The Unearthing (20 page)

“
Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching off to WAAAAAAR!
” he wailed, putting the gun to his temple.

Police Chief Raven heard him scream: “
Memento Mori
!” before pulling the trigger and blowing off the other side of his head. The gunman’s death seemed to finally galvanize everyone. James moved to Echohawk, ripping open his shirt to apply first aid. Raven dumped her purse out on the hood of the nearest car and slipped on her headset to call emergency services. Peter rushed back to the bar to do the same and Santino was working Doctor Scott. But in both cases it was too late: There was a neat hole just off-center in Scott’s forehead, a gaping exit wound at the back of his scalp. He was dead. And as James worked to control Echohawk’s bleeding, the archaeologist gave a shuddering, convulsive cough which sprayed James with blood and then was still. Sirens sounded in the distance, fast approaching. Sharon Raven identified them by their wails: an ambulance and two police vehicles. But it was too late. The shooting victims were dead and the shooter had gone on to face celestial justice far beyond the reach of any mortal law.

INTERLUDE

RAIN OF TEARS

She’d woken up at five ready to start the day. Bloom was primed and ready for the first test flight of the Bug; she’d barely slept the night before and was aching for this day. Launch was scheduled for seven. She was showered, dressed and leaving for her pre-breakfast run when none other than General Harrod appeared at her door.

“General. To what do I owe--?”

“I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you this, Lieutenant-Colonel,” He said, “I know how you feel about me and you know how I feel about you. I wish I wasn’t the one who had to bring you the news. Christ knows you deserve to hear it from someone more sympathetic,” Harrod sighed and gave his head a curt shake. “There’s no easy way to say this. There was a shooting in Laguna early this morning. I don’t have all the details…but…I’m afraid your ex-husband is dead.”

“No,” she said, not really believing the denial as it passed her lips, “My God…I have to call Laura.”

“I’ve arranged for a private channel to be made available to you,” Harrod said, showing what Bloom would have normally seen as uncharacteristic sympathy. “And the test flight will be postponed so you can attend the funeral.” He stepped past her and switched on the console on the small desk in her quarters.

“I’ll leave you be,” He said. “Your paperwork’ll be waiting at the Company Clerk’s office. Lieutenant-Colonel, for what it’s worth, you have my condolences.” He let her be after that. She sat down at the terminal, inputting Laura’s linx address manually. Seconds later, Laura Echohawk’s tearful image appeared onscreen.

“Mom….” Bloom looked at her daughter’s tear-streaked face, noticing not for the first time the blend of features she’d inherited from Mark and from her. Laura’d missed out (at least as far as Bloom was concerned) on her mother’s blonde hair, instead favouring her father there with jet-black tresses; she had her father’s eyes, his sharp cheekbones and his ruddy complexion as well; and she had that same intense, all-seeing gaze that Bloom had first fallen in love with in Mark Echohawk. Laura had her nose, though and her mouth and chin. Bloom found herself confused and alarmed that she was sitting here, staring at her Laura’s image, looking to find the traces of her ex-husband in their daughter’s features, searching her and trying to find him…as if to confirm that he’d lived, that he’d touched their lives, that part of him was still alive.

“Oh, baby…” Bloom sobbed.

“How did it happen? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Bloom said, “I don’t know what happened. I only just found out.”

“My roommate told me,” Laura said, with no small trace of bitterness, “She saw it on INN. Why the
fuck
did they know, before we did?”

“I don’t know honey,” Bloom said, “I wish I knew. I really do.”

“When will you be here?”

“Before noon your time,” Bloom said, “I promise.”

“I need you, Mommy,” Laura said, breaking down, the grief too much for her to bear any longer. Bloom was breaking down, too; she and Mark had parted amicably and stayed close friends…and ended up in bed together after the divorce far too often not to have laid claim to an ongoing relationship. Mark’s death shocked her…wounded her. And she was wounded all the more seeing her daughter in such anguish, to be so far away…too far to make this better, to at the very least wrap her arms around her little girl and give her what comfort she could.

“I’ll be there soon,” Bloom choked out. “I promise…I promise.” She put her hand against the screen and they sat there, as together as possible given the distance between Bloom’s secret Nevada location and Laura’s Los Angeles apartment, and cried awhile. It was ten to five and the day had barely begun.

♦♦♦

They gathered together in the main shelter in Base Camp. The eyewitnesses to the slayings had given their statements and now they and rest of the SSE sat together inside the small cafeteria, sharing coffee and the cold comfort of one another’s company. The military presence had been increased to the point that a small occupation force was guarding the Ship and the surviving members of the Ship Survey Expedition. James realized that they
were
survivors, now. He looked from face to face. The
surviving
members of the SSE shared similar expressions of shock, pain, of loss. Only Doctor Cole wasn’t there; she was working as closely with the investigation into the assassinations as the World Ship Summit would allow. She had promised to join them as soon as she could. James had studied with Echohawk and Peter the better part of four years; they’d both lost a mentor, a friend. Of the members of the SSE theirs was probably the most personal loss. Sonia Aiziz and Michael Andrews hung back slightly from the rest of the group; still at the same table, but nonetheless shrouded in the conspiracy of two of a new couple. Aiziz was talking Andrews listening, nodding sympathetically.

“I was his assistant at the time,” she was saying, “We’d been searching for what had been described as an Incan treasury. It was a treasury, all right…but not what we expected. There were tens of thousands of Quipus sealed inside the chamber. Quipus were an Incan form of visual communication that used strings knotted in different positions in different sequences to relay meanings. We spent weeks trying to decode them, to learn the language. For years everyone had assumed that the Quipus were merely a form of accounting, but we learned otherwise. Scholars are still discovering epics that put Homer, Shakespeare, Tolkien and Jordan to shame, and music to humble composers from Bach and Beethoven, to Van Dyk. And if Mark hadn’t picked me for the expedition I wouldn’t have been there when the discovery was made. I wouldn’t have the career I do today…I wouldn’t be part of the SSE today, if it weren’t for him.” She stifled a sob and drew closer to Andrews.

“I only knew the Professor by reputation,” He said, “And even then only fleetingly. But from what I knew of him he was the best choice to lead this expedition and he was a good man.” He looked uncomfortable. He was at a loss for words and knew he was damning the man with faint praise.

“It seems so strange,” Aiziz said, “Here we are, talking about Mark…and we’ve so little to say about Doctor Scott.”

“I know,” Andrews agreed, “But what can one say about someone they didn’t know? I barely knew Professor Echohawk; we met at a symposium on mathematics. He was delivering a lecture on the significance of higher mathematics to the Olmecs. We’ve corresponded since; I didn’t know Everett Scott, at all. Any violent death is a senseless tragedy. And I’m sorry he’s gone…but I didn’t know him...I can’t mourn someone I didn’t know.” The hoary old line suddenly occurred to him and Andrews could hear himself saying in a loud Scottish Brogue: “
Everett Scott, we hardly knew ye
!”

“None of us did,” Mark Kodo said, sipping from his mug and snapping Andrews back to the present, “None of us really took much time to get to know him, either. Not that we
had
that much time…we’ve been together for only a few days.”

“We should have done more to know him,” Andrews said, “Perhaps then we’d at least be able to feel his loss as well. In my case I should have done more to know them both better.”

Doctor Cole entered the cafeteria and made her way to their table.

“Hello everyone,” She said, “I’m not going to be able to stay long I’m afraid. I just came by to let you know that I’ll be scheduling sessions with each of you over the coming days. We have to discuss what’s happened, in context of the Expedition and how each of you has been affected by it.”

“Wait a minute,” Kodo said, “Most of us are heading to LA for the Prof’s funeral.”

“I know,” Cole said, “And there’s no reason the sessions can’t start as soon as everyone gets back.”

“Assuming we come back,” James said, bitterly, “I don’t know if the Expedition’s worth what happened.”

“And better that Professor Echohawk and Doctor Scott died for nothing?” Aiziz asked with the slightest edge to her voice, “We owe it to them to continue this work. We owe it to Mark’s memory, especially.”

“Here, here,” Peter added, dryly. James looked down into his coffee for a long moment before nodding his head.

“You’re right,” He said, his words a sad affirmation, “The bastards who did this want us to leave. You’re right.”

“If any of you need to speak with me in the meantime, I will be available for most of this afternoon,” Cole replied, a smile touching her lips.

“Thank you, Doctor Cole,” Andrews said, “Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay for a coffee? One of the things we’ve come to realize is how poorly we knew Doctor Scott and we’d hate to repeat that mistake again, with
any
member of the Expedition.” Cole smiled again; a weak, sad smile.

“I think perhaps I will,”

♦♦♦

Bloom embraced Laura when they met at the airport terminal. They held each other tightly, both their faces damp with tears.

“Mom,” Laura said, “It’s so good to see you.”

“I’m here for a while,” Bloom said, “Don’t worry.” Bloom drew back to look at her daughter and smiled, her face a mix of mourning and joy and being with her daughter again.

“Let me get a look at you,” she said and Laura smiled.

“You cut your hair. It used to be so much longer.”

“It kept getting in the way,” Laura said distractedly, running a hand absently through her shoulder-length tresses, “And it was a bitch to dry after a shower.” They put their arms around one another’s shoulders and headed out to the parking lot.

“The funeral home’s made all the arrangements,” Laura said, “When they couldn’t reach you aboard the Station they contacted me. Where were you by the way? I thought you were supposed to be skyside another three or four months.”

“I was,” Bloom said, “I got…reassigned. I wish I could tell you about it, but I can’t.”

“Top secret, huh?”

“Top secret, yeah,” They reached Laura’s car, a battered canary-yellow hatchback she’d bought from a desert car dealer a couple of years before. Bloom stowed her carry-on in the trunk. Laura gave her another tight hug, snuffling back more tears before they got in, powered up and drove out.

“Have you heard anything else?” Laura asked as they drove, “Do you know what happened?”

“Only what I heard on INN,” Bloom said, “I linked to their spar on the plane. I’m hoping to reach James or Peter when we get back to your place. They were with him when…when it happened.”

“I know. James called. They’re coming in tomorrow.”

“Are you okay with seeing James again?”

“I’m fine,” Laura said, “James and I were over a long time ago…and I think he and I are okay. Not as okay…not as okay as you and Dad…were…but, we’re okay.”

“That’s good,” Bloom said her voice hushed, “That’s good to hear.” Laura reached for her hand and they linked fingers, squeezing each other’s hands and reassuring, comforting one another with their touch and their presence.

“Oh, Mom…why did it have to happen?”

“I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”

♦♦♦

They arrived back at Laura’s apartment in West LA without further incident or discussion. They reached Laura’s landing and soon she had unlocked the door and they were inside.

“You can have my room,” Laura said, “The couch folds out in the living room, so it’ll--”

“Be fine for me,” Bloom finished, “I’ve slept in barracks, on some of the most uncomfortable beds in the world, Laura. Aboard C-3, I had to try sleeping in two-thirds of a Gee; the sofa bed will be fine.”

To punctuate this statement she threw her bag onto the couch. Laura shrugged and continued down the short hallway.

“Allison’s cleared out for the day,” Laura said, “To give us a chance to settle.” Bloom followed Laura to her daughter’s bedroom. Here she saw fresh evidence of how much alike she and Laura were: the room was an eclectic mix of styles and the general contrasts in chaos that reminded Bloom of her pre-military youth: dimly lit from dark curtains but brightly painted. The bookshelf and music collection were neat, ordered but the desk and dresser were cluttered, messy. The bed was neatly made, but the floor was scattered about with tissues, dirty laundry (some of it scraps of clothing Bloom would never have thought Laura daring enough to wear), wads of paper and dirty dishes.

“Can I smoke inside?” Bloom asked. Laura turned to regard her mother and smiled, weakly.