Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

“I understand, sir.”

But her eyes were downcast, and her lips trembled.

Saul focused, and made one of those leaps of understanding that had brought him the presidency.

“Who is it, Yasmin? One of your family?”

“Yes, sir.” She raised lovely tawny eyes to his. “You know.”

“I didn’t, until a moment ago.”

“I didn’t conceal it, it’s in my personnel record. My younger brother.”

“What did he do?”

“He stabbed my uncle, after my uncle had raped him. Raymond was sentenced to seven years. He has been in judicial sleep for three.”

“Surely in a case of rape, self-defense or extenuating circumstances — ’’

“My uncle is Senator Lopez.”

And now she said it, Saul remembered. Yasmin’s application for a job as a White House aide had come with a strong push from Nick Lopez. The sexual tastes of Senator Lopez were one of Washington’s poorest-kept secrets.

“Yasmin, how long can people survive in judicial sleep if the support systems are not working?”

“I asked several people over at Justice about that, sir. There is no agreement, but the answers range from one week to three weeks.”

“I see. And already it has been a week.”

“Yes, sir. Nine days, actually.”

She was still staring at him with those big, doomed eyes. Saul stood up and turned away. “As I’m sure you realize, Yasmin, although a presidential pardon can be issued for almost any offense it is impossible for me to consider one in this case. My own supporters would say — correctly — that I was betraying the principles upon which I was elected. So that’s a no-no. Do you know where your brother is located?”

“Yes, sir.” A hushed, dead voice. “Raymond is in the Q-5 Syncope Facility, about forty miles south of here. I know the exact location.”

“That’s a strange choice. Q-5 is usually reserved for murderers and terrorists dangerous to the state.”

“Raymond was described at the trial as ’a severe and continuing danger.’ He isn’t that.”

“I believe you. I see Lopez’s hand at work again. But, Yasmin, you have been working far too hard. Dangerously hard. You are in such poor condition that I, personally, fear for your life.”

“Sir? I’m feeling fine. I’m not—”

“Shh. Listen to me. With your life threatened, the law permits as an act of charity the temporary return of a sentenced criminal from judicial sleep, in order to offer final comfort to his loved ones. I am going to order such a return. But you must understand that it can be only temporary. Your brother will return to serve the remainder of his sentence — as soon as the national emergency has ended.”

There was a gasp, then a long, pregnant silence. Watching their reflections in the window, Saul saw Yasmin approaching him from behind. She stood so close that he could smell her perfume mingled with the odor of her skin. He saw ghost arms in the dark glass, rising to embrace him.

When next you feel strong sexual arousal, you should seek to act on it.

Yasmin was willing and wanting and waiting, longing to express her gratitude. She was almost thirty-one, old enough that no one could accuse Saul of taking advantage of a child.

Would he have performed the same favor for Yasmin’s brother if she were not young and beautiful?

Saul had never been beautiful, and at the moment he could not believe that he had ever been young. But he knew the answer: never. It was not just, but the beautiful of the world enjoyed special privileges. And they were special targets.

He took a step. Forward. Away from her. To a safe distance.

He turned, and saw agony and indecision on her face. He could read that expression. She wanted to embrace him, but she was afraid that a sexual advance on the President in the Oval Office would be some form of lèse majesté.

“I think that it is time that we had some food.” Saul spoke slowly and carefully, enunciating each word with special precision so that no emotion would show in his voice. “While we’re being served, I’ll sign an order authorizing your brother’s revival from judicial sleep on family grounds. You have my permission to take action on it personally.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Her face was losing its darker tinge of blood. “I will act on it personally.”

“Very good. While we’re waiting for our food, let’s review the general food availability and distribution data.”

And someday, perhaps I will learn to act, too.

When hard times come to the party, dignity is one of the first guests to leave.

Art sat on the thinly padded seat of the orange tractor, drove at a sedate six miles an hour along the shoulder of the fast lane of I-270 South, and tried to think less-clichéd thoughts. It wasn’t easy when you were dressed like a clown. He wore a long purple raincoat, beneath which heavy sweaters and thick trousers swaddled his body. On his feet he had knee-length rubber boots, borrowed from Joe and two sizes too big. A blue baseball cap with a long peak, held in position by a knotted orange mohair scarf, protected his face and head from driving gusts of rain.

It would be nice to complain, but who would he complain to? The road was total chaos, a tangled mess of new cars and trucks, billions of dollars abandoned where they had died ten days earlier. Not only cars, either. The puttering old tractor had passed dozens of bodies, pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and left to the mercy of the crows that patrolled the highway in search of roadkill. The only clear route was on the same left-hand shoulder, so he had often been forced to leave it and snake his way through the obstacle course of dead vehicles.

He was not sorry to see the rainswept road empty of living people. Three hours earlier, as the downpour started, he had heard shooting off to his left. Not hunting. Hunters didn’t use rapid-fire automatic weapons. Someone had managed to strip the smart microcircuits out of a modern machine gun and make the result work. Art patted the bag at his side. The old handgun that Ed had offered him — no, forced on him — was still there, along with a dozen clips of ammunition.

“Sure you won’t need this,” Ed had agreed. “So you can just return it when you get back here. Same with the maps. They’re pretty out-of-date, some of ’em, but I still use ’em.” And, as Art stared at Joe, steaming triumphantly uphill on the little tractor, Ed added, “You can bring that back, too. Never forget one thing, Art. Second-class riding beats first-class walking, any day of the week.”

Art couldn’t argue with that. He knew he would never make it on foot, with a bum knee and fifty-odd miles or more to go. The previous day’s experience with Annie’s horses had been less than encouraging. He had spent three hours staring at the rear end of two of them, trying to persuade the horses that his idea of a destination was superior to theirs. A tractor, even a slow and ancient one, was a gift from God.

He slung the waterproof bag of food and supplies over his shoulder, said, “See you, then,” and climbed aboard.

“Watch that clutch when you use reverse,” Joe called as Art began his stately progress down the gravel and dirt road. “Wish we were going with you.”

The funny thing was, he meant it. Radio and television were dead, but as long as power was off everything in the big cities had to be a total disaster. And Joe and Ed, like anyone with an ounce of curiosity, wanted to see the chaos and destruction with their own irrational eyes. Even Art had the urge, though if it weren’t for his need to know about the telomod treatment he’d have made curiosity secondary to safety.

The deep boom of an explosion, far off to his right, brought Art sharply back into the present. It was early evening, beneath sullen skies, and the flash created a bright splash of white in the dusk. He had started soon after midday, and already he was within the thirty-mile ring development zone that girdled Washington. Law enforcement ought to be better here than farther to the north. Based on what he was seeing and hearing, it was worse.