The Peace War (8 page)

"And if the past isn't enough, think about this: I'm seventy-eight. If it's not Wili, it's no
one. I've never been modest: I know I'm the best mathman the Tinkers have. Wili's not
merely a replacement for me. He is actually better, or will be with a few years'
experience. You know the problem he just cracked? It's the thing the Middle California
Tinkers have been bugging me about for three years: eavesdropping on the Authority's
recon satellites."

Rosas' eyes widened slightly.

"Yes. That problem. You know what's involved. Wili's come up with a scheme I think
will satisfy your friends, one that runs a very small chance of detection. Wili did it in six
weeks, with just the technical background he picked up from me last fall. His technique
is radical, and I think it will provide leverage on several other problems. You're going to
need someone like him over the next ten years."

"Um." Rosas fiddled with his gold and blue sheriff's brassard. "Where is this lab?"

`Just north of San Diego."

"That close? Wow." He looked away. "So the problem is getting him down there. The
Aztlán nobility is damned unpleasant about blacks coming in from the north, at least
under normal circumstances."

" `Normal circumstances'?"

"Yes. The North American Chess Federation championships are in La Jolla this April.
That means that some of the best high tech people around are going to be down there
legitimately. The Authority has even offered transportation to entrants from the East
Coast, and they hardly ever sully their aircraft with us ordinary humans. If I were as
paranoid as you, I would be suspicious. But the Peace seems to be playing it just for the
propaganda value. Chess is even more popular in Europe than here; I think the Authority
is building up to sponsorship of the world championships in Berne next year.

"In any case, it provides a cover and perfect protection from the Aztlán black or Anglo,
they've never touched anyone under Peace Authority protection."

Naismith found himself grinning. Some good luck after all the bad. There were tears in
his eyes once more, but now for a different reason. "Thanks, Mike. I needed this more
than anything I've ever asked for."

Rosas smiled briefly in return.

Allison didn't know much about plant identification (from less than one hundred
kilometers anyway), but there was something very odd about this forest. In places it was
overgrown right down to the ground; in other places, it was nearly clear. Everywhere a
dense canopy of leaves and vines prevented anything more than fragmented views of the
sky. It reminded her of the scraggly second growth forests of Northern California, except
there was such a jumble of types: conifers, eucalyptus, even something that looked like
sickly manzanita. The air was very warm, and muggy. She rolled back the sleeves of her
flight fatigues.

The fire was barely audible now. This forest was so wet that it could not spread. Except
for the pain in her leg, Allison could almost believe she were in a park on some picnic. In
fact, they might be rescued by
real
picnickers before the Air Force arrived.

She heard Quiller's progress back toward her long before she could see him. When he
finally came into view, the pilot's expression was glum. He asked again about her injury.

"I — I think I'm fine. I pinched it shut and resprayed." She paused and returned his
somber look. "Only..."

"Only what?"

"Only... to be honest, Angus, the crash did something to my memory. I don't remember a
thing from right after entry till we were on the ground. What went wrong anyway? Where
did we end up?"

Angus Quiller's face seemed frozen. Finally he said, "Allison, I think your memory is
fine — as good as mine, anyway. You see, I don't have any memory from someplace over
Northern California till the hull started busting up on the ground. In fact, I don't think
there was anything to remember."

"What?"

"I think we were something like forty klicks up and then we were down on a planetary
surface — just like that." He snapped his fingers. "I think we've fallen into some damn
fantasy." Allison just stared at him, realizing that he was probably the more distressed of
the two of them. Quiller must have interpreted the look correctly. "Really, Allison, unless
you believe that we could have exactly the same amount of amnesia, then the only
explanation is... I mean one minute we're on a perfectly ordinary reconnaissance
operation, and the next we're... we're here, just like in a lot of movies I saw when I was a
kid."

"Parallel amnesia is still more believable than that, Angus."
If only I could figure out
where we are.

The pilot nodded. "Yes, but you didn't climb a tree and take a look around, Allison.
Plant life aside, this area looks vaguely like the California coast. We're boxed in by hills,
but in one direction I could see that the forests go down almost to the sea. And..."

"And?"

"There's something out there on the coast, Allison. It's a mountain, a silver mountain
sticking kilometers into the sky. There's never been anything on Earth like that."

Now Allison began to feel the bedrock fear that was gnawing at Angus Quiller. For many
people, the completely inexplicable is worse than death. Allison was such a person. The
crash — even Fred's death — she could cope with. The amnesia explanation had been so
convenient. But now, almost half an hour had passed. There was no sign of aircraft, much
less of rescue. Allison found herself whispering, reciting all the crazy alternatives, "You
think we're in some kind of parallel world, or on the planet of another star-or in the
future?"
A future where alien invaders set their silvery castle-mountains down on the
California shore?

Quiller shrugged, started to speak, seemed to think better of it — then finally burst out
with, "Allison, you know that... cross near the edge of the crater?"

She nodded.

"It was old, the stuff carved on it was badly weathered, but I could see... It had your
name on it and... and today's date."

Just the one cross, and just the one name. For a long while they were both silent.

It was April. The three travelers moved through the forest under a clear, clean sky. The
wind made the eucs and vines sway above them, sending down misty sprays of water.
But at the level of the mud road, the air was warm and still.

Wili slogged along, reveling in the strength he felt returning to his limbs. He been fine
these last few weeks. In the past, he always felt good for a couple months after being
really sick, but this last winter had been so bad he'd wondered if he would get better.
They had left Santa Ynez three hours earlier, right after the morning rain stopped. Yet he
was barely tired and cheerfully refused the others' suggestions that he get back into the
cart.

Every so often the road climbed above the surrounding trees and they could see a ways.
There was still snow in the mountains to the east. In the west there was no snow, only the
rolling rain forests, Lake Lompoc spread sky-blue at the base of the Dome — and the
whole landscape appearing again in that vast, towering mirror.

It was strange to leave the home in the mountains. If Paul were not with them, it would
have been more unpleasant than Wili could admit.

Wili had known for a week that Naismith intended to take him to the coast, and then
travel south to La Jolla — and a possible cure. It was knowledge that made him more
anxious than ever to get back in shape. But it wasn't until Jeremy Kaladze met them at
Santa Ynez that Wili realized how unusual this first part of the journey might be. Wili
eyed the other boy surreptitiously. As usual, Jeremy was talking about everything in
sight, now running ahead of them to point out a peculiar rockfall or side path, now falling
behind Naismith's cart to study something he had almost missed. After nearly a day's
acquaintance, Wili still couldn't decide how old the boy was. Only very small children in
the Ndelante Ali displayed his brand of open enthusiasm. On the other hand, Jeremy was
nearly two meters tall and played a good game of chess.

"Yes, sir, Dr. Naismith," said Jeremy — he was the only person Wili had ever heard call
Paul a doctor — "Colonel Kaladze came down along this road. It was a night drop, and
they lost a third of the Red Arrow Battalion, but I guess the Russian government thought
it must be important. If we went a kilometer down those ravines, we'd see the biggest pile
of armored vehicles you can imagine. Their parachutes didn't open right." Wili looked in
the direction indicated, saw nothing but green undergrowth and the suggestion of a trail.
In L.A. the oldsters were always talking about the glorious past, but somehow it was
strange that in the middle of this utter peace a war was buried, and that this boy talked
about ancient history as if it were a living yesterday. His grandfather, Lt. Col. Nikolai
Sergeivich Kaladze, had commanded one of the Russian air drops, made before it became
clear that the Peace Authority (then a nameless organization of bureaucrats and
scientists) had made warfare obsolete.

Red Arrow's mission was to discover the secret of the mysterious force-field weapon
the Americans had apparently invented. Of course, they discovered the Americans were
just as mystified as everyone else by the strange silvery bubbles, baubles — bobbles? — that
were springing up so mysteriously, sometimes preventing bombs from exploding, more
often removing critical installations.

In that chaos, when everyone was losing a war that no one had started, the Russian
airborne forces and what was left of the American army fought their own war with
weapon systems that now had no depot maintenance. The conflict continued for several
months, declining in violence until both sides were slugging it out with small arms. Then
the Authority had miraculously appeared, announcing itself as the guardian of peace and
the maker of the bobbles. The remnant of the Russian forces retreated into the mountains,
hiding as the nation they invaded began to recover. Then the war viruses came, released
(the Peace Authority claimed) by the Americans in a last attempt to retain national
autonomy. The Russian guerrillas sat on the fringes of the world and watched for some
chance to move. None came. Billions died and fertility dropped to near zero in the years
following the War. The species called Homo sapiens came very close to extinction. The
Russians in the hills became old men, leading ragged tribes.

But Colonel Kaladze had been captured early (through no fault of his own), before the
viruses, when the hospitals still functioned. There had been a nurse, and eventually a
marriage. Fifty years later, the Kaladze farm covered hundreds of hectares along the
south edge of the Vandenberg Dome. That land was one of the few places north of
Central America where bananas and cacao could be farmed. Like so much of what had
happened to Colonel Kaladze in the last half century, it would have been impossible
without the bobbles, in particular the Vandenberg one: The doubled sunlight was as
intense as could be found at any latitude, and the high obstacle the Dome created in the
atmosphere caused more than 250 centimeters of rain a year in a land that was otherwise
quite dry. Nikolai Sergeivich Kaladze had ended up a regular Kentucky colonel — even if
he was originally from Georgia.

Most of this Wili learned in the first ninety minutes of Jeremy's unceasing chatter.

In late afternoon they stopped to eat. Belying his gentle exterior, Jeremy was a hunting
enthusiast, though apparently not a very expert one. The boy needed several shots to
bring down just one bird. Wili would have preferred the food they had brought along, but
it seemed only polite to try what Jeremy shot.
Six months before, politeness would have
been the last consideration to enter his mind.

They trudged on, no longer quite so enthusiastic. This was the shortest route to Red
Arrow Farm but it was still a solid ten-hour hike from Santa Ynez. Given their late start,
they would probably have to spend the night on this side of the Lompoc ferry crossing.
Jeremy's chatter slowed as the sun slanted toward the Pacific and spread double shadows
behind them.
In the middle of a long discussion (monologue) about his various
girlfriends, Jeremy turned to look up at Naismith. Speaking very quietly, he said, "You
know, sir, I think we are being followed."

The old man seemed to be half-dozing in his seat, letting Berta, his horse, pull him
along without guidance. "I know," he said. "Almost two kilometers back. If I had more
gear, I could know precisely, but it looks like five to ten men on foot, moving a little
faster than we are. They'll catch up by nightfall."

Wili felt a chill that was not in the afternoon air. Jeremy's stories of Russian bandits
were a bit pale compared to what he had seen with the Ndelante Ali, but they were bad
enough. "Can you call ahead, Paul?"

Naismith shrugged. "I don't want to broadcast; they might jump on us immediately.
Jeremy's people are the nearest folks who could help, and even on a fast horse that's a
couple hours. We're going to have to handle most of this ourselves."

Wili glared at Jeremy, whose distant relatives — the ones he had been bragging about
all day — were apparently out to ambush them. The boy's wide face was pale. "But I was
mostly farking you. No one has actually seen one of the outlaw bands down this far in...
well, in ages."

"I know," Naismith muttered agreement. "Still, it's a fact we're being crowded from
behind." He looked at Berta, as if wondering if there was any way the three of them
might outrun ten men on foot. "How good is that cannon you carry, Jeremy?"

The boy raised his weapon. Except for its elaborate telescopic sight and chopped
barrel, it looked pretty ordinary to Wili: a typical New Mexico autorifle, heavy and
simple. The clip probably carried ten 8-mm rounds. With the barrel cut down, it wouldn't
be much more accurate than a pistol. Wili had successfully dodged such fire from a
distance of one hundred meters. Jeremy patted the rifle, apparently ignorant of all this,
"Really hot stuff, sir. It's smart."