David Palmer - Emergence

Never learned what sight of me did. Voice broke. Teacher enfolded me in arms, held very close.

Whereupon, for very first time in entire life, Candy Smith-Foster — plucky girl adventurer; most promising preadolescent intellect yet discovered amongst Homo post hominem population; youngest ever holder of Sixth Degree Black Belt; resourceful, unstoppable, never-say-die superkid; conqueror of unthinkable odds, who searched out, found AAs across length, breadth of North American continent…

Fainted.

Evening when awoke. Lay in narrow bed, alone in small, tidy, unmistakably “military-looking” room. First thing to greet eyes was note taped to headboard. Stretched comfortably, pulled down, began reading.

From Teacher: apology for startling me; promise to explain everything at tonight’s meeting…

Teacher…! Memory flooded in. Sat bolt upright — in process discovering attire limited to birthday suit — stared at note as if might bite. But how… what…

Saved from further blithering by gentle knock on door.

Pulled sheet up around chin; managed, “C-c-come in.”

Door opened, woman entered. Perhaps 15 years older than self; tall, marvelous figure; carriage bespoke flawlessly fine-trained physique: Moved with unconscious power, effortless grace of panther. Richly glowing dark hair, bangs in front, rest in waist-length ponytail. Startlingly beautiful features radiated intrinsic warmth; currently wore tentative, gently concerned smile. Reminded me of Kim. Liked her on sight. (But would kill to look like that!)

Bundle under arm proved to be my clothes, now clean, dry, neatly folded — badly needed attentions after two exciting, sweaty days.

But sight of completed laundry started wheels turning in head: Must have been out of circulation for several hours minimum; which deduction led to remembering shameful fluttering-ingénue performance upon seeing Teacher; which in turn again recalled incredible shock of seeing Teacher — alive …!

Woman took in expression, posture, paper, trembling hands, all in single glance; correctly evaluated problem. Smile broadened, became infectious grin, as placed clothing on bed. “My guess is that you haven’t had much experience meeting ghosts,” she offered by way of greeting. Scooted bedside chair close; settled in for cozy chat.

“Teacher asked me to apologize for him,” she went on, as I stared blankly. “He knows he gave you quite a shock, and he’s terribly sorry. But he’s been totally immersed in the project, and your arrival so startled him…”

(Quickly bit lip; stifled momentary impulse to burst out in hysterical laughter — she thought he was startled!)

“…and he was so overjoyed to see you, that he forgot, in the excitement of the moment, the impression you must have gotten from the letter he’d left for you with the Tarzan File — at the time, of course, that’s pretty much the impression he had himself.

“I’m Gayle Kinnart, by the way,” she continued sociably. “I’m one of Teacher’s official AA guinea pigs. Until you turned up I was one of his prize exhibits.”

Flashed engaging grin, evoking image of mischievous eight-year-old tomboy — then looking nothing like Ph.D.-five-times-over rebel who met American Bar on own turf, stomped into ground in head-on clash before Supreme Court!

“Your test results created quite a stir among our little group,” she added cheerfully. “No one had an explanation for you. Your upbringing wasn’t even close to AA standards; your intellectual development violated all the rules. Of course, Teacher always has said that you never had much use for rules.

“I’m supposed to bring you to the meeting, incidentally. Teacher wanted to be here when you woke up, but he’s so busy…” Expression clouded briefly. “We all are, actually, and time is so short — but Teacher’s been doing the work of five of us. I’m just coming on duty and I promised to bring you along. I gather you just this minute woke up?”

Nodded vaguely. Things moving too fast; having trouble keeping up. Most of all, having trouble focusing on discussion: Single unanswered question kept intruding, clamoring for answer, derailing extraneous thoughts. Took deep breath, stilled emotions long enough to regroup faculties, assemble something resembling coherent thought: “Wait a minute! I didn’t think any Homo sapiens were left; how did Teacher survive?”

Grin returned. “He was more surprised about that than anyone. He was so desperately ill immediately following the attack that he thought for sure he’d contracted the plague along with all the rest of H. sapiens. We all thought so: He certainly had all the symptoms; it seemed the obvious explanation. But you’ll never guess what it turned out to be…”

Gayle paused, eyes dancing. “ Food poisoning…!” she marveled. “Not a disease entity at all; merely ingestion of a toxin. To that even we aren’t immune.

“For three days he was hardly able to hold up his head — and of course he still insisted upon working nonstop, expecting to run out of time any second. We did our best, of course, treating him, trying to make his final hours comfortable. But we were as amazed as he was when he started to show improvement.

“Peter’s the one who figured it out. Teacher had been at it for about 80 consecutive hours by then; and he was a little punchy, muttering to himself as he worked, wondering what on Earth was keeping him alive. Peter looked up from his own console, did sort of a double take, stared thoughtfully for a moment, then asked him if he’d ever been hominem-screened himself.

“I was there, and I’ll never forget the sight of Teacher’s face at that moment. Can you believe that, after working on the hominem study for close to 30 years, it never once occurred to him to wonder why he’d never been sick himself?” Gayle had nice laugh; reminded me of Momma Foster’s.

“It was difficult, as busy as we all are, managing to squeeze in time to run even a few preliminary tests, but they all turned out positive. Which weakens the case for the 1918-19 flu pandemic theory, though surely that bug has been around, in isolated cases, for… ”

Interrupting is rude, I know. But with gun at head couldn’t have held tongue just then. Obvious which direction explanation heading even at outset; mind already racing ahead, remembering someone else whom had never seen, heard of, being sick: “If Teacher’s one of us, how about Daddy ? You know, Dr. Foster — is he here? Has anybody heard anything from him? Could he be…” Voice trailed off at Gayle’s expression.

“I’m sorry, Candy. No one I’ve talked with has seen or heard of Dr. Foster since about two hours before the attack. He was at the Pentagon. And they used surface-targeted missiles on Washington, you know.”

I nodded. Hadn’t really expected. Just hoped.

And still hoped, dammitall! Daddy much too smart to get caught like that, with everybody expecting attack from moment to moment. Two hours ample time to get out of range. Just matter of finding him. If alive. As well might be. As very well might be.

And is — I knew it! Would find him. Someday. Somewhere. Somehow…

“I hope you do find him, Candy,” Gayle said softly. “I haven’t given up hope either. My fiancé was at that conference. But there hasn’t been time…”

Decided to change subject: Can’t dwell on Daddy’s possible fate without emotional complications; and Gayle’s expression betrayed need for distraction as well. Besides, consumed by curiosity enough to get dozen Elephant’s Children in trouble — and Gayle’s apparent ability to answer unasked questions seemed good place to start digging.