Ocean in the Sea Page 15
There was one car, an old Buick. “Open,” he commanded the garage. Shit, he’d forgotten how weird this world was. No voice controls. There wasn’t a garage door opener in the car either. He looked at the wall by the door; nothing but a light switch. Finally, he checked the ceiling. Apparently they didn’t have garage door openers. He found the handle and turned it, pulling the garage door upward. Instantly, he regretted not keeping it closed.
Three young black men stood across the street, all staring in surprise. They didn’t look happy. Lewis guessed they were in their early twenties. Each wore a trench coat with puffy oversized shoulders, like some kind of uniform. One carried a baseball bat, another held a metal rod.
“It’s a goddam cracker. Shee-it, Lenny! Fucker can’t read the signs?”
Swinging the baseball bat, the tallest of the men stepped into the street, moving forward. “Hey, motherfucker. What the fuck you doin in Sanders’ garage?”
“Um…”
As they ran toward him, Lewis let go, releasing the door. He was already moving before it hit the ground. Jumping in the car, he started the engine. Screw this. What were the odds they’d get out of the way? Pushing, he dropped the clutch and felt the Buick leap forward. Plywood snapped, shattering under the front bumper, and the windshield cracked. Metal supports rained down around him, clattering to the road. One of his hubcaps rolled after him as he hit the street. In the rear mirror, he saw them chasing after him. At least they were alive.
Far better than what Garibaldi would have done.
Tires squealing, Lewis roared out of the neighborhood, taking a shortcut through a couple of overgrown yards and through a rotting picket fence. Crashing over a plastic bird-bath, he leapt a curb, pulled the wheel right, and straightened the car in time to avoid a stand of moss-covered mailboxes. Headlights appeared, and he sped past a maroon Cadillac plastered with bumper stickers. Reaching the main road, he took a right, unwilling to wait for the light to turn. Fortunately, he wasn’t far from the freeway, and he was headed in the right direction.
He spotted the familiar black disk as he took the entrance ramp. The drone was back. Shifting into second, he regretted not pushing the Attistar for an automatic transmission. At least the Buick had a full tank of gas.
Weaving through traffic, he sought the far left lane and kept speed with the car in front of him. The crack in the window made it hard to see, and he wasn’t sure where the drone was, but did it matter? Shrugging, he gave it a try anyway. What were the odds it would suffer an electronics failure and crash? Pushing the odds to one, he noticed nothing, but then he couldn’t see it, so…
“I am never visiting Tacoma again.”
As the signs and streetlights flashed by, he began to relax. He shouldn’t have stopped. Whatever it was that had triggered the seizure, memory, whatever, he needed to figure it out. He’d been looking at the picture of that march when it hit. Why would that matter? Maybe Garibaldi had been involved in that somehow. It was impossible to know. Avoid all pictures? Probably a good idea. Anything might trigger the asshole’s memories. Valon had better give him a clue. This was bullshit.
South of Tacoma, a huge rocket burst skyward on a trail of fire. Its tremendous roaring shook through the car. Even with the windows shut, it was like standing next to a waterfall. Smoke billowed after it, black soot dissipating like toxic mist over the city.
Surprised and distracted, Lewis lost control, weaving toward the concrete blocks lining the freeway. Sparks flew as he hit.
2 Days to Jump
Regaining control over the rumbling Buick, Lewis pulled away from the shoulder and back to the left lane. The front left quarter panel wasn’t looking too good, but he was more concerned with others on the road. Would they report a drunk driver? He glanced around and remembered he’d yet to see a cell phone. Maybe he didn’t need to worry. There was no way to report him.
When he looked up again, the rocket was a bright dot in the sky, and he wondered again what it was and why it had been launched. His first thought was an ICBM, and the beginning of a nuclear war, but signs further on offered a better explanation. A huge exit banner reading, “Tacoma Starport,” showed a stylized rocket lifting off toward a ring-shaped space station. Successive signs showed exits to Launch Pad 7, Launch Pad 9, Launch Pad 11.
The odd incongruity of technology baffled him. They had no LCD displays, at least that he’d noticed. Their cars looked like something out of a 1950s science fiction movie. He’d yet to see a computer, a cellular phone, or even a cellular antenna. The phone in the house had been a land line with a rotary dial. There were no microwave ovens, no Tupperware, and yet they had rockets, and walking tanks, and apparently, a space station. It made very little sense.
He should have put a history book in the car. Or in the house. There might have even been one, but he hadn’t taken the time to look. He should have thought of that, and berated himself for the lack of planning. He had to start thinking. He didn’t even know where he was going!
Portland, why not? It was as good a place as any. Where could he sleep? A bunker like last night could work. He could use the interface to ensure they didn’t find him, and after the next memory from Valon, maybe he’d know enough to come up with a better plan. In two more days, he’d be able to jump, and there was no point in staying here. This world sucked. Hopefully the next world… simulation… whatever, wouldn't involve racists, Nazis, a psycho host body, and mechanized war machines.
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Dressed in a green open-back hospital gown, Shanzea leaned up against a wall to keep the interns and nurses from staring at her naked ass while she called Randuu. It was ridiculous they didn’t have phones in the damned rooms.
“This is what I get for being nice,” she snapped into the receiver. “I could have just whacked him in the head hauled him in on a slab, but NOOooo, I had to play it slick and try to trick him. Fricking stupid.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Randuu said from the phone receiver. “We haven’t detected Tanandor, so there’s still time. Arsus has arranged your release from the hospital, and ‘borrowed’ you from Captain Greene for a temporary assignment. They won’t miss you at JAG. Are you in condition to work?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a headache, so they gave me some aspirin. No broken bones. It could have been worse.”
“I saw the video. What exactly happened?”
“I was crossing the street when the cops arrived. Figured I’d just stop them, you know? I bricked the first one. The one behind hit it, but the third one… I must not have been paying attention. It drove around and clocked me. I guess I must have hit my head on the pavement.”
“Do you think Garibaldi had anything to do with it?” asked Randuu. “He was pushing the Attistar a lot during your altercation.”
“I don’t know. If he did, then I owe the fucker.”
“If he did, then he let you live.”
“Is that significant?”
“It implies a certain weakness. So far, he hasn’t seriously injured anyone. I’m beginning to think he’s being conscientious. If he’s not willing to kill, we can use that to our advantage.”
“How?”
Randuu sighed. “He won’t be willing to kill us either, Shanzea.”
“So what? He doesn’t want to kill us. We don’t want to kill him. I don’t fucking care, Randuu. You still think he’s got a weather interface?”
“No. It’s got to be something else.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it’s subtle. Difficult to determine. Maybe something we haven’t seen before. That could be interesting. I wish Heticus were here. He’d at least know what interface Tanandor was using on the last world.”
“You sure Valruun isn’t full of shit? Maybe Tanandor’s already jumped and we've missed it.”
“Valruun's confident, but when it comes to Tanandor, it’s hard to be sure of anything.”
Shanzea looked left and caught a young male o
rderly staring at her. She gave him the finger. “Is there something you want me to do, or should I go home and watch cable reruns?”
“Get dressed and go to McChord. There's a scram jet arriving there shortly. Get on it. I’ve sent a team.”
“Who?”
“Valruun, Beloris, Perillia, and Senjiita. After you meet them, fly to Portland. Arsus informs me that Garibaldi is almost there. We don’t know if he’ll stop or not, but you may be able to intercept him. I’ll keep you apprised, so stay in contact.”
“Yes, mother.” Shanzea slammed the phone on the hook and stomped over to the nurse’s desk. Two women looked up, both smiling. Shanzea clenched her jaw. “Where’s my fucking clothes?”
The City of Roses
“Operator. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a Brenda Terrance,” said Lewis. “In Minneapolis Minnesota.”
“Just a moment, Sir.”
Lewis watched the sidewalk through the phone booth, looking at the people and cars, each one a potential threat. A fog was moving slowly in, a thin mist coming from the north off the Columbia River. People vanished in the distance, obscured by the wispy haze. A man in a thick brown canvas jacket met Lewis’s eyes through the dirty glass. His long grizzled beard and circular spectacles gave him the look of a lumberjack or some kind of survivalist nut. Lewis looked away quickly. The man lit a cigarette as he passed.
What was he going to say to Brenda if he found her? This world was so different. She could be married to someone else, or he might be alive here himself, an alternate version of Lewis Herman. They might be happy together. He wasn’t going to ruin that if they were. And if they weren’t together, if she were single, he was still in a foreign body, an alien in the guise of a stranger. He couldn’t risk exposing her to Garibaldi. If the psycho inside took control at the wrong time, he’d never forgive himself. The operator cut into his thoughts.
“I’m sorry Sir, but I have no records of a Brenda Terrance in Minneapolis.”
“You must be mistaken I…” He stopped, remembering that he could use the probability interface and ‘make’ it happen. It was stupid of him to forget. Thinking about what he wanted, Lewis considered the odds of the operator finding Brenda and pushed them to one. “Please try again.”
After a brief pause, the woman reported the same results. “There’s no one by the last name of Terrance listed.”
So there were some things he couldn’t do. If she didn’t exist, creating a person from scratch was certainly a stretch. The system wasn’t going to alter that much. Maybe it couldn’t. “Try Herman,” he told the operator. “Anyone by the name of Herman?”
“There are several families by that name. Are you looking for someone specific?”
“Lewis Herman.” He swallowed. What would happen if he found himself? Would the system prevent that?
“There’s no one by that name. I have a Douglass, a Michael, a Francis, and a Randolf. Oh, and a Sheila Herman.”
Unfamiliar names. Lewis knew none of them. He straightened his back, tapping his nail against the window in thought. So maybe he didn’t exist here. That was alright. If he did, he’d feel sorry for himself. And what would he say if he called? “Hello me, it’s me. Man, have I got a story! You’re not going to believe this. No, seriously, you’re not.” Right, like that was going to go help anything. No, the fact that he didn’t exist here was a relief, and anything could have happened to cause it. His grandparents or his parents might have died before having children. They might have married other people. Same with Brenda. Without knowing when history had changed, it was impossible to tell how far back it went or when it started.
That information might be useful.
“Sir? Do you want to place a call?”
“No thank you.” He set he phone on the receiver and opened the door. If Brenda had existed here, he might have been tempted to stay, and he didn’t want to. Not on this world. Not in the body of Garibaldi. There had to be better out there – worlds more like his own, hosts that weren’t insane. He just had to find them, and then find Brenda in it. That was a goal worth living for.
Find shelter. Survive. Avoid the authorities. Advice he’d take. Two days and he could jump someplace better.
Taking the car east, he drove toward Gresham, a bedroom neighborhood not far outside of Portland. No reason he picked it, just instinct. Crossing bridges he saw a few drones, but they didn’t follow. He hadn’t failed to notice the cameras mounted on streetlights and buildings. George Orwell would have been right at home here. Had Orwell even existed? Little things like that might make a big difference. Authors, directors, politicians, influential people. Who was the president? Probably no one he’d heard of. One mistake, one unfilled hole, and something different could slant the future. History was like the transmission of a car, but with an endless number of gears and positions. A single shift would change it. A throw of the dice.
The turn of a friendly card.
The cameras were probably tracking him, and even if they weren’t, it was smart to assume they were. Changing cars and clothes might have bought him some time, but he couldn’t rely on that. If they came after him, he had nothing to defend himself but the probability interface. A gun could be useful. He should ‘arrange’ to find one.
Lewis blinked and frowned. Why was he thinking these things? He wasn’t normally so… focused on the details of survival. He’d never used a gun in his life. Could these thoughts belong to Garibaldi? The possibility made him squirm. Even so, Garibaldi was trained to fight, and he was not. A pilot, he suddenly realized. That’s what he felt like - the pilot of a body, or a possessing demon, although in that regard, Garibaldi was the demon.
Selecting from among the neighborhoods, Lewis pushed the odds he would locate a specifically safe refuge, and turned at random, following a street into rows of houses covered with neatly manicured yards and trimmed hedges. The air smelled damp and rich with fertilizer. The people living here cared about what their neighbors thought. Impressions made a difference, reputation mattered. It was a good sign. They had money, and therefore they’d have stuff. Somewhere in here, he’d find the right stuff.
Parking the Buick on a curb outside a two story colonial, Lewis proceeded on foot, letting his tired mind wander into places he cared nothing for. The less he knew, the more powerful he was – Valon’s words – so he let fate choose, relying on the Attistar to ensure the sanctity of his sanctuary. Making his wish, he pushed and closed his eyes, walking without thinking. It wasn’t yet second nature, using the interface, but it would be soon. Inside, something warned him about becoming dependent on it. No single tool solved every problem.
Time passed. Not the time of a high school child between adolescence and adulthood, but the time between perception of existence and reality. He thought of Kaya Aoka and the potentiality of the life they might have lived, but that had never been what he really wanted, only a replacement life. With little regard, he threw it aside. That was a future for some other Lewis Herman. He would be the Lewis Herman that found Brenda and Scotty. Until then, he’d keep jumping.
When he opened his eyes, he found his feet stopped outside a dark rambler with only a porch light visible back from the long driveway. A sign in the flowerbed proudly proclaimed “This Residence Protected by Megatech Security.” It didn’t bother Lewis. He wasn’t going in the house.
Around the back, he found what he was looking for. Your standard run-of-the-mill nuclear fallout shelter. One in every home! He thought of the advertisement he’d seen on a billboard. Horton Bunkers - You can’t build America if you aren’t protecting Americans. A stylized Phoenix comprised their marketing logo, a flaming bird rising out of the ashes. It was fitting.
The shelter’s exterior wasn’t much different than Henry’s, but as per his instructions to the interface, there wouldn’t be anyone inside of it. More importantly, this one came stocked with history books, food, a nice soft bed, and some armaments. And, of course, it was unlocked.
The owner must have opted for certain perks when he’d ordered the shelter. Wood paneling lined the walls. An artificial gas fireplace sat in the main room. Actual paintings hung on the walls, not prints, probably knock-offs copied from old masterpieces. Each chamber had a fake window complete with drapes and artificial lighting. There was even a computer system of some kind, though primitive looking by Lewis’s standards. He might experiment with it later. The history books waited in the library, nicely shelved and only a little dusty. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.
Perusing the bindings of the section marked ‘History’ he found “The American Revolution,” and “Shadows of Hitler,” and “A Brief History of World War II.” That was the one. Obviously, the Nazis were still around, so any change would likely start there. He pulled it out and started scanning. If there was one thing Lewis excelled at, it was rapid assimilation of written information.
Opening the book, he decided to try something. “The odds are one that this book will open to the point in history where this world changed from my own,” he said aloud. With a push, he let the book drop open and began reading. The chapter started with Hitler’s assassination in 1939. Germany’s invasion of Poland was already well underway, but it was Hermann Göring that held the reins of power, and Göring’s Germany was entirely different than what Lewis remembered. Same atrocities, different priorities.
Göring didn’t give a shit about the speed of the ‘final solution’ and was quite happy to starve the Jewish prisoners to death in their camps. There were never any gas chambers or bullet genocides, only slow starvation. The effect was the same.
More importantly Göring had an obvious hard-on for aviation and rocketry. He directed massive resources into the development of missiles and better bombs. It was here that history diverged again. The Germans developed the first atomic bomb in 1944, and England became their ‘test’ zone for the deployment of this new weapon. Pictures showed the mushroom clouds rising over London, Birmingham, Leeds, and Liverpool. Once it began, the rain continued, as did the advancements. Heavy water bombs and atomic rocketry appeared in the Nazi arsenal within seven years. No one was safe, including the Russians. Excepting Germany itself, much of Europe was radioactive and toxic. But what about America?