settled as well as he could figure out how to, given the lack of resources, then he went back up the hill to begin the difficult and sometimes tedious task of leading a double life.
Toward nightfall, he snuck food down to her out of his own meager rations. Finding her asleep, he set the food on the floor near her and pondered what to do next. It struck him that she probably still had an Informer with her and that this posed a risk, since she was beyond his control and might, accidentally or otherwise, turn in some sort of report that might contradict something he might say or write. He snuck the Informer out of her pocket. Not wanting to have it in his possession – how on Earth would he explain that? – he made his way down to the Snake River and tossed it in. It seeming safer to be where he was expected to be, he reluctantly went home to his cabin, leaving Julia wounded and alone for the night.
Harvey had slept his first night underground in the deep sleep denied a man topside if he had sense enough to distrust his comrades in the bunkhouse. The following nights were less restful. His mind, kept on a tight rein for survival's sake topside, theoretically could have just switched back to a normal, freeman mode. But it wasn't doing that. It was seesawing between trying to be as hardheaded and self-centered as he had been for several years, and a more unguarded, more fully human, mode, which (at least at this stage of development) seemed to favor unleashing twenty incomplete thoughts at once, and having them ricochet into one another, breaking them all into even less usable bits. Nor would it turn off when it should.
He wasn't sure if Stanley Charbonneau was helping or hindering. He was stopping by now and then to check how things were going. He wasn't being pushy – Harvey might have wanted to deck him had he been pushy – nor was he being relentless. In fact he was, as far as it went, being reassuring in that offhand way of his. When Stanley said that what a fellow was going through was perfectly normal and only to be expected, there was reason to believe him. Still, it was annoying, being checked up on, and being handed unsolicited advice.
Harvey finally got to be grilled thoroughly by Lt. Ott. Being treated as a man whose observations and opinions mattered, and having a chance to clear up some misapprehensions, gave Harvey a sense of his boat at least having an anchor, so to speak.
After that, he requested permission to go see the Tolman kids, if they were up to it. He was told that an unexpectedly good opening for getting them out had come up, and they, along with several other civilians who wanted to leave, had been evacuated. He didn't ask if Remna was among them. He assumed that she'd go wherever the Tolman kids went, for a while at least. Stanley, after letting him stew in his assumption for a few days, volunteered that she had, indeed, stayed attached to the kids and was no longer within commuting distance. Harvey's boat felt anchorless again, although he'd have died before he told anyone that.
He got an idea that he'd go visit his brother, if he could get permission to do so.
He realized that Anthony would probably ask him if he'd seen Gills yet, or repented of wanting to kill him. Stanley had taken control of the situation without any help, so, not being needed, he hadn't bothered to go visit. Nor had he really repented of wanting to kill the man. He'd succeeded at halfway efforts, but always got derailed with a litany of excuses on why, actually, he should have gone ahead and killed the fellow, rather than exposing Subterra to his dangerous, resource-consuming presence.
He realized that he was thinking more like a pagan than a Christian, plus he didn't like feeling like a coward for avoiding the whole mess, so he took himself down to the holding cell and asked if he could see his former co-pilot. Stanley, or perhaps Ott, had apparently foreseen that he might do this, because the minders were all too happy to let him in. Gills was wide awake and in one of his belligerent moods. His moods had been tolerated topside because if you want to have pilots who will round up stray people who haven't yet formed a proper appreciation for an all-wise government, or shoot the ones who have been deemed too disloyal or inferior to redeem, you have to put up with some belligerent moods now and then. (Government scientists were sure they could breed this nasty 'primitive evolutionary trait' out of people eventually, but they certainly weren't there yet, and so accommodations were made, within limits.)
When Gills glared at him, Harvey had the odd sensation of looking in a mirror. Certainly, the man looked like his twin physically – all the helicopter pilots looked the same, right down to their cherished face brands – but that wasn't what he was seeing reflected. If it was, he'd have had a similar reaction to sitting across a desk from Anthony, who lacked the brand and wasn't quite as athletic, but otherwise fit the bill. No, uh uh, this was different. This was seeing a damaged and twisted soul, trying to bluff its way through a light-deficient life. It was unsettling to behold.
Harvey was too much of a warrior to turn and run, so he said, "Just checking to see how you're doing." He could see Gills' mind race, pivot, weigh responses. Probably the man thought he was being tested for loyalty. "I'd clear things up, but I'm not authorized to clear things up yet," Harvey said, for lack of anything better to say. That seemed to help, if for no other reason than Gills probably needed badly for someone to mention the existence of authority.
Not sure what else to do, Harvey took leave of the minders and headed to Ott's office. He stuck his head in the door and said, "Any reason I can't head over to visit Anthony?"
"None that I can think of."
"I don't need to go."
"We're on orange alert. Not red. Go ahead."
"Do I need to grab Stanley or somebody?"
"Not unless you're feeling mutinous."
"No signs of it yet," Harvey quipped.
Ott gave him a searching look, perhaps wondering if he should put him back on strict probation, but waved him out.
Once in Sentry Square, Harvey did some stretches and other warm up exercises. "Haven't been getting my runs in," he volunteered to a nearby soldier, by way of explanation.
"You headed to town?" the soldier asked.
"Yep," Harvey said, not seeing any reason to volunteer that he meant to stop a half mile short, to duck into the church to see if the pastor was in his office.
"Let's see what you have in you, old man," the soldier said. He started doing warm ups of his own. "I'll even give you a head start, if you like," he said.
Nearby soldiers chuckled. One started taking bets on the outcome. Harvey started to protest that he'd meant to get in a gentle training run – hadn't he just informed them that he was out of training? – but he didn't like the reactions he was getting from the assembled men. He sized up his challenger. He was young, probably twenty-ish. He had the marks of a mongrel, which all too often meant a stronger constitution than highly bred humans such as himself. He also looked like he did athletics even in his sleep. On the other hand, the man was built more like a sprinter than a long distance runner. In any case, Harvey was in no mood to walk away from such a challenge. Besides, he'd only missed a couple days of regular training, and some of that he'd made up for in calisthenics.
"You're on," he said with a grin. "But probably I should give you the head start."
The young man laughed, but there was a look in his eye that showed that he was wondering if Harvey knew something he didn't.
"No head starts for either of you. It would mess up the wagers," the man taking the bets said.
"Enough dawdling now," another man said as he opened the hidden door to the wormhole route. "The finish line is the sentry box at Ontario Hollows. Ready. Set. Go!"
The racers set off at a sane speed for men headed on a long-ish course on an uneven track. They picked up speed toward the end. Rounding the last corner before the city limits, Harvey pushed for all the speed he had left in him. His challenger yelled that he wasn't going to let him get away with it, and doubled down on his own speed.
Harvey heard a rifle crack, and buckled.
Anthony Davis leaned back in his chair, put his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and rested. A few minutes later, he thou
ght he felt someone looking at him. He opened his eyes to find Lt. Ott looking down at him.
"There's a bed down the hall with your name on it," Ott said, by way of hello.
"I'm all right for a bit longer. Have you seen Harvey yet?"
"Nope. Just got here. What happened?"
"Harvey and Pascal were having a race from Sentry Square to town. Near the end, Harvey pulled off one of his famous super-duper last-leg kicks, which threatened to leave Pascal humiliated at the finish line. So Pascal tossed out a loud 'oh no you don't!' of some sort, and doubled down on his own speed. A sentry misread the situation, thought Harvey was an enemy combatant about to storm his community, and shot him in the abdomen. The bullet went through, and nicked the spinal cord. Pascal objected loudly, and Barry – that's the sentry in question – reassessed the situation, but unfortunately was just as wrong the second time as the first. He mentally moved Pascal from 'hero trying to catch villain' to 'fellow enemy combatant', and tried to shoot him. Two men who had a better grasp of the situation tackled him as he got his shot off, and it went wild. So now we have one man in critical condition, and several guys who are suffering from seesawing doses of guilt, shame, anger, and discord with fellow soldiers. It's a mess."
"Sounds like. But Harvey's still among us?"
"At last report, yes. It'll be iffy for a while, though."
"Would it be better if we could get him over to the doctors at Nampatun?"
"He's not up to being carted that far, even assuming we could make it over the bridge without being caught in the crosshairs of that birdwatcher up there."
Ott snorted. The topside government was idiotic more often than not, but basing an excellent marksman on a hill above the only remaining bridge over the Snake River for fifty miles in one direction and a hundred miles in the other, and keeping him in practice by having him shoot birds on a regular basis, wasn't something he could classify as entirely stupid.
"If I put a rush on getting the helicopter put back together, is he up to that sort of trip?" he asked.
"I don't know. Ask the nurse. Besides, who would you get to fly it? Harvey's your only pilot right now, isn't he?"
"There's Gills. We might be able to force some cooperation."
"Harvey's former co-pilot? There isn't much love lost between them, as I understand it," Anthony said.
"Nor is he altogether too fond of us yet," Ott admitted. "Which is why we'd have to do some convincing."
"Are helicopter pilots topside still being told that suicide is honorable, if you've let the government down?"
"I take your point. Is there anything else I should know before I head out to meet with Pascal and the others?"
Anthony ran his hand through his hair, leaned back against the wall again, and pondered. "No, I don't think so. Like I said, it's a mess and men are angry with themselves as well as each other. But you're used to that, right?" He smiled.
Ott gave him a grim smile back. It had taken him years to realize that the only man at a base who dealt with more fuss than the local lieutenant was the chaplain.
"Speaking of Gills, I haven't gone to visit him yet. Any reason I can't do it now?" Anthony asked.
"No bunks en route?" Ott said.
"I'll probably have somebody lend me a corner of a room to take a nap in over there, but I think I should pop over," Anthony said. "Besides, I could use a walk right now, to clear my head."
"Use Harvey's billet. It's open," Ott said, and just as soon wished he hadn't. "Sorry. Not the best thing to say, that wasn't."
Anthony patted him on the shoulder, and left. He took his time walking over. It was restful mentally, at least, and he needed a rest after dealing with Pascal and the other men, who were blaming Barry, and after dealing with Barry, who was self-righteously blaming the whole world for putting him into a situation which could be misread.
When he got to Sentry Square, men who'd placed bets on the race were hanging around, waiting on updates. Most of them knew Anthony, and knew he wasn't a sugarcoating sort of pastor, so they glommed onto him, begging for information.
"We heard the new guy with the pilot brand got shot. That true?" one of them asked.
"Yes."
"Dead?"
"No. But critical. Bullet went through the gut, and hit the spinal cord."
"We heard the guy at that end mistook the race for an invasion. That true?"
"Yes."
"Stupid idiot."
"You weren't there. I wasn't there. My understanding is that both racers were roaring forward at high speed, and Pascal yelled at Harvey something to the effect that he was going to get him. I'm not excusing it entirely. The sentry was wrong. But raise your hand if you've never misread a situation, especially one where grown men are running and yelling, especially right at you."
No hands went up.
"The sentry tried to shoot Pascal, too, we heard. That true?"
"Yes. But other men got him tackled in time. Pascal wasn't hit."
"Who was the sentry? We heard it was Barry Kwaso. That true?"
"Yes."
"He's under arrest?"
"He's being detained, while the matter is investigated. That's standard procedure. He won't be arrested unless it looks like what he did was criminal, which looks unlikely at this point."
"Is there somewhere to sign up to help evacuate the pilot, if he needs to be hauled to Nampatun or something?"
"Not that I know of. I'll mention it to Lt. Ott if you like. And thanks. I'd thank you in any case for volunteering, but in this case the pilot is my brother. As in 'not just from the same breed background, but really my older sibling who I grew up with' brother."
"Oh, wow. No one told us that."
"I figured. It's all right. I'm here to see Gills. I forgot to ask where he's being held. Can someone point me in the right direction?"
The men didn't think pointing was good enough. Every one of them not duty bound to stay at the checkpoint walked with Anthony toward the detention area, to show their solidarity with a man whose brother had been shot. En route, they passed the mess hall.
"Oh, wait," Anthony said. "I haven't eaten in a while. I'd better do that first."
None of the servicemen felt like sitting around talking, but they didn't feel like abandoning the chaplain either. Anthony, who would have been just as happy to have been left alone, was soon seated at a table, food in front of him, surrounded by men who had no idea what to say, but were not going to call retreat on that account. He accepted it for what it was worth – which was a lot, really – and ate in silence, projecting a willingness to talk if anyone wanted, but an appreciation of not being fussed in the meantime.
The food, the sitting still, the security, combined with fatigue and the aftereffects of donating as much blood as the nurse would take from him, made it hard to stay awake.
"C'mon, pastor, we're going to get you to a cot or something," someone said, as men gathered around.
"No thanks. I'm all right," Anthony protested, feebly.
"No, you're not. Trust me," the senior man of the gaggle said. "Pick him up, lads."
They picked him up, as gently and tenderly as they'd pick up a wounded buddy on a battlefield if they weren't under fire. He was asleep before they got him to a bed.
They weren't sure he was ready to roll a half hour later when he woke up, but he assured them he'd sleep again soon. Since none of them felt up to arguing with a chaplain they reluctantly escorted him, en masse, to the holding cell.
The minders were surprised to see a chaplain arriving with an escort, but they pretended it was business as usual. Anthony had mixed feelings about that. It was nice to have doors open to you without question, but worrisome to know how easily a subversive could get where he shouldn't, apparently even with a contingent of confederates, if only he got assigned to a chaplain's post. He thanked his escort and sent them on their way. The door was unlocked, and he was sent through.
Gills flashed a look of recognition, quickly replaced with a
look that showed he realized he'd been mistaken. Still, there was half-veiled hope in his eyes. Anthony guessed that the man was waiting for someone to show up and tell him he'd passed the psychological tests, and could go back to flying.
"Hi, my name's Anthony Davis. I'm the chaplain around here. Do you know what that means?"
Gills broke into a sweat.
"My job is to steer people to God, and help keep them on track. We take God pretty seriously around here," Anthony continued.
Gills put his hands over his ears, shut his eyes, and hummed.
Anthony smiled. At least the man had been told about God. He'd been told to refuse to listen to anyone who tried to bring up the subject, obviously, but that only made it easier to explain that God was worth fearing.
He would have appreciated a more manly way of avoiding the discussion. Ah, well, if he had a coward to work with, he had a coward to work with. He was still worth saving.
Julia gradually started to trust Renzo, who faithfully brought her small portions of food two or three times a day, and who treated her well, if sometimes ineptly. But her wounds got badly infected, and after that she felt herself to be in a losing battle. She didn't trust Renzo far enough to tell him that, for fear he'd finish her off, or turn her over to others who would do the same. Instead, she held on the best she could, and dragged herself to the front of the dugout now and then for welcome doses of fresh air and sunshine.
She wondered what it would be like to die. Some of her instructors had told her it was a matter of becoming oblivious, like going to sleep and never waking up. Others had said it was a matter of your spirit finally being free of your body and joining with other spirits in the vast expanse of the universe, where you'd all become one, and happily exist forever. She hadn't realized how incompatible those visions were until a bureaucrat who'd heard that both 'realities' were being taught at her breed school had tried to remedy the confusion by ordering that all Collies were to be taught that when they died they could choose which option applied to them. Even at the time, it had struck her as highly improbable that a dead person could choose anything. Now, as her earthly life slipped away from her, she was sure it was worse than highly improbable. It was insane. Death was like gravity. It pulled you down whether you wanted it to or not. It was real, real, real, and no amount of wishful thinking would change that.
She became convinced that both views were wrong. She was increasingly convinced that she would remain herself, forever, unassimilated but also aware, aware, very aware, instead of oblivious.
She became convinced that she would answer for what she had done in life, and equally convinced that the government had not let her learn the standards by which she'd be judged. Death began to frighten her in ways it hadn't, back when she was doing what she'd been