Iron Mike (22 page)

Kari

It was well after dark by the time they reached the Holiday Inn in Covington, Virginia. The West Virginia Turnpike was hell, and it kept them silent, concentrating on the treacherously slick roads, hairpin curves and multiple pileups that made post-invasion travel so dangerous. Mike was rigidly determined to make it to the Virginia border, and as the hours of silence dragged on, the tension in his shoulders tightened instead of loosening. Kari watched him negotiate a turn in front of her, frowning slightly as she followed her own thoughts.

It was odd in a way – very odd. Mike was more torn up over the rape than she was, his anger toward Tommy and Mayhew as red-hot as the poker Mayhew had threatened them with, feeding on itself until it burned white. The intensity was … alarming. It wasn’t that Kari didn’t feel angry; of course, she was angry! She remembered every detail of what happened, and remembering the hateful, smug expression on Tommy’s face when he pushed himself inside of her made her want to stab him again. But … unless she actively called the anger to her, the memory simply seemed like … a memory. The rape seemed like something that had happened to her years ago, something she had grieved, and then accepted. It felt like there were layers and layers of excellent psychotherapy and healing between her and the trauma of the day.

They drove their bikes into the lobby, and Mike left her to wait by the entrance while he checked out the bottom floor of the ransacked hotel. It was clear, except for several colonies of mice. Kari shuddered at the thought as she walked her bike down the hallway to the room Mike chose for them. She was pleased he’d selected a room with a large, king-sized bed. He obviously had to scrounge for the linens, because the bed was made the way Mike made his rack - squared off hospital corners, slightly uneven edges.

“Set us up in here, if you don’t mind,” Mike said, the soft words still not making it a request. “I’ll secure the rest of the building.” Kari nodded, flinching in the sudden darkness as she turned the key on the bike, cutting power to the headlight. Mike quickly turned on a Maglite and set it sideways on the dresser, taking a smaller flashlight and backing into the hallway. He positioned his bike to block the door and smiled grimly at Kari. “Keep it locked,” he ordered quietly, as he handed her the key to his machine. “Shoot to kill.”

Kari knew there would be no water, but she was still disappointed when the faucet hissed, dripped, and died. What she wouldn’t give for a long, hot shower – the kind that turned the bathroom into a steam room, billows of hot mist so thick that the condensation would be dripping from the mirror before her name was half-way written. She longed for the simple things in life … shampoo and soap, both of which had been scavenged from the hotel, apparently. Nail polish … hand lotion … q-tips … gummy bears and fresh potato chips! Everything she took for granted her entire life was suddenly, at twenty-two years old, precious to her - and completely inaccessible.

Mike identified himself at the door so she didn’t have to shoot him. He came in empty-handed except for an ice bucket, which he set on the dresser. “No ice,” he said, “but I figure this would be a convenient port-a-potty for traveling.”

“Good idea,” Kari smiled, masking her disappointment. Obviously there was no ice, but man! For just a moment, there … she immediately added “ice” to the things she took for granted and now longed for.

“Come lie down for a few minutes,” Kari suggested. They were grimy, travel-worn, and exhausted, but they needed to talk. “I know what happened, Mike.”

He came over and sat beside her, wearily untying the first few laces of his combat boots and toeing them off.

“That … thing. The round ball with better avionics than NASA?” Mike nodded, so Kari continued. “It did something, Mike, to both of us. It healed my face and wrist, and the burn on your neck, and … well, it healed my crazy from the rape.”

Mike flinched. Kari wasn’t sure if it was the word “crazy” or “rape,” but one of them got his attention.

“I’ve been thinking about it while we drove,” Kari continued softly. “I know you pretty well, I think, after all these months, and when you’re upset about something, you translate it into anger. It seemed like the more we drove, the more pissed off you got. I’m surprised you haven’t punched a wall or something.”

Mike smiled ruefully and held up his right hand for inspection. The knuckles were scraped and would be bruised in the next day or two. “I did it upstairs, so it wouldn’t upset you.”

Kari shook her head in exasperation, reaching out to check Mike’s hand, but he pulled away, opening and closing it to show her it was fully functional. “Nothing’s broken, Mom,” he said, giving her the first real smile she’d seen in hours. “Drywall’s softer than trees.”

“Jesus!” Kari muttered. Inwardly, she was pleased, though. She could feel the tension draining away from him as they spoke. “I’ve told you my theory about boys, right? About how they can’t help it, they’re just born stupid?”

“You’ve expounded on it for
hours
,” Mike complained, dragging the last word out by several syllables.

Kari laughed, and, just like that, things were okay again. They ate MREs for dinner and talked long into the night. Around midnight, they made love with such tenderness Mike cried, and then Kari cried because he was crying. He apologized over and over for not being able to protect her, and she shushed him over and over in every way she knew. Afterward they slept, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.

March 16.

Scientist-Farmer

The privacy barriers set up in the council chamber were as tight as those Scientist-Farmer and Researcher-Xenohistorian had created the day before. That was interesting, since council meetings were supposedly open to any and all. Scientist-Farmer waited patiently next to Researcher-Xenohistorian. The colors of her aura were pleasing … pinks and yellows, with a vivid, brilliant green through the core. His own aura was more subdued, the colors ranging into cobalt and emerald. They both gathered their auras close to themselves when Patriarch-Statesman and the others came in.

Patriarch-Statesman was the seventh council member. No one knew why there were seven council members, but it had always been that way. Even evolved politicians could squabble like Sapient Twos, if the matter fired their synapses the wrong way. Patriarch-Statesman was the de facto leader, in that he held the deciding vote, always. He could even, very cautiously, use his authority to override a majority. It was an unpopular political move that happened several times each millennium. Only once in the history of the People had a Patriarch-Statesman used his authority so recklessly as to counter the full agreement of the six others in the government. That decision led to the last war between the People. It happened hundreds of millennia ago, when the People were still stranded in corporeal form.

Today, Patriarch-Statesman’s aura was subdued with deep blues and browns, a vibrant energy of striking green permeating it. He was a serious leader, preparing to govern his people. He was calm, but energetic. He was confident, strong and secure.

A passage of time later, he was none of those things. His aura was sharp with yellows and oranges, even the occasional flashes of red. Patriarch-Statesman was no longer happy, confident, or secure; he was angry, contentious and belligerent.

“Even presuming the cannibalism is ‘symbolic,’ as Scientist-Farmer hypothesizes, that does not change the fact the dominant species of this planet is barbaric, war-like, and cruel!” Patriarch-Statesman snapped, a sharp red heatedness flashing quickly through his aura before being subsumed in orange.

“Which means, Patriarch-Statesman, that at this point in time, the species is on the very brink of Level Eight sapience,” Scientist-Farmer argued calmly. “Numbers 11 and 14 are the only indicia of the determinative characteristics the humans might arguably not meet. They currently, unquestionably, meet 34 of the 36 indicia of Level Eight sapience!”

“But … the winnowing is complete. The planting has already begun,” Patriarch-Statesman stated flatly. Finally, he arrived at the heart of the matter.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the meeting hall. Auras that were burning brightly suddenly cooled, as each member of the Consortium thought his or her own thoughts about Patriarch-Statesman's remark.

Scientist-Farmer spoke slowly but clearly. “I am saying only that this species, more than any other Researcher-Xenohistorian has ever studied, Patriarch-Statesman, is perched precisely upon the cusp of sapience and barbarism. The council needs to give them another millennium to see which way they develop. If they become sapient, they can be an asset to the Consortium. If they remain savages, then the planet can be harvested at that time.”

The silence in the room remained thick and heavy. Researcher-Xenohistorian allowed her aura to gently mingle with Scientist-Farmer’s, clearly indicating her agreement with his words and her personal alliance with him. The murmurs in the hall grew, and auras swirled in changing colors as each statesman tried to determine the most appropriate course of action. Colors darkened to a telling degree, and Patriarch-Statesman looked around at the other six governors, alarmed by what he was seeing. He turned back to Scientist-Farmer, since none of the six governors had yet spoken.

“Are you insinuating I would consider putting profit above what is best for the Consortium?” he asked indignantly, tongues of black-red flicking through the orange in his aura.

“Honored One, I would not –” Scientist-Farmer began, but he was interrupted by Researcher-Xenohistorian.

“If the shoe fits, Patriarch-Statesman, wear it,” she said haughtily. She interwove her aura with Scientist-Farmer’s and remained commingled with him as they left the meeting hall together.

“What does that mean?” murmured one of the governors as they passed.

“What is a shoe?”

March 16.

Hershey

The sun was going to go down in the next hour or so, and Hershey’s tail sunk with it. He gave up scratching and whining at the door; there were no living humans anywhere within smelling distance. The black lab dragged himself over to the side of the pen, and Hershey lay beside him on the other side. Both of them were miserable and thirsty, their tongues swollen and their heads throbbing. They were weak, dizzy, and confused. They were dying, and they both knew it. Three more puppies died that day. There were only fourteen dogs left alive and four cats … maybe three now, he couldn’t tell. Hershey hated cats, but he wouldn’t have wished this death even upon them.

Hershey was dreaming, a troubled, anxious sleep that still provided the only respite from the unremitting thirst. His throat hurt, as though he had tried to eat the prickly plants his first boy’s mother liked to grow. He forced his tongue to swallow. He was dreaming of water, of course, and humans. Humans were wonderful – they always took care of Hershey and the other dogs, and even the cats. Hershey wouldn’t even complain about the humans taking care of the cats, if only there were some nearby.

It was the black lab who woke him. His “woof” wasn’t loud enough to scare anyone … Hershey was barely able to hear it, and he was lying right beside the lab. Why did he bark?

Hershey was awake instantly. He stood as quickly as he could, dragging himself to the office door. He heard engines outside – strange sounding engines. But where there were engines, there were trucks. Where there were trucks, there were people.

And where there were people, there was hope!