Greg Bear - Quantico

For this final job, Tommy had specified one particular printer model, with finer dots-per-inch capability than the models he had used in 2000. Week after week, for ten months Tommy had filled four hundred ink cartridges with slurry, walking up and down the rows in his plastic suit, carrying the glass plates to the collection chamber…and the sealed bottles containing fine powder to a metal shed next to the barn, where they had been loaded into crates ready for transport. Still, it had not been enough.

Ambition had forced Sam to find a partner, to seek a testing area even more remote than the winery, and to plan for another factory.

If they had been able to deliver the printers to Washington state-

If the Patriarch’s estate had not been raided-

Those plans had collapsed with two quick blows. Having tasted failure for the first time, Sam had no way of knowing all of Tommy’s thoughts, his concerns. He had been dealing with the Boy from Another Planet for so long that he had almost let down his guard. But now he was certain that Tommy’s plans had changed, and he needed to know why-and how.

The barn looked as it had for the last two years. Sam circled the sheeted areas, lightly stroking the rippling plastic with his gloved hand. Nothing new, nothing obvious. What was he missing?

A rear door to a storage closet attracted his attention. The door had been opened recently. Visqueen had been pulled back and taped up. Sam examined the deadbolt keypad latch. That was new. Tommy had never locked anything before. Sam couldn’t just break open the lock. He poked at the keypad in frustration, without result, then turned to leave.

On the opposite side of the door he heard a scratching sound, weak whining, then a steady, rhythmic thump-tick.

He examined the keypad again. He tried Tommy’s birthdate. No go. Then Sam punched in 09-enter-11-enter-01, the date Tommy believed had signaled the world’s descent into noisy madness.

The day that Tommy had decided anything he could do to strike out, strike back, would be fully justified.

The door clicked. Sam pulled it open.

Inside was a brown dog, a beagle-terrier bitch with jutting ribs and staring brown eyes. In the half-dark, the dog fixed on Sam as she paced in a quick, tight circle. She could not stop circling despite her fear, her eagerness to escape.

In opposite corners lay two other dogs, eyes glassy and legs straight, black blood sludging from their noses and rectums. They were dead. Sickened, Sam closed the door and locked it.

He walked back to the entrance, pulled off his suit, and returned to the porch.

Tommy had been the means to an end and Sam had played his part well, convincing even himself sometimes. Over the years, so long as Tommy had been vulnerable, cooperative, and open, Sam had almost forgotten what Tommy actually was.

He walked over a packed dirt road through the vineyards to the metal shed north of the warehouse. Inside the shed twenty neat wooden crates lay stacked on pallets on a concrete floor. Each crate contained ten starburst shells assembled at the Patriarch’s farm over the last year, shrink-wrapped and cushioned in shredded newspaper and sawdust

Sam took a handcart and hauled two crates at a time to the garage. It was almost eleven but Tommy was still asleep.

In the garage Sam loaded the crates into the back of the horse trailer, stacking them against a welded metal bulkhead that separated the rear storage area from the launcher.

Tommy’s improved productivity no longer mattered. Time was short. They had enough for one test and two prime objectives. Rome would have to be given a pass. Sam had already picked out the test city. A town nobody would remember.

A town it might be good to forget.

When he had finished loading the trailer Sam looked in on Tommy’s small bedroom. The boy-man lay on his stomach in the twin bed and made a faint ‘snuck’ at the end of each whistling intake of breath. He sounded like an old dog. On a small nightstand Tommy had propped four ponderous veterinarian’s texts on the diseases of cattle. Walls not obscured by bookcases were covered with posters and magazine photos of one woman: Jennifer Lopez. Tommy had first read about J-Lo in his mother’s copies of The National Enquirer . Somehow many years ago she had become Tommy’s ideal and to this day he remained faithful to her.

Tommy had caused so much grief.

But Tommy had not caused Sam’s grief.

The sun shone through the branches of the old oaks east of the house.

‘I’m awake now.’ Tommy walked through the French doors and stood on the porch beside Sam. He twisted slowly back and forth on his ankles. He was wearing boxer shorts and a tie-dyed t-shirt. He had something ‘on his mind.’

‘I guess if you have a lot of money, women will pay attention to you,’ Tommy said. ‘That’s what I hear. Is it true?’

‘I suppose it is. Some women.’

‘Have you “ given any thought” ,’ Tommy marked out these words with crooked finger-quotes, ‘to maybe asking for money not to do the things we’re doing?’

Sam paused before answering. It might or might not be a serious question. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Well, we could bring in a lot of money, but I haven’t figured out how, because the way I “ think it through ” we’d probably get caught trying to spend it.’

‘Probably,’ Sam said.

‘The whole world’s fighting and we’ll help them stop fighting. It’ll be a lot quieter. That’s worth something, isn’t it? I’ve learned a lot from you, Sam.’

‘You’re my main guy, Tommy.’

‘Yes. For now.’ Tommy sat on the wicker chair beside Sam. ‘But after we’re done I’m afraid you’ll just move on. I’d like to work with you on the next thing, whatever it is.’

‘I’d like to work with you too.’

‘Maybe it could be something about making money so I could have some sort of life. But whatever, Sam, you’re not telling me what it is.’

‘I’m still thinking.’

Tommy rushed to add his own air quotes as Sam said ‘thinking.’

‘But you’ll be in on it,’ Sam said. ‘I want you to feel important.’

‘I am important.’ Tommy moved his large head back and forth, wispy long hair dancing around his eyes. ‘But I’m a grown man and I’ve never been to bed with…slept with…anybody, a woman. I suppose that isn’t so important, but you seem to think it is.’

‘Do you want to sleep with a woman?’

Tommy snickered. ‘I’d like to do more than just “ sleep ”, Sam.’

‘Of course,’ Sam said.

Tommy’s face went from puzzled to smooth. ‘Tell me how noisy it is out there, everybody arguing. We’ll make it quiet again, won’t we, Sam?’

‘We’ll sure try.’

‘So tell me again. Tell me the story.’

Sam took a small breath, keeping his face neutral. ‘It’s a deeply troubled time we’re living in, filled with lies,’ Sam began. ‘Everybody’s stuck in history.’

‘Like elephants in a tar pit,’ Tommy said, following the formula.

‘Exactly. Nobody knows how to escape because lies and hatred are like tar. You understand that, Tommy.’

‘You hate and you lie and you get stuck.’

‘Right. And nobody knows how to pull themselves out. They’re all stuck.’

‘They lie about God. God is like tar.’

Sam nodded. ‘For these people, God is hatred. God used to be about love.’

‘Lizard Mommy and Daddy used to be about love,’ Tommy said, almost crooning. ‘Trouble made them hate and lie.’

‘So many people need doctors to cut out the hate. We’re the doctors.’

‘We’re performing surgery. We’ll cut out the hate.’

‘Surgery is delicate and loving, even when you have to cut. Surgery preserves life.’