The Fountain of Age (14 page)

Enough merged. The danger is past. The being is born, and is ship, and is enough.

FIFTEEN

Months to identify all the dead. Years to fully repair all the damage to the world’s infrastructure: bridges, buildings, information systems. Decades yet to come, DiBella knew, of speculation about what had actually happened. Not that there weren’t theories already. Massive EMP, solar radiation, extrasolar radiation, extrastellar radiation, extraterrestrial attack, global terrorism, Armageddon, tectonic plate activity, genetically engineered viruses. Stupid ideas, all easily disproved, but of course that stopped no one from believing them. The few old people left said almost nothing. Those that did, were scarcely believed.

Jake scarcely believed it himself.

He did nothing with the brain scans of Evelyn Krenchnoted and the three others, because there was nothing plausible he could do. They were all dead, anyway. “Only their bodies,” Carrie always added. She believed everything Henry Erdmann told her.

Did DiBella believe Henry’s ideas? On Tuesdays he did, on Wednesdays not, on Thursdays belief again. There was no replicable proof. It wasn’t science. It was . . . something else.

DiBella lived his life. He broke up with James. He visited Henry, long after the study of senior attention patterns was over. He went to dinner with Carrie and Vince Geraci. He was best man at their wedding.

He attended his mother’s sixty-fifth birthday party, a lavish shindig organized by his sister in the ballroom of a glitzy downtown hotel. The birthday girl laughed, and kissed the relatives who’d flown in from Chicago, and opened her gifts. As she gyrated on the dance floor with his Uncle Sam, DiBella wondered if she would live long enough to reach eighty.

Wondered how many others in the world would reach eighty.

“It was only because enough of them chose to go that the rest of us lost the emerging power,” Henry had said, and DiBella noted that them instead of we. “If you have only a few atoms of uranium left, you can’t reach critical mass.”

DiBella would have put it differently: If you have only a few neurons, you don’t have a conscious brain. But it came to the same thing in the end.

“If so many hadn’t merged, then the consciousness would have had to . . .” Henry didn’t finish his sentence, then or ever. But DiBella could guess.

“Come on, boy,” Uncle Sam called, “get yourself a partner and dance!”

DiBella shook his head and smiled. He didn’t have a partner just now and he didn’t want to dance. All the same, old Sam was right. Dancing had a limited shelf life. The sell-by date was already stamped on most human activity. Someday his mother’s generation, the largest demographic bulge in history, would turn eighty. And Henry’s choice would have to be made yet again.

How would it go next time?

“Good morning,” says an alien, coming up behind her. “Breakfast is ready now.”

Jenny whirls around and stumbles backward, falling against the hood of her van. This one is female, a tall Scandinavian-looking blonde. Her pink skin glows with health; her blue eyes shine warmly; her teeth are small and regular. She is dressed like last night’s alien, in a ground-length, long-sleeved brown garment. Loose, modest, cultureless, suitable for dissolving cities on any part of the globe.

Definitely a little hysterical.

“No, thank you,” Jenny manages.

“Are you sure?” the alien asks. She gestures toward the low, pale buildings at the far end of the sloping meadow. “The coffee is excellent today.”

“No, thank you.”

The alien smiles and moves on to the next car. Eric turns on Jenny. “Why are you so
polite
to them?”

She doesn’t answer. To say anything—anything at all—will be to unleash the rage he’s been battling for fourteen hours. So far, Eric has held that rage in check. She can’t risk it.

“Here,” he says, thrusting a Quaker Oats breakfast bar at her. She isn’t hungry but takes it anyway.

“Some of us are going to dig a latrine,” he says, not looking at her, and strides off.

Two cars over, a woman with crazy eyes fires a nine-millimeter at the alien. The bullet ricochets off her, striking another car’s hubcap. People wake and cry out. The alien smiles at the crazed human.

“Good morning. Breakfast is ready now.”

Probably the aliens aren’t even present. If you touch one—or hit it or shotgun it or hurl a Molotov cocktail at it, all of which were tried last night—you encounter a tough, impenetrable shell that doesn’t even wobble under impact.
Personal force field
, someone said.
Holographic projection
, said another,
protected by a force field
. Jenny has no idea who’s right, and it hardly matters. The same maybe-force-field was what stopped her and Eric’s mad drive south last night. Another transparent wall prevented her from retracing her route. A hundred or so cars were thus invisibly herded into this empty field, their drivers leaping out to compare sketchy information, children crying in the back seat and wives hunched over car radios, their faces in white shock.

Mumbai and Karachi had been first, vanishing at 2:16 p.m. No explosion, no dust, no blinding light. One moment, reported dazed observers by satellite, the great cities and their vast suburbs had existed and the next they were gone, leaving bare ground that ended in roads sheared off as neatly as if by a very sharp knife, in halves of temples on the shear line, in bisected holy cows. The ground was not even scorched. People standing beyond the vanishing point saw nothing happen.

Fifteen minutes later it was Delhi, Shanghai, and Moscow.

Fifteen minutes after that, Seoul, Sao Paolo, Istanbul, Lima, and Mexico City.

Then Jakarta, New York, Tokyo, Beijing, Cairo, Tehran, and Riyad.

By this time the hysterical media had figured out that cities were vanishing in order of size, and by a progression of prime numbers. At 3:16 p.m. (London, Bogotá, Lagos, Baghdad, Bangkok, Lahore, Dacca, Rio de Janeiro, Bangalore, Wuhan, and Tientsin), the panicked evacuations began. Most people were vaporized (except that no vapor remained) long before they reached the end of the murderous city traffic jams.

Canton, Toronto, Jiddah, Abidjan, Chongqing, Santiago, Calcutta, Singapore, Chennai, St. Petersburg, Shenyang, Los Angeles, Ahmadabad.

As soon as he heard, Eric called Deirdre in Chicago, over and over, even as he and Jenny had been packing her car. He hadn’t been able to get through by either cell or land line: all circuits busy. please try your call again later.

Pusan, Alexandria, Hyderabad, Ankara, Pyongyang, Yokohama, Montreal, Casablanca, Ho Chi Minh City, Berlin, Nanjing, Addis Ababa, Poona, Medellin, Kano.

Only two United States cities so far. Jenny lived in Henrietta, Rochester’s southernmost suburb. The roads were crowded but not impassable. She inched through traffic, the radio turned on, while Eric tried Deirdre over and over again. all circuits busy.

At 4:01, Chicago vanished along with Omdurman, Surat, Madrid, Sian, Kanpur, Havana, Jaipur, Nairobi, Harbin, Buenos Aires, Incheon, Surabaya, Kiev, Hangchou, Salvador, Taipei, Hai Phong, and Dar es Salaam. Eric kept calling. He said, “Maybe she was visiting someone out of the city, shopping at a mall someplace rural. . . . She doesn’t always have her cell turned on!”

Jenny knew better than to answer. She concentrated on the road, on the traffic, on the panicky radio announcer relaying by satellite a report from where Houston used to be.

“Can I have that?”

A small voice at her elbow. Jenny realizes she is still holding the unopened Quaker Oats bar. The little boy is maybe five or six, dirty and snot-nosed, but with wide dark eyes that hold soft depths, like ash. He stares hungrily at the breakfast bar.

“Sure, take it.” Her voice is thick. “What’s your name?”

“Ricky.” He tears off the wrapping and drops it on the grass. Jenny picks it up.

“Where’s your mom, Ricky?”

“Over there.” He gobbles the bar in three bites. His mother, a voluptuous redhead in pink stretch pants, sits on the ground with her back against an old green SUV. She nurses an infant from one large breast and watches Jenny. All at once she bawls, “Ricky! Get your ass over here!”

Ricky ignores this. “Do you got any more food?”

“No,” Jenny lies. Apparently not everyone thought to pack their cars with food. Those that have, will run out before long. The low, pale buildings still sit unvisited.

“Ricky!” his mother screams, and this time he leaves.

Jenny pulls off her sweater; the morning sun is turning the day hot. She opens her cell to key in her brother Bob’s number. Bob lives with his family in Dundee, a small town fifty miles away; his and Jenny’s mother lives with them. Jenny’s sister and her family are nearby. “Bob? You all okay? . . . No, nothing changed since last night. . . . Jane? You talk to her? . . .
Okay, look, I don’t want to run down the phone too much . . . Love you, too. . . .” When she closes the case, Eric is back.

They stare at each other.
Now it will come
, Jenny thinks. She feels as if she’s carrying a teacup of nitroglycerin across a tightrope; the fall is only a matter of time. But all Eric says is, “There’s a man here who’s good at organization. We divided into sections and checked out the whole wall. No breaks, and it extends as far up as anyone can throw a stone and as far underground as we had time to dig. The force field surrounds the buildings, too. Anything new on the radio?”

“No,” Jenny says, not telling him that she hasn’t been listening. But he knows; his question was not inquisitive but hostile. He can’t help that, Jenny knows as much, but she recoils as if he’d struck her. She’s always been too sensitive to rejection.

Eric says, “I’m going back to help the tunnel crew.”

“Okay.” And then she can’t stand it anymore. “Eric, I’m so sorry, but it’s not my fault that my family is alive and Deirdre and Mary—”

“
Don’t
,” he says, so low and dangerous that Jenny is shocked into silence. Eric is not ordinarily a dangerous man. One thing she loved about him was his light-hearted exuberance.

He walks away, his back toward her, and Jenny covers her face with her hands. It is her fault, will always be her fault. Not that Eric’s wife and daughter are dead, of course, but that Eric was with Jenny, in bed with Jenny in another city, pumping away on top of Jenny, when it happened. He will never forgive either of them for that.

They met a year ago, at the American Library Association annual conference, in Kansas City. Jenny’s attraction to him was instantaneous, and so was her glance at the wedding ring on Eric’s left hand. But he was so handsome and so charming, and she was so thrilled by the almost unprecedented masculine attention. They drifted together at the luncheon held between “Reference Tools for the Online Generation” and “Collaborative Approaches to Information Literacy.” They had a drink in the bar after the obligatory inedible banquet, laughing at the dullness of the speakers. One drink became many. They spent the last night of the conference in Jenny’s room, and the next day she’d flown back to Rochester, suspended somewhere between euphoria and dread. Two days later she’d emailed him. Eric had replied, and things had gone on from there.