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NOW...
"History is littered with wars that everybody knew would never happen"
- Enoch Powell
I'm watching the grass grow. It's about as interesting as it sounds, only without any of the connotations of serenity and enlightenment that might be associated with the concept of watching grass grow.
To be honest, I'm not really watching the grass grow. I would be, but the grass isn't growing. It's dormant, now, as are so many things this time of year.
Camp Parker lies quiet beneath an overcast sky, and it's starting to snow: just a few tiny, feathery flakes that melt almost before they hit the ground, but it's honest-to-goodness snow, sure enough.
Ever since we let the Spectrans shoot off that damned X-3 missile that wrought havoc with the Earth's Van Allen belt, the climate has been a little screwy. While it's true that the Van Allen belt was restored and atmospheric radiation levels returned to normal, the environmental damage was massive, and the Earth heals slowly.
On the up side, a lot of the people who questioned the wisdom of war with Planet Spectra changed their minds when it became fairly obvious that Zoltar was playing interstellar hard ball. It made my job a little easier from a PR point of view. The frequent probing questions in media interviews became less frequent and less probing.
On the down side, PR wise, I gained a certain notoriety, both in the media and in political circles, when I sealed off the Council chamber and initiated a media blackout so that we couldn't surrender until G-Force had been given a chance to pull the Federation's proverbial chestnut out of the fire.
The general consensus is that it took balls, not only to pull it off, but to survive the political aftermath. I'll never admit it publicly, but that day, when I found myself staring down the barrel of unconditional surrender to Spectra, it was the closest I've come to full blown panic in my life.
There remains a minority -- a vocal one -- which believes we should be extending the hand of friendship to Spectra, offering aid, support and assistance in finding them a new home so that the Spectrans won't feel the need to continue hostilities. This vocal minority maintains that had the Federation initiated a peaceful solution to Spectra's woes in the first place, Zoltar would never have been 'forced' to unleash the X-3 on Earth. (As if Spectra hadn't spent the last twenty years developing their invasion plans!)
The thing is, Zoltar's preferred relocation address is already occupied. By us. And I for one am not leaving.
In terms of pure economics, invading Earth is probably cheaper in the long run than paying the levies, taxes and loan interest that the Federation would impose on Spectra if we went about things peaceably. That equation only holds water, however, if you completely disregard the value of human life, be it Homo sapiens terrai or Homo sapiens spectrai.
On the face of it, this seems to be one of the big differences between Terran and Spectran societal values: we (the alleged good guys) are supposed to place far more value on both the sovereignty and the rights of the individual, whereas they (the alleged bad guys) consider individuals expendable as long as their sacrifice benefits the greater (Spectran) good.
The trouble with taking things like this at face value is that face value is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
There are significant cultural differences between Earth and Spectra, and many of our values seem, if not actually diametrically opposed, then at least difficult to reconcile. But does that make the Spectrans wrong? Does it make them bad? And how do we arrive at the converse conclusion that it makes us right, or good?
What I know beyond doubt is that regardless of the sociological arguments, I will fight to the death to defend my home and my family. There's no logic to that, no left brained proof, no winning argument, just a plain good old-fashioned visceral reaction to having my planet invaded.
Not that I would ever offer that as an answer to a media question.
But it's what lies beneath everything I do.
Balls and guts, is that the key? All those years and late nights spent getting my biomedical engineering doctorate, then more years clawing my way up the Galaxy Security ladder and it all comes down to balls and guts.
It's a good thing I've got a sense of humour.
Over the past couple of months, I've needed it.
It would appear that my infamy has earned me a place at the top of Zoltar's hit list. I'm recovering from not one but two consecutive assassination attempts. It'll be at least a week before my office in the City is habitable again. (The last skirmish involved some high calibre ordnance and a jet copter, but that's another story.)
I don't like to admit that all of this has hit me harder than I first thought. Under normal circumstances, I'd come back out of my corner swinging, but here I am, sitting on the porch like an old man, feeling physically depleted and mentally caged. Maybe I need to face up to the fact that I'm nearly fifty, am recovering from a heart attack, and shouldn't expect to bounce back the way I used to. What's it supposed to feel like, anyway, being nearly fifty? I hope it's not supposed to feel like this.
A security officer prowls the grounds about thirty yards away. It's Lieutenant Patrick, a slip of a girl only a couple of years older than Princess. I've seen her exchanging lingering looks with Jason a few times. Was I ever that young?
It's at times like this, I'm led to believe, that people reassess their lives.
It might well be true. Since my MI, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the choices I made and the events that led up to them. How, for instance, did a man like me end up responsible for five kids? I don't even like children. And now I send them out into combat on a regular basis and worry myself sick every time I do.
THEN...
"There is more stupidity than hydrogen in the universe, and it has a longer shelf life."
- Frank Zappa
It started almost seventeen years ago, when I was Assistant Director Special Projects. I was still overseeing the development of the cerebonic programme and had given field work away, having finally got it out of my system.
Jacqui Snowden, the Assistant Director Intel, had taken a year's maternity leave, and Conway put me into the job as Acting Assistant Director. This put a few noses out of joint given that there were a couple of people with more field experience than I had, who "deserved" the position more than I did, but for the time being, at least, I was Conway's golden boy. It was a status that didn't sit easily with me, but I was prepared to live with it if it meant he continued to support my research. I kept a death grip over the cerebonic programme. It was my baby.
The move into Jacqui's chair threw me back in with my old cronies from my field days, and they regarded me with the same old suspicion: the science geek was back. I'd been back in the lab for almost three years since my last field assignment, and that's a long time for those active in the Intelligence Division.
My old partner Marshall Hawking called by on my first day to put me in my place. He sauntered into my office unannounced and uninvited, wearing that arrogant little smile that I remembered from so many operations.
"Looks like you're moving up in the world, my friend," he said, sitting down in one of the visitors' chairs and putting his feet up on my desk. He had one of those light, smooth voices, and used it well. He could be conveying a hundred meanings with any given phrase, or nothing at all. It was almost impossible to tell with him.
I peered over the tops of my spectacles at him. It didn't improve my focus but it was good for effect. "You know, I hate it when you do that," I said. I maintained eye contact until he put his feet back on the floor and settled himself in the chair.
"You've got the managerial stare down pat, at any rate," he remarked, unfazed.
"No," I said, "that's the interrogator's stare. I learned it from you, remember? It's called transfer of skills."
He chuckled, his features relaxing in to a smile. "You're not turning into a suit, are you, David?" he asked me.
"Is that better or worse than being a lab coat?" I parried.
"A hundred times worse," he said.
"I'll tell you what, Marsh," I said. "I'll refrain from acting like a suit if you drop the act and treat me like a human being instead of an obstacle to be overcome. Deal?"
"You're still wet behind the ears," he said.
"And you're still so far up your own ass, it's a wonder you can walk," I said. "Do we have a deal, or don't we?"
"Deal," he said, chuckling.
"Good. Now unless you have something relevant to talk about, get the hell out of my office before I assign you to a desk."
"You really know how to hurt a guy," he said.
"It's my job," I retorted.
"Yes," he agreed, sobering. "Yes, I suppose it is."
With Marsh, you always had to prove you could pee as high up the tree as he could. When we'd worked together in the field, Marsh always assumed that he needed to watch my back, always assumed that the science geek needed to be taken care of, always taken the lead. A study of our mission stats shows that I held my own. I never had Marsh's flair, though. I learned a lot from him about people: how to read them, how to make them think I knew things they didn't, how to manipulate them, and -- significantly, to my mind -- how to keep them from killing me. If he learned anything from me, he never mentioned it.
Now that I was back in his sphere of influence, he once again acted as though I needed looking out for, despite the fact that I was now a superior officer. I thanked him, ignored most of what he said, and got on with the job.
"You could turn out all right," he told me one day as we were leaving the office. "For a suit," he added.
"Coming from you, that's high praise," I said. Once we were clear of the building, he lit up a cigarette. I waved tendrils of smoke away with a grimace. "Those things'll kill you," I predicted.
"What's the statistical likelihood of that?" he laughed, and drew deeply on the noxious thing as we crossed ISO Plaza.
He was right, as it turned out.
NOW...
"Few things are harder to put up with than a good example."
- Mark Twain
My eye is drawn to movement down by the lake. Lieutenant Patrick's CO, Major Alberta Jones, strolls along the shore, a long beige overcoat and scarf thrown over civilian pants and sweater. She must have arrived on this morning's transport from the City, having taken a couple of days off after the assassination attempt. Al is mostly unflappable. She'd like people to think she's completely unflappable, but it's only that she does a pretty good job of maintaining what she calls "a stiff upper lip" while she's coming apart at the seams.
She takes the path up the gentle rise to the house, waving an acknowledgement to Lieutenant Patrick. As she reaches the porch, she greets me with a rare smile.
"I didn't think you were on duty until third watch," I say.
"I'm not, sir," she agrees. That explains why she isn't in uniform. "I was going for a walk and I thought you might care to join me. If this snow gets heavier, there might not be many more chances."
I see. I'm aware of a spur of irritation. She's being charitable. Acting on orders from Dr Halloran, no doubt, to ensure I get sufficient amounts of exercise and rest and so on. I'm inclined to refuse on principle, but at the same time I know how stupidly self defeating it would be to just sit here and continue to be bored.
I'm already wearing a coat against the chill, so I get to my feet and I realise how cramped I am. I haven't done nearly enough walking, the last few days, wanting only to crawl under a rock and stay there.
"Were you really going for a walk," I ask as we start down the path, "or is this part of the overall conspiracy to nurse me back to health?" I regret my words immediately: I sound like a petulant, grumpy old fart.
"Yes to both, sir," she says, seemingly unfazed by my cranky disposition. She signals Lieutenant Patrick with a wave of one hand and indicates that we're heading toward the lake. Patrick unhooks her palm unit from her belt and speaks into it, doubtless mustering the second watch officer to join her as she follows at a discreet distance.
THEN...
"Friends may come and go, but enemies accumulate."
- Thomas Jones
Disaster struck when Spectran agents launched a series of attacks on Galaxy Security personnel. Senior operatives and executives were targeted, including me and Marshall. I escaped with a green stick fracture to the radius after a team ambushed me in the parking lot of my apartment block. An attack on Security Chief Conway was foiled by his bodyguard, who wound up in hospital. Several people, including the Director Counter Espionage, were killed in car bomb attacks.
A grenade was thrown through the front window of the Hawking house. Marshall sustained burns and abrasions. Rhia, however, wasn't so lucky. She was left in a coma with severe head injuries. Their son Mark, who had been playing in the nursery at the other end of the house, was mercifully unharmed.
Things suddenly seemed more real. The Spectrans had raised the temperature of our cold war. A sense of grim determination settled over the organisation.
A lot of man hours went into analysing the situation, and a plan for placing more long term sleeper agents in strategic positions was formed.
Marsh volunteered for one of the most dangerous missions: that of coordinating our long term counter espionage interests on Riga. I threatened to veto it. "You have a wife still in the hospital and a three year old son," I pointed out, barely able to believe that I held his mission proposal in my hand.
"I also have a score to settle," he added.
"What are you going to tell Rhia?" I demanded.
"Dave..." My friend swallowed and clenched his teeth. "Have you seen Rhia's medical file?"
"No," I said.
"They've done brain scans," he said. "If she wakes up -- not when but if -- she might not even remember me. Her cognitive functions are impaired, her memory's shot. I'm going to tell them to take her off life support. She wouldn't want to live like this."
For a long moment I sat motionless, the weight of his words pressing me into the chair. Rhia, a former Rigan Intelligence agent, had been a vivacious, active woman. I could believe that she would have wanted a clean exit, but there was still Mark, and I managed to say as much.
"This is for Mark," he said.
"Bullshit," I said. "I'll call for a psych evaluation. They'll put you on administrative leave. You may hate me for it, but I can't let you do this."
He smiled at me. "Get all the shrink reports you want. I've already been to Chief Conway. You've got a lot to learn about being a ruthless bastard, my friend."
"I'll find a way to stop you," I said.
"You can't," he said.
"Watch me," I said.
Out of courtesy, I went and saw my immediate superior Dan Isaacs, the Director Intelligence, first. He reviewed Marshall's personnel file and concurred with me that it would be better to send someone else. "This plan of his," he said, "reads like a B-grade movie plot."
Conway, however, thought otherwise, and Conway sat at the top of our particular food chain.
"Hawking's the best man for the job," he told me.
"Not in his present state of mind, he isn't," I maintained.
"We'll give him six months before we commit to an assignment," Conway said. "In the meantime, you'll turn that B-grade movie plot into a working mission outline, Anderson. Dismissed."
A better man would have argued. A better man would have made a stand. I had six months to try and talk Marsh out of it. I followed my orders.
Marsh left Mark with me when he went to the hospital to turn off Rhia's life support. I had no idea what to do or say to a three year old who didn't understand that he was about to lose his mother. The worst thing was looking at his face: he had his mother's eyes. I took him for ice cream and we visited the zoo on the very basic assumption that all children like the zoo. Mark gazed idly at the primates, the ungulates and the reptiles. He was entranced by the finches and laughed at the parrots. We spent a solid forty minutes in front of the raptor display. The boy refused to budge. "Martial Eagle," he said, pointing at a huge bird with talons like industrial grapples. "Named after my papa."
"Pretty close," I agreed dubiously. I wondered if Marshall had made the claim or whether Mark had joined the dots by himself.
My phone rang. It was Marsh. "She's holding her own," he said brokenly. "She's breathing by herself. They say she'll probably live."
"I'll bring Mark over," I said.
"No," he said. "Don't. Just let me be with her for a while. Can Mark stay with you tonight?"
"I guess so," I said, without thinking.
Mark hated my cooking. I couldn't blame him. In those days, I could burn a boiled egg. (Nowadays, I'm marginally more competent, but I can still burn a boiled egg if I don't concentrate.) I downloaded a children's movie from the 'net -- something animated with a lot of repetitive music in it -- then put him to bed in the spare room wrapped up in one of my t-shirts in lieu of PJs and hoped for the best.
I was woken up the next morning by a very small hand shaking my elbow. "Can I have a glass of milk?" Mark asked. "Please?"
"Yeah... sure..." I fumbled for my glasses, and he passed them to me, leaving murky little fingerprints all over the lenses. "Thanks," I said. I pulled on my robe and we went to the kitchen. It was four thirty. "Do you usually get up this early?" I asked.
"No," he said solemnly, and fell silent, gulping his milk. I sat and watched him, utterly bemused and acutely aware that I didn't have a clue when it came to small children.
Over the next several months, Mark and I found ourselves spending time together while Marshall sat with Rhia. She couldn't speak, and it was hard to say whether or not she knew what was happening.
Looking at Marshall, I knew it would have been easier on both of them had Rhia died in the attack. It was a terrible thought, but the truth isn't always pleasant.
Mark and I discovered the aquarium, the museum, the botanic gardens, the movies and just about every children's attraction in Center City. My level of panic decreased, I developed some new coping skills, and I learned that small children have an ungodly affinity for mucous and anything sticky. I joined the ranks of those individuals who believe that if there is a God, then pre-moistened towelettes are a Gift from Him, Her, or It, as the case may be.
NOW...
"If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough."
- Mario Andretti
"Thank you for thinking of me," I say to Al, in the hope that I might begin to atone for my lack of manners. "I haven't exactly been scintillating company, lately."
She gives me a frankly incredulous glance before catching herself and looking politely out over the lake. Yes, it was an apology, Major. Don't rub it in...
"There seems to be a lot more snow this year," she remarks. She's so tactful, sometimes, I'd like to shake her. "Don't you think, sir?"
"Yes, there is," I say. "The meteorologists say it'll be another five to ten years before the climate stabilises again. The environmental lobby can't figure out who to sue." I allow myself a cynical exhalation of breath which turns to mist in the cold air.
"Pity we can't send the environmental lobby to Spectra to stage a protest, sir," Jones quips.
"Believe me, I'd like to," I tell her, "but somehow I don't seem to be able to convince them to make the one way trip."
Jones actually smiles. That's the second time in ten minutes. She catches me looking at her and the smile becomes self-conscious. "What?" she demands, almost, but not quite laughing at me.
"You seem... different," I grope for words.
"You did order me to lighten up," she reminds me.
"I thought you said you wouldn't be good at it," I recall.
"I didn't think I would be, sir." She thrusts her hands in her pockets and tosses her head, shaking glittering snowflakes and tiny, bright droplets of water out of her hair. Leaning toward me, she adopts a conspiratorial whisper: "Don't tell Lieutenant Falcone. I'd hate to disillusion him." I find myself smiling.
THEN...
"If Stupidity got us into this mess, then why can't it get us out?"
- Will Rogers
Marsh had his way in the end. He always did. "You should have known better than to try and stop me," he said.
"I had to try," I said.
"I'm the best man for this job," he reminded me. "I know Riga. I know her people. I know you don't understand, but this is for Rhia, and for Mark. If I don't do this, it'll all be for nothing."
"You're right," I said. "I don't understand." But I sent him, with his B-grade movie plot refined and reworked into a long term mission outline. I'd done my best work on it. He made me promise to take care of Rhia and Mark.
When Jacqui Snowden returned to work, I was more than happy to hand back the Assistant Directorship and return to my substantive position. I'd helped to fake my best friend's death, then discovered that he'd been serious when he'd exhorted me to take care of his family: he'd nominated me as Mark's legal guardian in his will. Rhia, in a nursing home, now, couldn't even say her own name, let alone raise a child. I took Mark to see her once a week and tried to explain what had happened, using the cover story we'd devised. I didn't know whether or not she was able to comprehend what I was telling her.
I buried myself in the cerebonic programme: my old lab coat had never seemed so comfortable.
Although I was single and had no time to devote to changing that particular state of affairs, part of my package with Galaxy Security included a three bedroom apartment in a secure block riddled with ISO personnel. I used the main bedroom for sleeping in (and little else apart from reading, it pains me to say) converted the second into a study, where I seemed to spend most of my time, and the third had been set up as a spare room for when my older brother James was Earthside. James had been a G-Sec field agent. He'd been killed on an off world assignment two years earlier. I'd never done anything about the room, and now I was obliged to face my ghosts and pack Jay's things away. He'd only ever left a few items with me: an overnight bag with a couple of changes of clothes, a small box of keepsakes and some photo disks. I thought I'd done my grieving, but putting those few little items away in the closet brought everything flooding back.
I'd been eight and Jay ten when we lost our parents. I couldn't say whether being orphaned was harder for Mark than it had been for us. Jay and I had each other and our formidable grandmother, who took over the raising of us. Mark had nobody but me and a mother who couldn't even smile at her own child, so I can only speculate that it must have been worse. He clung to the belief that his father was coming back and I couldn't bring myself to try and convince him that Marsh was dead. Foolishly I hoped it would all sort itself out when he was older.
It did, but not in the way I might have envisaged. I still don't know whether I should have driven home the lie. Would it have kept Mark from taking off for Riga in pursuit of a ghost? Would it have softened the blow of Cronus' unmasking? Would it have mitigated Mark's sense of loss when his father finally died for real without even a rudimentary attempt at reconciliation? Who can say? I made some terrible mistakes. Had I chosen differently, I still would have made mistakes, just a different set of them.
Since it appeared Mark and I were stuck with each other, I repainted the room (messily) and hung a print of Marshall's that Mark loved: a reproduction of a two centuries old painting of a prop-driven Supermarine Spitfire flying through cloud. I replaced the rug (it had blue paint spatters all over it), bought a large, intrusive toy box painted in cheerful colours and put in a book shelf and a small study desk.
I acquired several highly recommended books on the subjects of parenting skills, child psychology and stress management. In several of them I encountered the assertion that our species has developed childhood appeal as a survival mechanism to ensure that adults take care of those too young to fend for themselves. Mark employed this to the fullest.
Parenthood, I thought to myself, as Mark and I unpacked his things, was going to be a whole new challenge. I had to admit, he was an engaging child. He was naturally bright (I'm no geneticist but I'm certain he inherited his intellect from his mother rather than his father) and struggled to integrate concepts and ideas beyond his years. As he solemnly set a small framed family portrait on his bedside table, I found myself watching my new charge with a mixture of concern, trepidation, sheer terror and -- despite myself -- affection.
Over time, Rhia regained her power of speech, and she recognised Mark. She refused to believe that Marsh was dead. He was too good a pilot, she insisted, to die in a crash like that. They'd never found a body, therefore, he was going to turn up again somewhere, somehow, she said. This reinforced Mark's belief that Marsh would return and make everything all right again.
"My papa's coming back, one day," he declared while he watched me clean up the scattered remains of two exploded boiled eggs (I'd become engrossed in writing up some notes and breakfast had blown itself to smithereens on the stove top.)
"Mark," I said as gently as I could, "when you're older, things may seem different, but for now, could you do me a favour?"
"What?" he asked, swinging his small, sneakered feet back and forth from his perch on a kitchen stool.
"Don't mention your father to anyone else, okay? Other people might not understand."
"Even Mr Conway?" Mark was always a perceptive child.
"Especially Chief Conway," I said, and dumped a paper towel full of egg fragments in the garbage.
"I don't like Chief Conway very much," Mark said. Children, I was learning (and fast) are appallingly candid.
"Well, maybe that's just because you don't know him very well," I said, foolishly attempting to reason with the boy.
"Mommie says he's a man...ip...you... loving bastard."
I tried to think of a suitable reply. "Um, Mark?" I said. "That's not a nice word."
"What?"
"Bastard," I said. "That's not a nice word. I don't want you using it."
"What does it mean?"
"Lots of things, and none of them are good. Just don't let me hear you saying that word again, okay?"
"What about man-ip-you-loving?"
"Manipulating. When you find out what it means, you can use it."
"How do I find out what it means?"
"When you're older, you can look it up in a dictionary." I washed my hands at the sink. "We're having cereal," I informed him.
"I figured," he said.
My co-researcher Bob Halloran and I struck a problem with the cerebonic implants.
"She's rejecting," Bob said, and put his stethoscope away in his pocket. On the table, the anaesthetised female chimpanzee writhed and twitched convulsively. "Green dream?" he said.
I let my breath out in a long sigh and nodded. "It's the kindest way," I affirmed wearily. "This can't be right," I said, as a technician filled a syringe with Lethabarb.
"It's a day for waterfowl," Bob said. We had a swear jar in the cerebonic lab and were always coming up with alternatives. In this case, 'waterfowl' implied a word that rhymed with 'duck.'
"Run the computer models again," I ordered.
"David," Bob said, "we've run the models a dozen times today. All we have to show for it is three dead chimps, one on the way out and one maybe. I don't think it's the neurotransmitter balance, not on its own, anyway."
"You've got a theory?"
"The possibility of one," he said. "Maybe."
"Grab some coffee," I said, "and start talking."
Bob had been working on the computer models, and what he found appeared to sound the death knell for my lifetime's opus: cerebonics worked perfectly when all we were doing was straight central nervous system repair. At higher levels of functionality, they worked with lab rats, but complex neural systems such as those found in the higher primates 'refused' to adapt to the new pathways being forced on them by the advanced versions of the implants. It was crushing news. For a long time I sat in silent despair, unable to see past all the wasted work. For nothing more than three dead chimps, one on the way out and one maybe.
"I'm sorry," Bob said.
"Makes two of us," I mumbled.
"We could find a way," Bob started to say.
"If this were pure medical research, maybe we'd find a funding source," I said, "but G-Sec has already invested a lot of money and resources into something they want to be able to use. How many more years would it take us to solve this problem?"
Bob sagged even further in his chair. "More than even Conway would be willing to give us, I guess," he said.
"Model your theory some more," I said. "Write up a report." I got up. "And you might as well euthanise subject seventeen while you're at it. No sense in making him suffer any more than he already has."
"Look, Dave, it's not a total loss," Bob said as I started to leave. "They're still viable for medical applications. I've never seen anything like what we've been able to achieve there."
"I suppose I should be satisfied with that," I conceded.
"You suppose?" Bob shook his head. "David, we know cerebonics work when we aren't trying to boost the output beyond normal human parameters. This technology can revolutionise rehab medicine and surgery. Once the military classification's removed, it has the potential to restore quality of life for spinal patients, repair major organ damage, even replace certain neural functions for people with head injuries! Think of the good we could do!"
"You're right," I said, because he was. If Galaxy Security was prepared to relinquish the patents, or license commercial biomedical development, we could go out there and revolutionise medicine. We'd let crippled children walk again. It would probably mean a Nobel prize for medicine and our pick of just about any medical centre that could afford us. The thing was, I'd wanted to take it even further than that.
Waterfowl, indeed.
NOW...
"When choosing between two evils, I always like to try the one I've never tried before."
- Mae West
The snowflakes are getting fatter, more substantial, and are holding their thick feathery shapes where they fall. The lake is heavy with shades of grey, reflecting the sky, glinting with silver. The deciduous trees are stark, reaching skeleton fingers toward the sky and the conifers are close wrapped in greatcoats of dark green needles.
The drone of an internal combustion engine draws my gaze skyward. A tiny light aircraft sporting white, blue and red livery buzzes overhead, her pilot executing a textbook aileron roll over the top of the house before cutting the engine and beginning his base leg let-down.
I'm aware of the query in Al's eyes. "Mark," I explain. "Showing off, as usual," I add.
"Do you want to head back, sir?" she offers.
"Mark's a big boy," I decide. "He can tie his plane down by himself."
I resume walking, deliberately picking up the pace to push myself. I'm tired of feeling like an invalid. Kate Halloran says I'm lucky I was physically fit before my chemically-induced heart attack (then she frowns and says, "With the notable exception of enough work related stress to drop a horse!") I've always been acutely conscious of the need to stay healthy in order to cope with my job. I have my vices -- coffee and the occasional whisky. It occurs to me that they're pretty sorry vices because they're both substances I can indulge in while I'm working (the latter when I'm at home in the study.)
I already made one New Year's resolution: to stay out of hospital beds. It's written in shaky but emphatic scrawl in my diary: 'From now on, any time spent in beds other than my own will be for purely recreational purposes.'
I think I'll add another one: 'Cultivate new and interesting vices.'
Like most New Year's resolutions, it'll probably fall by the wayside. I wonder if this qualifies as a mid life crisis?
If this is a mid life crisis, then to fit the stereotype I'd have to buy a red sports car and run off with my secretary.
Given that a red sports car would give my security staff the horrors (when would I get to drive it, anyway? I think I've driven my sedan once in the last year) and my administrative officer is a 6'8" Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant named Miles (definitely not my type!) I think I'll have to find an alternative coping mechanism.
I suppose I could have racing stripes put on the limo.
THEN...
"If you are going through hell, keep going."
- Sir Winston Churchill
My report was almost finished. Bob and I had spent three days documenting our failure. Each word was another handful of salt in my wounds.
My office door was flung open and Bob Halloran stood there with Trixie, our last surviving chimp, in his arms. The youngster had her long forelimbs draped around his neck and rested her childlike head on his shoulder in a posture of absolute trust.
"Bob, what are you --?"
"Look at her," he said.
"Short and hairy," I said. "Same as the last time I looked. Bob, you know we're going to have to put her to sleep."
"Look at her," he insisted.
I got out of my chair, and realised what it was that I wasn't seeing. "She isn't sick," I said. "She looks fine."
"Exactly."
"She looks fine," I repeated. "What's going on?"
"Call up her chart," he told me, and I sat down again to access the medical record for subject eighteen, aka 'Trixie.' The data scrolled across my screen. "I don't believe it," I said.
"Let's get her in to the exam room," Bob suggested.
Six hours later, Trixie was asleep in her cage and Bob and I were wired on a combination of coffee and progress.
"Everything's either normal or better than normal," I concluded, frankly astonished. "She's showing no sign of rejecting her implants. Her neural pathways are adapting to the cerebonics." I flipped through a set of charts. "She's the youngest subject we've implanted with the boosted versions. Could age be the factor that makes the difference?"
"If you apply Occam's Razor," Bob said, "there aren't many other candidates." He grinned at me. "You still want to shut the programme down?"
"Get back to work, Bob," I said. We put in an all-nighter. It wasn't the first or the last, but it was one of the most memorable.
Chief Conway kept a close eye on our work. So close, he was obviously aware we were on to something. He called the next morning and asked for a progress report. Dishevelled, bleary eyed and barely coherent, Bob and I presented our interim findings. To this day, I can't remember exactly what I said.
What I do remember is driving back to the Halloran house where Mark stayed whenever Bob and I were working late. Kate had scaled back to part time locum work at various G-Sec medical facilities following the birth of the twins and was the most understanding and tolerant babysitter anyone could hope for.
Bob was still exultant, swinging Kate around in an impromptu waltz. I was merely exhausted.
Mark was sitting at the breakfast bar eating oatmeal, which was his favourite as long as I hadn't made it. (Kate insists that it's easy to make oatmeal without lumps. I have empirical evidence that suggests otherwise.) He looked at me out from under that perpetually tousled mop of dark hair, his expression one of childish concern.
He swallowed a mouthful of oatmeal, leaving a trace of it on his upper lip. "Am I supposed to yell?" he wanted to know, with some trepidation.
"Yell?" There were dots somewhere, but I couldn't even see them, let alone connect them.
"Whenever Papa came home early in the morning looking all rumply, Mommie used to yell."
I sank onto one of the Halloran's dining chairs. "I guess I do look a little rumpled," I admitted, "but yelling won't be necessary."
Mark busied himself with another spoonful of porridge. "Wh'r d' gr'n'ps g' wh'n --"
"Mark," Kate said, "don't talk with your mouth full."
Mark dealt with the oatmeal. "Where do grown ups go when you're out all night, anyway?"
"Um..." I managed.
"We," Bob said, toasting us with a cup of coffee, "were pushing back the boundaries of science, young man!" He poured a second cup and walked into the dining area with it. "Your esteemed guardian and I worked all night to change the galaxy!"
"Bob..." I began, "you know we can't talk about --"
"Dave, take it easy," Bob said. "I'm not revealing test results or projections, for crying out loud." He handed me the coffee. "Relax." He grinned and sat down.
I took the coffee and drank deeply, grateful for the comforting warmth and the rich smell, loaded with the promise of a caffeine charge to my weary system.
"So," Mark reasoned, scraping his spoon around the edges of the bowl, "when Papa was out all night, he was working?"
"Um..." I said again. I looked pleadingly at Kate for help.
"Sometimes," she said, riding to my rescue. "Not always. It's complicated."
"Grown ups always say that when they don't want to answer questions," Mark said with that disarming perceptiveness that small children seem to specialise in.
"I know," I agreed. "People say that to me all the time."
After our breakthrough, things settled down a little and I did my best to keep regular hours for Mark's sake. I was still out of my depth as far as parenting skills went, and this, together with Mark's innate cuteness, actually had certain advantages when female members of staff sought to provide support of varying kinds. The problem is that the memories which stay with me most clearly are the moments of acute and near-terminal child-related embarrassment which usually resulted in the end of a budding relationship.
This, I realised, must have been why most people got married before having children.
How Marshall must have laughed.
NOW...
"Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted."
- Albert Einstein
The path curves away from the lake and into the woods. It's very quiet, and the sounds from the base drift on the heavy air -- engines, marching feet, some drill sergeant yelling at his men and using language that has me making a mental note to mention it to Colonel Henderson, Camp Parker's CO. I don't need Keyop picking up on that kind of thing. The drill sergeant hypothesises that if one of his men had another brain, it would be lonely, only he intersperses his sentence with terms I don't usually associate with neurology.
"I must remember that one for future performance appraisals," Al says, straight faced.
"It's really not your style, Al," I tell her.
Further down the trail there are little piles of dry feed left out for wintering deer by the Environmental Officer. Camp Parker abuts a large area of National Park and there is a small herd of deer that live in the woods we use as both a training area and a buffer zone from the rest of the world. Naturally, security systems that keep human beings out also keep deer in, and since there's a significant amount of woodland, we employ two staffers to act as rangers and advisers. Keyop is on a first name basis with them and spends a lot of time trailing around with them. I've told them to send him back any time he becomes a nuisance, but they seem to like having him around.
We detour around some fresh deer droppings. It seems the feeding programme is working.
We're progressing at a good pace. I wouldn't call it brisk but we're not dawdling, either. Al gives me an appraising glance to see how I'm doing, but is too tactful to say anything.
"I'm fine. You won't have to carry me back," I say.
"If I did, sir, it would have to qualify as a Kodak moment," she speculates.
"Don't even think about it," I warn.
"Too late, sir," she says, and ducks her head to hide a smile. A gust of wind catches our coats and makes her hair flutter. She looks up at the sky through thickening snowflakes. "The weather's setting in," she says.
THEN...
"You can get more with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone."
- Al Capone
When we needed a test subject on which to base our model of the immature central nervous system, Mark seemed a natural choice.
"Will it hurt?" he asked, eyes widening.
"No," I assured him. "We're going to get you to lie on a table for a little while and take a really detailed picture of you, so you'll have to hold still, then we're going to stick some electrodes on you and get you to play some games so we can measure the electricity inside you."
"I've got eckeltricity in me?" He was appalled. The previous day, I'd given him a lecture on the dangers of sticking cutlery in the toaster.
"Electricity," I corrected. "Everyone has. We can't utilise it to power light bulbs or anything, but it's how our bodies work. We have just the right amount in us. It's when we have too much or too little that it gets to be a problem."
"Do we have wires like the toaster?"
"No," I said. "We have nerves."
"The ones you say those bas-- people -- over in Accounting are always getting on?"
"Um... sort of." I made a mental note to be a lot more circumspect about my language when I was on the phone. "I'll tell you what, when we go to the lab, Dr Bob can show you some diagrams. How about that?"
"Okay," he said. "Can I bring my plane?" Mark had a model plane, a tiny replica of the little antique taildragger his father had owned. The real thing was on blocks in a hangar at the Sport Aircraft Club.
"Sure," I said.
Aside from the computer models based on readings we took from Mark and various other children, including the Halloran brood and several of Conway's grandchildren, we continued to use lab animals. Chimpanzees being higher primates and capable of violence in their natural state, we took Trixie full circle and removed her implants after a year. She required extensive rehabilitation to retrain her neural pathways back to normal. Our current subject -- number twenty -- was far more biddable: a Saint Bernard puppy named Orion. Our only issue was that when we asked Orion to fetch a stick, he occasionally came back with a log, and tennis balls had a tendency to last about fifteen seconds. We'd given up on chew toys after the first week, and all defence training was done with a robot wearing five bite suits, one over the other. We were on our third robot, but we were demonstrating that cerebonics worked.
The applications weren't unlimited, however.
Even once we'd established that while cerebonics at 'normal' power levels could be implanted in approximately sixty percent of the prepubescent population, we found that only certain individuals had the right biological makeup to tolerate implants that boosted strength and endurance beyond normal human parameters. This took the compatibility ratio down to five percent. Even when we screened candidates with a fine toothed comb, the computer models showed that even those individuals with optimum compatibility still had a fifteen percent chance of rejection. Out of all the models we used, the one based on Mark was the one that gave us the most favourable results.
Then, once we stepped out of the laboratory and into the real world, we ran into ethics.
Sane, intelligent adults are capable of making informed choices: they can choose to join the ISO via their service of preference (Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Cosmic Space Patrol, Galaxy Security) and they can choose to participate in experimental technology programmes, such as having newly developed nanotechnology implanted in their central nervous system to turn them into super warriors.
Children can't.
"Even if we dared," Bob said, "if it got leaked... Can you imagine the backlash?"
"Some of it," I said, suppressing a shudder.
We were back to Square One.
Chief Conway summoned me to Camp Parker on a stunning spring morning, all blue skies and crisp, clean air. I caught the first available transport and found him in his private quarters, surrounded by his family, which appeared to consist mostly of a herd of grandchildren.
"Let's talk," Conway said, and left his wife holding court with the youngsters. He led me upstairs through a security checkpoint to his office, a large room with a picture window that took up most of one wall. It overlooked the man-made lake which had been named after him. "David," he said, "you've been making some impressive progress with the cerebonic programme."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"I understand you're ready to try the device on human subjects."
"Hypothetically," I qualified. "We can't expect to be allowed to experiment on children."
"Don't burn your bridges before you come to them, David," Conway said.
I struggled with the implications of Conway's words and stood there with my mouth open for a moment, then closed it again without speaking.
"Scruples?" Conway inferred. The expression on his face was a mix of amusement and exasperation.
"Children can't give informed consent --" I began.
"Their parents can," Conway said.
"We'd never get it past the ethics committees," I said.
"Ethics committees won't save this planet from invasion," Conway growled at me. "I'm disappointed in you, Anderson. I thought you were a scientist. I thought you were a patriot. I thought you were prepared to do whatever it took to defend this planet from her enemies. Isn't that what you swore to do when you took the oath and signed up for this?"
I took a step back, both mentally and physically.
"Well?" he challenged me.
"I should have stopped this a year ago," I said, thinking back to the day we thought we'd failed. I should have allowed myself to be beaten. I should have given up, should have known when to quit... But when had I ever been able to do that?
"Too late," he said with brutal honesty. "Let me bring you up to speed on the kind of intel Cronus has been sending back to us."
Cronus. It was Marsh's code name. Conway hit a control on his desk that activated the window shutters, lowered the lights and powered up the projector. He began one of the most frightening briefings of my life, the one that showed just what Spectra's plans for us entailed, the one that convinced me we needed the cerebonic programme, the one that convinced me I couldn't afford to be the moral doctor I thought I was.
Spectra had technology that was beyond ours. It had access to resources equal to our own. It had access to manpower -- slaves, conscripts and indentured labour -- in excess of our own. It had motivation: their world was slowly dying under the relentless radiation and particle bombardment of the Crab Nebula and the Federation's terms for a peaceful solution -- which were economically crippling -- had been rejected. Their new leader, an enfant terrible named Zoltar, was half generalissimo, half mystic high priest, and all fanatic.
War was inevitable.
And we would lose, unless we could find a way of neutralising their superior technology.
"I've briefed Cronus on the details of your programme," Conway told me. "He's authorised you to implant Mark with the cerebonic enhancement technology."
"What?" I was half out of my chair before I'd finished the word.
"He says it's Rhia's legacy," Conway said, refusing to flinch as my hands hit his desk.
"He's crazy!" I insisted.
"Sit down, David," Conway ordered. He kept his voice low, but there were knives in it, and I obeyed, shaking. "The boy's already been tested. He has a high compatibility rating. Implant him. Train him. If it looks like working, we'll find others. We'll stop Spectra, and if you still think the price is too high, do the math. A dozen lives, two dozen, maybe, in exchange for our entire planet. In terms of acceptable losses, we'd be getting off lightly, and you know it."
A better man might have argued. A better man might have tried to find another way.
But I didn't.
That day, something changed in me. Perhaps something died, or at the very least, shrank and withered away, wounded and cornered.
I'd been starting to see my future with Mark in it. I'd been looking at schools, even universities, wondering what he'd make of his life and how I might shape and guide it to help him reach his full potential. I'd stuck his untidy and incomprehensible crayon drawings and fingerpaintings on the refrigerator.
I'd been thinking in terms of 'us,' rather than just 'me.'
Conway and Marshall -- Cronus, as he insisted on being called, now -- had given me a short, sharp jolt back to reality.
"How can you let Conway do this?" Bob demanded after the orders came through official channels.
"I don't seem to have much say in it," I said. I felt like a broken cup, glued back together, still useable as a pencil jar but no good for anything else.
"Dave, you're Mark's legal guardian! Fight this!"
I shook my head. "There were documents," I lied, "that Marsh signed before he died. Conway has the power to do this. I can't fight it without compromising the project."
"To hell with the project!" Bob hissed. "If it were one of my kids --"
"Mark isn't my kid," I said. "That's the whole problem. If he were, I could do something, but he isn't. That's been made abundantly clear to me. The guardianship documents aren't worth the paper they're written on. I'm nothing more than a glorified supernumerary babysitter!"
"For whom? Rhia? She'll never be legally competent!"
"I've already said too much," I mumbled, and walked out of the lab.
Bob was right: I could have fought it, could have done the right thing, the moral thing. I could have blown the lid on Galaxy Security's use of human lives like so many lab rats, but I didn't.
Against the giant machine of Galaxy Security and its vast, terrifying resources, I would have lost. Not only any case I might have brought to bear concerning custody of Mark but my position, my reputation and the chance to make a difference.
At least this way, I told myself, justifying my moral cowardice, I could try to mitigate the worst of it, try to maintain some kind of continuity, some kind of control over what happened to Mark rather than leave him in the hands of the programme and Chief Conway.
I followed my orders.
NOW...
"Give me chastity and continence, but not yet."
- Saint Augustine
The clouds are getting lower and more ominous. "Mark must have been racing the storm front," I say. How very like him. His father was the same when we were young.
"I suppose the sensible thing to do would be to head back," Al says.
There is a crashing sound from the embankment above us and we turn toward it. Automatically, Al moves to protect me, positioning herself between me and whatever it is that's coming toward us. I see her reach for her sidearm, a mixture of anger and alarm flickering across her face. I pull her away, forcing the gun down.
Mark fetches up on one knee, his sonic boomerang in his hand in response to the drawn gun. "Whoa!" he says, and slips the boomerang back into his jeans pocket. "It's slippery up there."
I let my pent up breath out in a puff of vapour. I feel Alberta sag against me in relief. She's warm and very soft. "Are you okay?" I ask her. Her hair tickles my face and it occurs to me that I like the way she smells. I have no idea what perfume it is that she wears but whenever I'm close enough to her to be aware of it, it's usually mingled with the reek of gun shot residue.
"Sorry, sir," she says.
"No harm done," I say. Shooting the Commander of G-Force would have generated a lot of paperwork.
My adopted son gets to his feet, brushing snow and debris out of a mane of messy dark brown hair. He's clad in his usual jeans and t-shirt and has only his leather flying jacket to keep out the cold. A grin blossoms on his face. "Am I... interrupting something?" he asks.
I realise that I have my arm around Al and that she hasn't pulled away from me.
"No!" we both declare, separating and stepping apart in a moment of blind panic. Al shoves her gun back in its holster, pulls her coat closed around her and folds her arms, her face pale.
Running footsteps herald the arrival of my security detail. It would seem they had been following at somewhat too discreet a distance. It occurs to me to wonder why and I file the query for future reference.
"Uh... okay." Mark stamps his feet and runs one hand through his hair. "Zark said you were out here. There's a storm coming in."
"And you couldn't call?" I ask.
"Figured I could use the walk after the flight up," he says ruefully. "I didn't think I'd wind up falling down a hill." He zips up his jacket and wraps his arms around himself. "It's cold out here."
I take a deep breath to point out a number of things -
One: Of course it's cold, you young idiot, it's January, and it's snowing. On our planet, we call this 'win-ter.'
Two: You could have broken your neck coming down that embankment, and where would that have left us?
Three: Any chance I might have had to engage or attempt to engage in activity which you could conceivably have interrupted is nonexistent, thanks in no small part to your mind bogglingly tactless comment thereon.
Point three definitely shouldn't see the light of day. I exhale in a long, exasperated plume of mist.
“Yes," I say, settling for point one. "It's cold." I look him up and down. Point two: "Did you hurt yourself?"
"I'm not a kid any more," Mark says, suddenly defensive.
"And that makes you invulnerable," I say, slipping automatically into parental mode.
"That isn't what I meant," he protests.
I realise that we're both tensing for an argument and I deliberately relax.
"Let's go back to the house," I decide.
Alberta has joined the two duty security officers and is walking back with them, leaving me with Mark for company.
We traipse back along the trail with the snow falling in little flurries that leave a scattering of fluffy white crystals on the ground.
"Are you sure I wasn't interrupting something?" Mark probes.
I give him a weary look and decide that even if I'm not actually cultivating new and interesting vices right at this moment, it wouldn't hurt for the boy to think that my life is more interesting than it really is. "I'll probably never know," I tell him.