,” he repeated, baffled by his good fortune. Then he risked eye contact, telling her, “You’re almost as lovely, I think.”

  “Thank you, Nathan.”

  There were stairs at the far end of the basement, and a human shadow fell down them, followed by a familiar voice. Loud and insistent, and welcome, Trinidad said, “I’m glad you made it. We know what happened, and your friends are all right.” Then, “Come on up. I’m afraid that we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  The basement’s cold gloom was replaced by overheated air and the relative brightness of a foggy day. Porsche found herself in a tall, expansive room, standing before a vast window, a wet green forest covering the land outside. “Strange trees,” Nathan remarked. “Almost alien-looking.” Then, as if to prove him right, a very peculiar animal strolled up to them, its doglike head attached to a long, partially striped body, dim dark eyes calmly examining them for treats.

  “What is it?” Nathan sputtered.

  “A Tasmanian wolf,” Trinidad replied. He was sitting behind them, sitting in the middle of a long sofa, three steaming mugs on a tray set in front of him. “It’s good to see you, cousin. Mr. Novak. How are you two?”

  Porsche said, “Pissed, and worried.”

  “Everyone else is, too.”

  “Is that coffee?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She took one of the warm mugs, then sat beside her cousin.

  Nathan was exhausted. With his hands at his sides and his shoulders slumping, he asked, “What kind of wolf?” Then, with a brittle tone, “And who are you?”

  Trinidad introduced himself, using only his first name. “The creature is an extinct marsupial,” he explained. “Human scientists managed to pull a viable cell from a museum hip bone, and they’ve cloned it several thousand times. Tweaking the offspring for genetic diversity, amiability, and gender. Some Australians like to keep them for pets.”

  “This is Australia,” Nathan muttered.

  “Tasmania. The home belongs to a friend. It was built just last year specifically to help us hide the intrusion.”

  “My son?”

  “He’s alive, and healthy. Try to keep that in mind, sir.”

  Nathan collapsed into a separate chair.

  Finding nothing to eat, the marsupial strolled over to a drab blanket beside a wood-fueled stove, lying down near the heat.

  “So where are they?” asked Porsche.

  “California. They’re being held at the agency’s headquarters.”

  “And we’ve figured out what went wrong?”

  “In part.” With his voice slowing, Trinidad explained, “Some clever shit reprogrammed our machines, convincing them that we were the enemy.”

  Nathan stared at his own empty hands. “I don’t understand. You have these amazing machines, yet the agency managed to disable them. How?”

  “A perfectly valid question,” growled a new voice.

  Carrying a platter of sandwiches, Uncle Jack emerged from the adjacent kitchen.

  “And who are you?” asked Nathan.

  “I don’t think you need to know,” the man growled, neatly dispelling any illusions of generosity.

  Still the prick. Yet Porsche was happy to see his plain face and his head of phony hair, his expertise and resources in easy reach.

  Jack set the platter on the coffee table, then sat. “This was a lousy situation to put you in. But we assumed that we could defend the four of you. And not expose ourselves in the process.”

  “But if things went that wrong,” said Nathan, “then the agency has to already know about the Few…” He paused, wrestling with the possibilities. “But even if they know about you…your existence…I don’t understand how they can beat you…”

  Together, father and son nodded.

  “How could they fool your incredible machines?” Nathan continued. “Unless it wasn’t them that did it! Oh, God! Is it…one of your own…?”

  No one spoke.

  Nathan concentrated, shoving his way past clues and guesses and simple black fears. “A traitor. Among the Few.” He pursed his lips, asking, “Do you have suspects?”

  “Several,” Uncle Jack conceded.

  “A member of the Few…helping the agency.” Nathan couldn’t accept it. “I would think that would never happen.”

  Again, silence.

  Then Trinidad leaned forward, meeting Nathan’s eyes. “This is a private concern. I’m sure you appreciate why.” Her cousin looked tired, age in his face and the barest trace of vulnerability in the compassionate voice. “You’re part of a family, and one of your family members—one of your own—does something terrible. It’s hard enough to admit it to yourself, much less to the outside world.”

  The Tasmanian wolf had returned, climbing onto the coffee table, nonchalantly eating the easy meats.

  Nathan looked at his own hands again. “About my boy—”

  “He’s our first priority,” said Uncle Jack. “I want you to know that, sir.”

  “And there’s good coming out of this bullshit,” Trinidad added. “We know a lot more about our enemies now. Thanks to the four of you, we’re in a much stronger position.”

  Save for the gnashing of living knives, the room was silent.

  The old man looked out the window for a long while.

  “It’s such a shame,” he muttered.

  “What’s a shame?” asked Porsche.

  “That we couldn’t show our program.” He was crying quietly, with a certain haggard dignity. “The good we could have done, if we could have warned the world…”

  The wolf claimed the last sandwich, making its retreat to the blanket.

  Nathan swallowed painfully. “How did they do that? Keep us from broadcasting, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Jack blurted.

  “We’re investigating,” Trinidad purred.

  Porsche said nothing. Nothing. She found herself watching the predator, studying the dull certainty of its eyes. Then she looked at her uncle, making him blink and stare off at the window for a moment. Then she glanced at Trinidad, something honest in his wide eyes, confirming what didn’t need confirmation.

  We weren’t intended to make any broadcast.

  She realized.

  The Few themselves stopped us!

  A private jet waited on a nearby landing strip. Three of them were climbing aboard; Uncle Jack would return home by other means.

  “Believe me,” he told Nathan. “We never anticipated this kind of disaster, but we will get your son back. That’s a promise. If it takes subterfuge, fine. If there’s a bargain to be struck, that’s fine, too.”

  “Whatever works,” said Trinidad.

  “Threaten the bastards,” was Nathan’s advice.

  “By diplomatic means, of course.” Uncle Jack was working hard to sound optimistic. He ran a hand through his thick hair, then offered his other hand to Nathan. “Good-bye, sir. I wish I could tell you all the ways you’ve been helpful. And please, when you see him, tell Cornell thank you for me.”

  “I will,” Nathan promised, shaking his hand vigorously.

  Uncle Jack tried to take her hand, then thought better of it. “Have a safe flight, Miss Neal. I’ll see you in a day or two.”

  Porsche didn’t trust her mouth enough to speak. She climbed into the plane, Nathan trailing after her. Father and son remained on the tarmac for a few moments, discussing everything, or nothing, hugging before they parted. Then Trinidad came up the folding stairs, one hand on the railing, his manner suddenly quiet, almost introverted.

  The plane was larger than the mock-bird, less graceful and considerably faster.

  Trinidad was their pilot until they were over the Pacific, streaking north at Mach 2. The automated galley
prepared a small feast, and the three of them ate dinner in the luxurious cabin. Nathan picked at his food, then finally, with a great sigh, announced, “I’m very sorry. I really need to rest. For a minute, if I can.”

  Blankets and pillows were unpacked. After settling his guest, Trinidad invited Porsche into the cockpit.

  “How’s my family?” she asked immediately.

  “Fine. All fine.” He had expected the question, telling her, “The moment there was trouble, I alerted your parents and brothers. They’re perfectly safe now.”

  “Where?”

  “An appropriate location,” he promised. “On that ranch in west Texas. Where you were acculturated.”

  Appropriate, and sad. They’d need new lives somewhere else on the earth, or they might even have to emigrate again. Porsche was at the heart of events—again—yet this time she didn’t feel the same regrets. Everyone knew the risks. Everyone approved of her infiltrating the CEA, then applauded her work on the farm. She could recall moments when a brother or a sister-in-law took her aside to say, “You’re doing good work,” or from her parents, “It’s wonderful that you and your uncle have finally declared a truce.”

  She bristled, for a moment.

  Trinidad was watching her in the corner of his eye. Quietly, firmly, he said, “You know perfectly well. Sometimes, a lot of the time, it’s best for us not to know too much.”

  “I realize that.”

  “You had an emotional stake in that digital fiction. I understand. You’re feeling righteously pissed, aren’t you?”

  She was surprised by her anger, and worse, the acidic sense of betrayal.

  “If it helps,” he continued, “not everyone agreed with the decision. Some of us think that exposing the agency would be best. For everyone.”

  “What do you think?”

  He smiled, wistfully. Then he began stroking the back of her head, much as a jarrtee would do to a dear friend.

  Porsche felt a little sick, and suddenly very tired.

  “Relax,” was Trinidad’s advice, moving his hand to her knee.

  Hearing that word, she gratefully slouched back in her seat. A relentless weight was bearing down on her, trying to wring the last corporeal energies from her flesh.

  “Sleep,” said someone.

  Trinidad?

  Or herself?

  “I’m too tired to sleep,” she confessed, aching red eyes gazing out at the gray-blue Pacific. “I’ve been awake for weeks, it seems.”

  “Just like old times,” Trinidad joked.

  It took Porsche a moment to decipher the joke.

  “What was that lullaby?” he inquired. “The one about the sun…”

  She pursed her lips, waiting for the words to come.

  Then Trinidad was singing for both of them, his voice smooth and soft, like a warm nest of freshly cut felt grass. ‘Do not fear the sun,’ he sang, in mangled jarrtee. ‘Do not fear the sun, because it fears you, child. You, you, you. Do not fear the day, child, because it flees you when you awaken. And always, child, trust the night—’

  “‘—because it is yours, yours, yours,’” she managed, almost laughing. “‘Always trust the dark, because it is ours, ours, ours!’”

  “You do remember!”

  “Always,” she whispered.

  Night was sweeping across the world, reaching straight for Porsche. But before the sun could set behind their plane, her eyes had fallen shut, and her head dipped, and a pillow was Velcroed to her seat, supporting her head, its resident soul bathed in dreams.

  She was still sound asleep when the wheels touched down, screaming against the hard white concrete.

  Eyes fought gravity and the lingering, toxic fatigue.

  It was day again. Early morning?

  Trinidad glanced at her, not quite smiling. “We’ve arrived.”

  Nathan was awake and sitting behind Porsche, appearing rested but no less worried. Where were they? Squinting, she watched the flat land and the blurring shape of a metal outbuilding. It was a familiar building, and for a sleepy instant, in confusion, she thought they were back at the farm—an impossibility that kicked her into a useful panic. Then she was genuinely awake, realizing they were in Texas. This was the acculturation center. This is where she learned to be a good human, and it was the perfect place to assemble, then get on with the business of making things right.

  The plane had slowed enough to turn, leaving the runway, several ranch buildings straight ahead of them, all in lousy repair.

  People were standing in front of the old bunkhouse.

  “Who are they?” Nathan inquired.

  Mama-ma, and Father. And Leon, and Donald. Their spouses and children were flanking them. It was as if they were posing for a family portrait, everyone holding still until Porsche arrived. There were other faces, too. People who had come to help, no doubt. But instead of feeling thankful, Porsche suddenly pitched forward in her seat and began to tremble, only half-listening as Trinidad said, “It’s good that you woke up,” with a strange flat voice that seemed to persist long after his mouth had closed again.

  Two more faces captured her gaze.

  She had seen that nameless man just yesterday, although it felt like months ago. She had seen him sitting in that sportsman’s toy, wearing a ridiculous fishing vest and those deadly and very hard little eyes.

  In contrast, the gray-haired woman standing off to one side had a name.

  F. Smith.

  Farrah to her friends, if she happened to have any.

  What startled more than anything was how easily Porsche accepted this revelation, balancing it on top of other revelations. She barely made a sound, even when F. Smith made a gesture, giving a command, others being herded into view.

  As the jets cut back and died, Trinidad turned, speaking to Nathan. “Remember the hope that we’d make some arrangement with our enemies? Well, that’s what has happened. A good sturdy arrangement that benefits all parties. Assuming that everything goes well, of course.”

  Porsche watched her family part, allowing two more guests to walk slowly out into the sunshine.

  Nathan cried out.

  Cornell’s face wore a vivid purple bruise, and he carried one arm gingerly against his side. Gazing up at the plane, he saw Porsche sitting in the cockpit, and she dropped her eyes immediately, staring at her own big hands and feet, taking a couple ragged breaths before saying:

  “You’re him, aren’t you?”

  “Him who?”

  “The traitor.”

  Her cousin threw a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed, saying, “Do you remember? On Jarrtee, there’s no such word as traitor.”

  It was always plural.

  Always traitors.

  “‘One does wrong,’” he quoted with his very best jarrtee, “‘and surrounding the criminal are a thousand others, all busily looking the other way.’”

  3

  Three people were sitting at a long rectangular table, keeping as far apart as possible.

  “It’s good to be with you again, Miss Neal.”

  Silence.

  “You look fit. As always.”

  Nothing.

  “And mortified. But I guess under these circumstances, that’s to be expected.”

  She kept her eyes down, giving nothing away.

  “Your cousin tells me that you took a very roundabout route back to us. I’d love to hear about your adventures.”

  Porsche stared at the much shellacked, much abused tabletop. Years ago, she had sat at the same table, in the same cavernous, concrete-floored room, forced hypnosis feeding her a diet of cultural trivia. Television programs and famous personalities were staples; but if memory held true, this was where she had learned about communism. Particularly in Texas, that dying political faith was still loathed for its war on freedom. And now she was being held prisoner in the same room, by a supposedly democratic government. The irony, however feeble, made her break a little smile, and almost by accident, she looked up.

/>   F. Smith was waiting.

  “I know you have questions, Miss Neal. Feel free. That’s what we’re here for.”

  There were several minutes of unbroken silence, then Porsche turned, focusing squarely on Trinidad.

  “Why?”

  A broad, thoroughly unchastened grin blossomed on the handsome face, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Make a list of possible reasons,” he offered. “Every one of them is a little bit true.”

  “You should know this,” F. Smith interjected. “Your cousin has told us very little about your extended family, and almost nothing about your technologies. And to our credit, my people have respected those rules. We have a relationship of faith and genuine trust.”

  Porsche stared at her interrogator.

  The woman was an imposing figure, even when she tried to reassure. Thick gray hair lay over linebacker eyes, and the deep voice matched her sturdy, don’t-ever-cross-me face. “Faith,” she repeated. “And trust. Two laudable qualities that your people have never shown us.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Said simply? It’s disturbing to learn that strangers are living among us, in secret, acquiring wealth and power while pursuing their own obscure ends.”

  “Obscure?” Porsche snorted, then made herself laugh. “Ask my cousin. We don’t harm anyone—”

  “And I’m sure you’re sincere.” The bulldog face nodded, eyes unblinking. “I’m sure. Yet you can imagine a reasonable person’s concerns. An advanced culture moves into this world, makes no attempt to contact us, and we learn about them only by chance. Which makes me wonder: Aren’t we within our rights to take precautions?” She paused. “Assume, dear, that these roles were reversed. How would you react?”

  “Would I take your family hostage? Never!”

  F. Smith was the sturdiest piece of furniture in the room. After a long silence, she simply cleared her throat, then said, “I’ve always liked you. I mean that.”

  “We don’t pose a threat to anyone.”

  “Comforting words, at first glance.” She lifted her hands, flexed them, and laid them on the tabletop. “Okay, you’re benign. But benign is a word applied to tumors. Benign tissue is never confused for a vital organ.”