Greg Bear - The Forge of God

“I have always admired you,” Arthur said. “You’re not like me. But I want you to know that I’ve always admired you, and Danielle. You are good people. Wherever we are, whatever happens, you are in our thoughts. And I hope we will be in yours.”

“You will be,” Grant said, jaw clenched. Danielle and Francine came through the front door, Marty in tow. Becky did not come out, but watched through the front bay window, a small radiantly blond ghost.

Arthur sat behind the wheel again after making sure Marty was strapped securely into the station wagon’s back seat. Grant held Danielle tightly with one arm and waved with the other.

Nothing so different about this , Arthur thought. Simple family leave-taking. He backed the station wagon out of the driveway and maneuvered on the narrow street, glancing at his watch. One hour to get where they had to be.

Francine’s face was soaked with tears, but she made no sound, staring ahead, her arm hanging limply out the window.

Marty waved, and they drove away.

Winds from the ocean had driven the smoke of eastern fires inland, and once the mist had burned off, the air was fine and blue and clear. Arthur drove them across the heavy, gray-girdered San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, almost empty of traffic, taking the 480 off-ramp to the Embarcadero and turning south for China Basin Street and the Central Basin.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Francine asked.

He nodded; in a way, he did know. He was following directions, but he had a picture of a fifty-foot fishing boat. Twenty passengers sat in the sun on the rear deck, waiting for them.

He parked the car in the lot at Agua Vista Park. “We’re walking from here,” he said. “It isn’t far.”

“What about the luggage?” Francine asked.

“My toys?” Marty chimed in.

“Leave them here,” Arthur said. He opened the tailgate and pulled out the box containing Francine’s disks and papers. That was the only thing he would insist they bring. He let Marty hold it.

The excitement was returning; he could feel sad later about those left behind. Right now, it seemed certain what he had most hoped for was happening. The network was not blocking his way, or telling him to go back; he was being urged on. Only a few minutes remained.

“We’re taking a boat?” Francine asked. He nodded. She lifted her purse, and Arthur shook his head: leave it. She slipped a plastic pack of family photos from her wallet and tossed the rest aside almost angrily, face contorted.

“Aren’t we going to lock the car?” Marty asked. Arthur hurried them away, leaving the tailgate open.

You do not need possessions. Bring nothing but the clothes on your back. Empty your pockets of change, keys, everything. Bring only yourselves.

He tossed his keys and change, wallet and comb, onto the asphalt.

They walked through an open gate in a chain link fence onto a long, broad pier, lined on each side with the gently bobbing masts of fishing boats. “Hurry,” he urged.

Francine pushed Marty ahead of her.

“All this for a boat ride,” she said.

At the end of the pier, the boat he had visualized awaited them. There were indeed about twenty people standing and sitting in the back. A young woman in faded jeans and a windbreaker guided them onto the ramp and they boarded quickly, taking their places in the back. Marty perched on a smelly pile of worn netting. Francine sat on a winch.

“All right,” the young woman shouted. “That’s the last.”

Only now did Arthur dare to let his breath out. He glanced around at the people on the boat. Most were younger than he; four children were in the group besides Marty. There were no passengers past late middle age. As he looked into their faces, he saw that many had been involved in the network, and yet they were not being rewarded for their labors. Others on the network had been left behind; many not on the network, like Marty and Francine, were going along.

Still, nobody seemed to have any idea where they were headed. The boat pulled into the choppy bay waters and headed north. The sun cast welcome warmth, and the winds over the bay took most of it away.

The young woman came around to each of them and held out her hand. “Jewelry, please,” she said. “Rings, watches, necklaces. Everything.” Everybody handed over the valuables without complaint. Arthur removed his wedding band and nodded for Francine to do likewise. Marty surrendered his Raccoon wristwatch without complaining. He was very sober and very quiet.

“Do you know where we’re going?” a young man dressed in a business suit asked the woman as he handed her a gold Rolex.

“Out near Alcatraz,” she said. “That’s what the skipper tells me.”

“I mean, after that?”

She shook her head. “Has everybody turned in everything?”

“Will we get our things back?” a small Asiatic woman asked.

“No,” the young woman in jeans replied. “Sorry.”

“Is Becky and Aunt Danielle and Uncle Grant coming with us?” Marty asked solemnly, watching sea gulls glide over the boat’s wake.

“No,” Francine answered, taking the word from Arthur’s lips. “Nobody else is coming with us.”

“Are we going to leave the Earth?” Marty asked. The adults around him visibly cringed.

“Shhh,” the young woman said, maneuvering her way past him. “Wait and see.”

Arthur reached out and gently pinched Marty’s ear between thumb and forefinger. Smart boy , he thought. He looked out across the water, feeling the bay’s white-caps thump rhythmically against the boat hull. Several people were becoming seasick. A nut-brown, gray-bearded man of about forty came down from the pilot house and passed out plastic bags. “Use them,” he said gruffly. “Everybody. We don’t need anybody sicker than they have to be, and we certainly don’t need chain reactions.”

Arthur surveyed the city’s skyline, blinking at the salt spray. All that work. Around the world. Thousands of years. He could not even begin to encompass the enormity. Francine came to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He leaned his cheek against her hair, not daring to feel as optimistic as he wanted to be.

“Can you tell me what’s going on now?” she asked.

Marty snuggled up to them. “We’re going away, Mom,” he said.

“Are we?” she asked Arthur.

He swallowed and barely moved his head, then nodded. “Yes. I think we are.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

They cut through the water under the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Island and Treasure Island to their right, tall mounds of dark green and brown on the slate-colored, white-flecked waters.

“See, Marty?” Francine said, pointing up at the bridge’s maze of girders and the huge piers and tower legs. “We drove over that just a while ago.”

Marty gave the wonder cursory attention. The sea was getting rougher. Alcatraz, a desolate rock cluttered with ancient buildings, a water tower prominent, lay dead ahead. The boat slowed, its motors cutting back to a steady chug-chug-chug. The young woman passed among them again, examining everybody closely for unnecessary belongings. Nobody protested; they were either numb with fear, seasick, exhausted, or all three. She smiled at Marty in passing to the rear again.

The boat stopped, drifting in the chop. The passengers began to murmur. Then Arthur saw something square and gray rise beyond the port gunwale. He thought immediately of a submarine sail, but it was much smaller, barely as wide as a double doorway and no more than ten feet out of the water.

“We’ll have to be careful,” the woman told them, standing on a short ladder near the pilot house. “The water’s rough. We’re all going to climb down through this doorway.” An empty black square appeared in the gray block. “There’s a spiral staircase going down into the ship. The ark. If you have a child younger than twelve, please hold its hand and be very careful.”