Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

“I think he’s still feeling the cold,” Dana said. “I’m noticing a shiver in his foot as I pull on a sock. Do we have any way to warm him?”

“Not ’til we can get him outside, and he needs to be conscious for that.” But Seth took his own blanket from his pack and began wrapping it tight around Guest’s body. “Can you do the same with yours? He’s a weight. We’ll have one hell of a time gettin’ him down them stairs ’less he can walk.”

Working together, they swaddled Guest from chin to feet. As they placed him back in position against the bank of drawers, the mouth opened and they heard a faint exhalation.

“What did he say?” Dana was behind the awakening man, making sure that his head did not bang against the metal of the drawers.

“Nothing.” Art peered at the eyes, open wider now but with eyelids that fluttered randomly and erratically. “I think he was just groaning.”

“That’s one thing you never hear when they talk about judicial sleep,” Seth said. “They tell you it’s not painful when a person goes under, it feels the same as nodding off for a nap. But what about waking up? That might hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“I looked into it four years ago,” Art said. They had done everything for Oliver Guest that he could think of, now it was wait and see. “I was down to eighty-seven pounds and my future seemed nonexistent — this was before I found out about the telomod program. I thought maybe if I was iced down for fifty years, by that time there’d be a cure. You know what they told me?”

“Let me guess.” Dana leaned against the racks of body drawers, placed her palms together, and took on the earnest expression of a funeral home director. “ ’Although we understand the reason for your request, Mr. Ferrand, you must realize that the extended syncope facilities are built and maintained using public funds. We cannot allow unsuitable and unqualified individuals to be placed there. Have you considered private alternatives?’ “

“You ran into the same jackass as I did!”

“It looks like it. Aaron Petzel?” When Art nodded, she went on, “I got so mad with him, but it wasn’t worth it. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame. He was such a sniveling bureaucrat, he acted like somnol wasn’t a restricted drug and private groups were allowed to possess it. I told him that taxes from me, and people like me, built and ran every one of those syncope facilities, and paid his fucking salary as well.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me not to use such language in his office. I never went back.”

“I did — twice. The next time I said to him, ’Let’s get this straight, Mr. Petzel. The only people who can be placed in an extended syncope facility are people who’ve done something terrible. Is that right?’ And he said, ’That is correct, Mr. Ferrand. The extended syncope facilities are part of the criminal justice system of a civilized society.’ When I went there again, I said, ’Mr. Petzel, I owe you an apology. Now I understand the way that the system has to work. I’d have to kill somebody or do something really bad to get into an extended syncope facility.’ And he said, ’That is correct, Mr. Ferrand.’ ’Good,’ I said. ’That’s what I’m going to do. And you, Mr. Petzel, are going to help me. You’d better keep your eyes open from now on, night and day, because I’m coming after you. I will kidnap you, hide you away where no one can possibly hear you scream, and kill you. You will die very slowly and painfully, and I will record every step of the process. Then I will give myself up. That ought to be enough to get me a long sentence in an extended syncope facility, wouldn’t you say?’ “

“Nice.” Seth nodded his approval. “You didn’t do it, though. Pity, because I’d like—”

“He’s awake,” Dana interrupted. “I don’t think he can move yet, but look at him. He’s listening.”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” Art said. “There’s no pain when you wake up, but sensory systems respond before motor systems. He can probably hear us, but he can’t answer any questions.”

“How long?” Dana asked. She had her head cocked to one side. “How long before he can stand up and walk?”

“Half an hour, maybe three-quarters.”

She stood up. “That’s too long. We’re in trouble.”

“We got half the day still,” Seth said. “An’ the weather’s improvin’. We’re in good shape.”

She held up her hand. “Shh. And listen.”

Now Art could hear it, too; a growl of large vehicles driven in low gear, more than one and steadily becoming louder.

Seth was already by the staircase, peering downward. “Comin’ here,” he said. “Not that there was ever much doubt, this place is in the asshole of the state with nothin’ here but the syncope facility.”

He returned to the group, rapidly but silently. “There could be a whole bunch of ’em. They’re sure to have lights. If it’s Pearl Lazenby’s buddies, they got guns as well. The front door’s the only way out, an’ they’re comin’ in that way so we can’t use it, even if we could get down there. The front door’s busted, too, so anybody will know somebody’s here or been here. We can’t stick big boy back in his drawer an’ say we’re tourists, ’cause he’s wakin’ up.”

He glanced from Art to Dana. In the candlelight his eyes were like a snake’s, lively, flickering, and lighter than usual in their color. “We’re in trouble, amigos, like Dana says. Question is, what are we gonna do? We’ve come too far to give up now.”

Celine had been awake for more than twenty-four hours, and the week before that had been one long effort. Fatigue and the familiar-yet-strange air and gravity of Earth gave to everything a dreamlike halo. She stared at the red utility vehicles in the opened A-frame barn. She could hear running engines and see spouting black smoke behind the rear balloon tires.

Two of the trucks moved out of the building and came rolling toward them. One woman and one man sat in the front seat of each, apparently identical people dressed in identical tunics. They halted ten yards in front of Reza and Jenny, blocking progress toward the barn. One of the men descended.

Celine froze, and her dream mood vanished. The man in front of her was holding a light submachine gun, which he swung easily in an arc to cover the whole of her group. The woman in the other truck had a second weapon, raised and ready.

Celine became unnaturally alert. Who greeted strangers — unarmed strangers, who had made an obvious emergency landing — in such a fashion?

“You probably think that guns don’t work no more,” the man said in a Texas twang. “Well, folks, that sure don’t apply to this one. You wouldn’t like it one little bit if I have to demonstrate. In one minute, you’re going to tell me why you came here. First, though, I want you to explain how you could fly that danged thing.” He pointed his gun toward the Clark orbiter. “It’s recent make, an’ it sure has to be full of chips.”

“It is full of chips.” Celine disliked everything about the man. Belts of ammunition hung over his shoulders and around his chest. Two handguns sat in holsters at his waist. His smile was fixed, without a trace of humor, and he had the cold, unblinking gaze of Celine’s own abusive father.

“As you can see,” she went on, “we couldn’t fly the orbiter too well even with working chips. We were lucky to be able to make a landing at all. We need help.”

The man nodded slowly. His brow furrowed, as though he understood — or listened to — only a few of her words. “Now, lady, was your ship stored underground? So that the gamma pulse didn’t ruin it?”