Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2014 (18 page)

Quentin nodded.

A long white car pulled into the laundry's parking lot, slowing but never stopping, calmly rolling out the other end.

Neither man spoke.

Then Theo said, "This could be a fishing trip."

"What?"

"The assholes do that sometimes. They grab somebody who might be powerful, just to see who jumps and who hides."

Quentin's washers were spinning down.

Then the soldier who wasn't a soldier bent low, holding his guts with both hands. After a few words in Greek, he said, "'The world has one purpose, one guiding principle that rules all of us.'"

Quentin nodded politely.

"Marian IX said that."

Quentin wanted to ask what that principle was. But the white car was mysteriously passing through the parking lot again.

Seeing it, Theo jumped to his feet. "Good to meet you, Quentin Maurus. And here's hoping we'll see each other in better days."

The uniform and man turned toward the nearest door.

"Your laundry," Quentin blurted.

"Not mine," said the traitor, out the door and inside the car, and moments later, he never was.

Nothing physical ever happened between Quentin and Madam Dobs. But they were connected with emotion, a vivid, almost visible bond. The boy had feelings that only grew during the next years, while the woman was embarrassed or disappointed in herself or maybe disgusted, forced to endure the stares of a smitten lad who would think about her at night, lying in bed, making ready for sleep.

Eventually Madam Dobs found a genuine man, a veteran who had served his ten years on the Armistice Line near Persia. From the first day, the neighborhood didn't approve of the newcomer. Quentin's parents declared him "bad news" and "borderline," and they warned their son to keep his distance. The ex-soldier was skinny and homely, and he sat on the porch day and night, smoking cannabis when he wasn't drinking hard wines. But there were bouts of discipline when the lawn was mowed, and the ex-soldier managed to paint the front of the house, out where the world could see his good work.

The man on the porch made a habit of staring down the neighbor boy.

They were rivals, Quentin assumed. Madam Dobs had revealed her affections, or the man shrewdly read the boy's thoughts. Either way, they were enamored with the same woman, and at some future point, for all of the best reasons, they would have to fight to settle the matter.

One night, Madam Bernstein called the police. There was a loud fight inside the Dobs' house, and sirens made it safe for the neighborhood to come outside to watch. A pair of police officers dragged the veteran out onto the freshly cut grass, the male officer holding the prisoner down while his partner used her nightstick.

By then, everybody was standing in the street. Madam Dobs stepped out onto her porch. Blood was streaming down her face, but she didn't care. She was furious and sad for a lot of reasons beyond one man, sometimes cursing at the figure unconscious on the lawn, and sometimes begging him for a second chance, please, please.

Soon after that evening, Madam Dobs became a dyke, wearing steel rings on her girl-happy fingers. Adults believed that was smart of her, and inevitable. But for Quentin, there was a keen sense of loss made worse by the habit of passion: Honorable men protected women from the evil men. That was the basis of civilization, and that was the one good story running through every history of the world.

Quentin woke early Friday morning, watching the clock while dressing in presentable clothes. Then at the earliest possible moment, he called the factory to explain that he had stomach troubles and was going to miss work.

Campus was a different world during the week. Students were abundant and busy, and he had never felt more out of place. Every woman looked like a child pretending to be an adult. Most of the men were still far older than Quentin, and maybe they didn't remember him, or maybe they did. Either way, he endured stares from the bearded, often balding students with their unit tattoos and earrings and those hard attitudes acquired from serving a full decade in some vital, potentially horrific venture.

Dr. West's office door was closed and locked, and someone had taken the trouble to remove her Office Hours sign.

Dr. Hedgewick was sitting where Quentin had left him. Staring at his visitor for a long moment, the old man sorted through a lifetime of changing faces and unremarkable names, and then he brightened, glad to have staved off senility once again.

"Yes, Mr. Maurus," he said.

Then the professor realized why the young fellow was standing in his office door.

"I was wondering," Quentin began.

"I have nothing to tell you," Hedgewick interrupted.

"Have you heard from her?"

"No." The face reddened, with anger or embarrassment. "Why would I hear from anyone? I know nothing."

Quentin flexed his hands, shook his head.

"Anyway, this is probably just a routine event," Hedgewick continued. "These things will happen. There is nothing to be done."

"Nothing?"

One long hand swept aside doubts. "I was aware of her son's story, and Sandra occasionally mentioned politics. But my first concern—I warned her about this—was that she is not a strong person. Not like some women are. And by 'weak,' I mean the frailties and flaws that your enemies will single out, like the wolf taking the slow and the foolish."

"Shut up," Quentin insisted.

The old face became redder. A wet breath was held and then released, and then Hedgewick pointed out, "You're still free, I see."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Exactly."

Quentin flexed his hands again. Then he said, "Oh. You think..."

"I know nothing," Hedgewick said.

"Well then," Quentin said. "It's a good thing I never took your classes."

The desk was exactly as he remembered it, including the clipboard on top and the empty chair behind.

Quentin claimed the chair for himself.

Sitting made him feel exhausted. He had no plan save to wait until chance intervened, and chance came in the form of the heavy young woman who had been sitting in the lounge some weeks ago, doing her calculus. She didn't remember his face. Smiling nervously, she asked, "Did we get our promised guard?"

"Sign in," Quentin said, pushing the clipboard and pen at her.

She accepted him in an instant; it was as if he had always been here.

"And do me a favor," Quentin said, watching her working with the lock. "If he's there, tell Dr. Kale that I need to speak with him."

"Yes, sir."

She entered, and the warm air blew out from the computer room. The steel door didn't have time to shut. The white-haired professor emerged, finding Mr. Maurus sitting where he didn't belong.

"I'm rather busy," Kale snapped.

"You have a colleague in jail, or someplace worse," Quentin said.

"And who's that?"

"Dr. West."

He nodded.

"The government professor..."

"Sandra."

Curiosity ran through the face, and recognition, and a measure of caution.

"Do you know what your students say about you?" Quentin asked. "You were important once and maybe still are, and that's why you get by saying things and doing things that nobody else can. You don't like the government. You despise its policies and the people in charge, and you're not shy about these feelings."

Unimpressed, Kale shrugged.

"Nobody else talks about our leaders being stupid, steered by fear. And people like you don't get old without having benefactors. That's why I think you have friends, friends who hold their own power."

"What do you want from me?"

"Call some friend. As a personal favor, ask for Dr. West to be released."

The man put on an ugly expression. "And why would I?"

One vivid answer presented itself. Because Theodore West was an angry and dangerous young man, and with a few careful words from Quentin, he might get the impression that Dr. Kale had turned in his mother.

That threat was ready to be used.

Yet in the end, Quentin stood and straightened the clipboard—his last official act as a security guard. Then he looked at the physicist, saying, "Because that's the only right thing to do."

The remainder of the morning was invested at the campus library. Concentration came and went, but he had nowhere else to go. There was a long profile about the heroic Mongolians and Persians onboard the Mars mission. Giant hominids might be living in the Himalayas, just like they might be living in western Queensland, and there was a rumor that deep diving submersibles were finding undersea forests made of giant pink worms. Meanwhile the Queensland moon base was erecting a supercooled telescope that would peer back to the beginnings of time.

Except there was no such bird as time.

Quentin abandoned the library's calm. The day had turned sultry, a dangerous wind pushing him home. Breadwrap and last year's apple became lunch, and obeying his earlier fib, his stomach began having troubles that lasted until evening.

Evening brought storms and a premature night. The telephone had remained silent all day, but he called Sandra's house every hour on the hour. Then a prophetic feeling began to build, and after the final trip to the toilet, Quentin drove through rain and wind. Sure enough, Sandra's drapes had been pulled open, every interior light burning. There wasn't a brighter, happier house on the street, and he parked in the drive and ran to the porch, hitting the storm door with one hand and the inner door with both. A slip of folded paper was stuck between the door and jamb. He tore the note when he unfolded it, and with rain crashing down, he assembled the halves, reading her name f irst and then the neat letters above. "Your home." And then again, just to be sure, he reread, "Sandra."

No other car was parked on Quentin's street. Except for the hallway light, his house was dark. He ran upstairs, but nobody was waiting on the landing. In just these last minutes, his apartment had acquired a stale, lonely odor, and with lights off, he toured the empty rooms before returning to the landing, hunting for a second note that wasn't there. Rain was battering at the roof. Anger helped him feel alert. Sandra was meeting some other lover at his house. With that sharp thought inside him, Quentin went downstairs, looking through the door and the rain as the Trailbreaker pulled up.

The driver turned off the engine and climbed out. In the streetlights and the rain, she wasn't Sandra. Quentin stepped outside, recognizing the shirt and the old glasses, but the face was different, wearing a vivid purple bruise, and her posture had been transformed. She was inconsequentially tiny. She stared at him as if deeply embarrassed. Nothing about the lady was glad. She was between the car and its open door, and then Quentin was beside her and the strength left her legs. She dropped to the driver's seat. One long sound leaked out, and she looked at his face and his feet and smiled and then gave up smiling. Breathing meant work. Sandra made herself breathe, and then into the storm, with emotion, she shouted, "We need to be safe."

Quentin climbed in next to the driver. She rattled the keys in the ignition and then dropped her hand, looking at him. The big car shook as the wind gusted. She stared at Quentin until he asked, "What?" and then her face turned forward, hands on the wheel but the engine still off.

"Turn on the radio," he said.

She said his name. Like the answer to a question on a very easy test, she said,

"Quentin," and left it there.

Both of them were wet, chilled.

"My poor car was impounded along with me," she said. "Who knows what new shit they put on board."

"We could take my car," he suggested.

She glanced at the pitiful fool.

"You think mine's bugged?"

She nodded. Then with a unexpected tone, hopeful and strong, she said, "I think the storm's passing."

Insulted, the wind shook them harder than ever. A neighbor's garbage can began rolling down its driveway.

Quentin watched the can's progress. Sandra didn't. To the wheel, she said, "I'm tired," and turned on the engine.

They drove sluggishly out of Eureka, north to the highway and then east for half a league. They never spoke. Invisible ears were listening, and it was too much work to censor their words.

Rolling into a motel parking lot, she said, "Open the gun box."

Three rolls of different colored bills were wrapped in plastic, waiting.

She gave him one roll and vague instructions, and Quentin visited the motel office.

Lights were on but no one was at the desk. A silver bell asked to be rung. He rang it twice before calling out, "Hey." From the back room came an old woman smoking a pipe, thin hair dyed black and black lipstick twisted into a scornful, mocking expression.

"Yes?"

"A room."

"Shit of a night," she said.

"You have basement rooms?"

"In my dreams."

"Give me something on the ground."

"Just for you?"

"Yes."

A contract was pushed at Quentin, and he put down the name, "Lewis," and then, "Tenshells." For the address, he used a made-up street and number, and while he was in the mood, he threw in a fictional town from a Johnsgal story. The contract ended with a warning: Prospective tenants would be asked for identification. This didn't look like a place that worried about its customers, but the woman set down her pipe, and with smoke leaking from her nose, she read what he had written while saying, "And I need to see a driver's license."

"No," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"What does the room cost? In cash."

"One twenty," she said.

The bills were shabby, presumably saved over the years. He handed her a full two hundred.

Maybe this never happened before. Or maybe the queen of this realm always smiled at people who threw bribes her way. But the black lipstick got big on her face, and she handed him one key, smiling when she asked, "Do you need another?"

"Sure."

A second key was produced. "Around back, room 137. If the tornado hits, that'll be the last room standing."

The rain was trying to taper, lightning scarce to the west and south. But Sandra had vanished. Stepping out from under the awning, Quentin looked for her car and for her, and then she flashed her headlights from the far end of the building. He trotted over and they drove behind the building, and she slipped between two other cars, opening her hood and expertly unfastening the battery.