The Postman

  Who will take responsibility …

  The words would not go away, lights pulsing in his mind.

  The horse tossed her head and snorted, pawing at the ground.

  Who …?”

  Gordon cried out, “Aw, hell!” He wheeled the filly about, sending her cantering southward again.

  A babbling, frightened crowd of men and women stepped back in hushed silence as he clattered up to the portico of the House of Cyclops. His spirited mount danced and blew as he stared down at the people for a long, silent moment.

  Finally, Gordon threw his poncho back. He rebuttoned his shirt and set the postman’s cap on his head so the bright brass rider shone in the light of the rising sun.

  He took a deep breath. Then he began pointing, giving terse commands.

  In the name of survival—and in the name of the “Restored United States”—the people of Corvallis and the Servants of Cyclops all hurried to obey.

  INTERLUDE

  High above gray, foam-flecked wavetops, the jet stream throbbed. Winter had come again, and winds moaned chill recollections over the north Pacific.

  Fewer than twenty cycles past, the normal patterns of the air had been perturbed by great, dark funnels—as if armies of angry volcanoes had chosen the same moment to throw earth against sky.

  If the episode had not ended quickly, perhaps all life might have vanished, and the ice returned forever. Even as it was, clouds of ash had blanketed the Earth for weeks before the larger grains fell out of the sky like dirty rain. Smaller bits of rock and soot dispersed into the high stratospheric streams, scattering the sunlight.

  Years passed before spring came again, at last.

  It DID come. The Ocean—slow, resilient—surrendered up just enough heat to stop the spiral short of no-return. In time, warm, sea-drenched clouds again swept over the continent. The tall trees grew, and weeds sprouted earnestly, unmolested, through cracks in broken pavement.

  Still, there remained plenty of dust, riding the high winds. Now and then the cold air ventured south again, carrying reminders of the Long Chill. Vapor crystalized around the grains, forming complex, fractal hexahedrons. Snowflakes grew and fell.

  Obstinate, Winter arrived one more time to claim a dark country.

  III

  CINCINNATUS

  1

  Gusts sculpted whirling devil shapes in the blowing snow—flurries that seemed to rise, ghostlike, from the gray drifts, fluttering and darting windblown under the frosted trees.

  A heavily laden branch cracked, unable to bear the weight of one more dingy snowflake. The report echoed like a muffled gunshot down the narrow forest lanes.

  Snow delicately covered the death-glazed eyes of a starved deer, filling the channels between its starkly outlined ribs. Flakes soon hid faint grooves in the icy ground where the animal had last pawed, only hours ago, in its fruitless search for food.

  Taking no sides, the dancing flurries went on to cloak other victims as well, settling soft white layers over crimson stains in the crushed, older snow.

  All the corpses soon lay blanketed, peaceful, as if asleep.

  The new storm had erased most signs of the struggle by the time Gordon found Tracy’s body under the dark shadow of a winter-whitened cedar. By then a frozen crust had stanched the bleeding. Nothing more flowed from the unlucky young woman’s slashed throat.

  Gordon pushed away thoughts of Tracy as he had briefly known her in life—ever cheerful and brave, with a slightly mad enthusiasm for the hopeless job she had taken on. His lips pressed together grimly as he tore open her woolen shirt and reached in to feel under her armpit.

  The body was still warm. This had not happened long ago.

  Gordon squinted to the southwest, where tracks—already fading under the blowing snow—led off into the painful ice-brightness. In a flat, almost silent movement, a white-clad shape appeared beside him.

  “Damn!” he heard Philip Bokuto whisper. “Tracy was good! I could have sworn those pricks wouldn’t have been able to—”

  “Well, they did.” Gordon cut him off sharply. “And it wasn’t more than ten minutes ago.”

  Taking the girl’s belt buckle, he heaved her over to show the other man. The dark brown face under the white parka nodded silently, understanding. Tracy had not been molested, or even mutilated with Holnist symbols. This small band of hyper-survivalists had been in too much of a hurry even to stop and take their customary, grisly trophies.

  “We can catch ’em,” Bokuto whispered. Anger burned in his eyes. “I can fetch the rest of the patrol and be back here in three minutes.”

  Gordon shook his head. “No, Phil. We’ve already chased them too far beyond our defense perimeter. They’ll have an ambush set by the time we get close. We’d better just collect Tracy’s body and go home now.”

  Bokuto’s jaw clenched, a bunching of tendons. For the first time his voice rose above a whisper. “We can catch the bastards!”

  Gordon felt a wave of irritation. What right does Philip have to do this to me? Bokuto had once been a sergeant in the Marines, before the world fell to ruin nearly two decades ago. It should have been his job, not Gordon’s, to make the practical, unsatisfying decisions … to be the one responsible.

  He shook his head. “No, we will not. And that’s final.” He looked down at the girl—until this afternoon the second best scout in the Army of the Willamette … but apparently not quite good enough. “We need living fighters, Phil. We need fierce men, not more corpses.”

  For a silent moment neither looked at the other. Then Bokuto pushed Gordon to one side and stepped over the still form on the snow.

  “Give me five minutes before you bring up the rest of the patrol,” he told Gordon as he dragged Tracy’s body into the leeward shadow of the cedar and drew his knife. “You’re right, sir. We need angry men. Tracy and I’ll see to it that’s what you get.”

  Gordon blinked. “Phil.” He reached forward. “Don’t.”

  Bokuto ignored Gordon’s hand as he grimaced and tore Tracy’s shirt open wider. He did not look up, but his voice was broken. “I said you’re right! We have to make our cow-eyed farmers mad enough to fight! And this is one of the ways Dena and Tracy told us to use, if we had to.…”

  Gordon could hardly believe this. “Dena’s crazy, Phil! Haven’t you realized that by now? Please, don’t do this!” He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him around, but then had to step back from the threatening glitter of Bokuto’s knife. His friend’s eyes were hot and agonized as he waved Gordon away.

  “Don’t make this harder for me, Gordon! You’re my commander, and I’ll serve you so long as it’s the best way to kill as many of those Holnist bastards as possible.

  “But Gordon, you get so frigging civilized at the worst of times! That’s when I draw the line. Do you hear me? I won’t let you betray Tracy, or Dena, or me with your fits of Twentieth-Century sappiness!

  “Now, get outta here, Mr. Inspector … sir.” Bokuto’s voice was thick with emotion. “And remember to give me five minutes before you bring up the others.”

  He glowered until Gordon had backed away. Then he spat on the ground, wiped one eye, and bent back to the grisly task awaiting him.

  At first Gordon stumbled, half stunned, as he retreated down the gray-sided meadow. Phil Bokuto had never turned on him that way before, waving a knife, wild-eyed, disobeying orders.…

  Then Gordon remembered.

  I never actually commanded him not to do this, did I? I asked, I pleaded. But I didn’t order him.…

  Am I completely sure he isn’t right, at that? Do even I, deep inside, believe some of those things Dena and her band of lunatic women are preaching?

  Gordon shook his head. Phil was certainly right about one thing—the stupidity of philosophizing on a battlefield. Out here survival was enough of a problem. That other war—the one he had been waging each night in his dreams—would have to wait its turn.

  He made his way downslope carefully, clutching his
drawn bayonet, the most practical weapon for this kind of weather. Half his men had put aside their rifles and bows for long knives … another trick painfully learned from their deadly, devious enemy.

  He and Bokuto had left the rest of the patrol only fifty meters back, but it felt like much more as his eyes darted in search of traps. The whirling snow-devils seemed to take on forms, like the vaporous scouts of a faerie army that had not yet taken sides. Ethereal neutrals in a quiet, deadly war.

  Who will take responsibility …? they seemed to whisper at him. The words had never left Gordon, not since that fateful morning when he had chosen between practicality and a doomed charade of hope.

  At least this particular raiding party of Holn survivalists had fared worse than usual, and the local farmers and villagers had done better than anyone would have expected. Also, Gordon and his escort party had been on an inspection tour nearby. They had been able to join the fray at a critical moment.

  In essence, his Army of the Willamette had won a minor victory, losing only twenty or so men to five of the enemy. There were probably no more than three or four of this Holnist band left to flee westward.

  Still, four of those human monsters were more than enough, even tired and short on ammunition. His patrol only numbered seven now, and help was far away.

  Let them go. They’ll be back.

  The hoot of a horned owl warbled just ahead of him. He recognized Leif Morrison’s challenge. He’s getting better, Gordon thought. If we’re still alive in a year, it might even sound real enough to fool someone.

  He pursed his lips and tried to mimic the call, two hoots in answer to Morrison’s three. Then he dashed across a narrow glade and slid into the gully where the patrol waited.

  Morrison and two other men gathered close. Their beards and sheepskin cloaks were coated with dry snow, and they fingered their weapons nervously.

  “Joe and Andy?” Gordon asked.

  Leif, the big Swede, nodded left and right. “Pickets,” he said tersely.

  Gordon nodded. “Good.” Under the big spruce he untied his pack and pulled out a thermos bottle. One of the privileges of rank; he didn’t have to ask permission to pour himself a cup of hot cider.

  The others took their positions again, but kept glancing back, obviously wondering what “the Inspector” was up to this time. Morrison, a farmer who had barely escaped the rape of Greenleaf Town last September, eyed him with the simmering look of a man who had lost everything he loved, and was therefore no longer entirely of this world.

  Gordon glanced at his watch—a beautiful, prewar chronometer provided by the technicians of Corvallis. Bokuto had had enough time. By now he would be circling back, covering his tracks.

  “Tracy’s dead,” he told the others. Their faces blanched. Gordon went on, weighing their reactions. “I guess she was trying to cut around past the bastards and hold them for us. She didn’t ask my permission.” He shrugged. “They got her.”

  The stunned expressions turned into a round of seething, guttural curses. Better, Gordon thought. But the Holnists won’t wait for you to remember to get mad next time, boys. They’ll kill you while you’re still deciding whether or not to be scared.

  Well practiced by now at the art of lying, Gordon continued in a flat tone. “Five minutes quicker and we might have saved her. As it is, they had time to take souvenirs.”

  This time anger battled revulsion on their faces. And burning shame overcame both. “Let’s go after ’em!” Morrison urged. “They can’t be far ahead!” The others muttered agreement.

  Not quickly enough, Gordon judged.

  “No. If you boys were sluggish getting here, you’re much too slow to deal with the inevitable ambush. We’ll move up in skirmish line and retrieve Tracy’s body. Then we’re going home.”

  One of the farmers—among the loudest demanding pursuit—showed immediate relief. The others, though, glared back at Gordon, hating him for his words.

  Stand in line, boys, Gordon thought bitterly. If I were a real leader of men, I’d have found a better way to put backbone into you than this.

  He put away his thermos, not offering any cider to the others. The implication was clear—that they didn’t deserve any. “Hop to it,” he said as he slung his light pack over his shoulders.

  They did move quickly this time, gathering their gear and scrambling out across the snow. Over to the left and right he saw Joe and Andy emerge from cover and take their places on the flanks. Holnists would never have been so visible, of course, but then, they had had a lot more practice than these reluctant soldiers.

  Those with unlimbered rifles covered the knife men, who dashed ahead. Gordon easily kept up, just behind the skirmish line. In a minute he felt Bokuto fall in beside him, appearing as if out of nowhere from behind a tree. For all of their earnestness, none of the farmers had spotted him.

  The scout’s expression was blank, but Gordon knew what he was feeling. He did not meet Bokuto’s eyes.

  Ahead there came a sudden, angry exclamation. The lead man must have come upon Tracy’s mutilated body. “Imagine how they’d feel if they ever found out the truth about that,” Philip told Gordon softly. “Or if they ever discovered the real reason why most of your scouts are girls.”

  Gordon shrugged. It had been a woman’s idea, but he had agreed to it. The guilt was his alone. So much guilt, in a cause he knew was hopeless.

  And yet he could not let even the cynical Bokuto sense the full extent of the truth. For his sake Gordon maintained a front.

  “You know the main reason,” he told his aide. “Underneath Dena’s theories and the promise of Cyclops, beneath it all you know what it’s for.”

  Bokuto nodded, and for a brief moment there was something else in his voice. “For the Restored United States,” he said softly, almost reverently.

  Lies within lies, Gordon thought. If you ever found out the truth, my friend …

  “For the Restored United States,” he agreed aloud. “Yeah.”

  Together they moved ahead to watch over their army of frightened, but now angry men.

  2

  “It’s no good, Cyclops.”

  Beyond the thick pane of glass, a pearly, opalescent eye stared back at him from a tall cylinder swaddled in cool fog. A double row of tiny, flickering lights rippled a complex pattern over and over again. This was Gordon’s ghost … the specter that had haunted him for months now … the only lie he had ever met to match his own damnable fraud.

  It felt proper to do his thinking here in this darkened room. Out in the snows, on village stockades, in the lonely, dim forests, men and women were dying for the two of them—for what he, Gordon, supposedly represented, and for the machine on the other side of the glass.

  For Cyclops and for the Restored United States.

  Without those twin pillars of hope, the Willametters might well have collapsed by now. Corvallis would lie in ruins, its hoarded libraries, its fragile industry, its windmills and flickering electric lights, all vanished forever into the lowering dark age. The invaders from the Rogue River would have established fiefdoms up and down the valley, as they had done already in the area west of Eugene.

  The farmers and aged techs were battling an enemy ten times more experienced and capable. But they fought anyway—not so much for themselves as for two symbols—for a gentle, wise machine that had really died many years ago, and for a long-vanished nation that existed now only in their imaginations.

  The poor fools.

  “It isn’t working,” Gordon told his peer, his fellow hoax. The row of lights replied by dancing the same complex pattern that burned in his dreams.

  “This heavy winter has stopped the Holnists, for now. They’re kicking back in the towns they captured last autumn. But come springtime they’ll be back again, picking away at us, burning and killing until, one by one, the villages sue for ‘protection.’

  “We try to fight. But each of those devils is a match for a dozen of our poor townsmen and farmers.”
br />   Gordon slumped in a soft chair across from the thick sheet of glass. Even here, in the House of Cyclops, the smell of dust and age was heavy.

  If we had time to train, to prepare … if only things had not been so peaceful here for so long.

  If only we had a real leader.

  Someone like George Powhatan.

  Through the closed doors he could hear faint music. Somewhere in the building there lifted the light, moving strains of Pachelbel’s Canon—a twenty-year-old recording playing on a stereo.

  He remembered weeping when he had first heard such music again. He had been so eager to think something brave and noble still existed in the world, so willing to believe he had found it here in Corvallis. But “Cyclops” turned out to be a hoax, much like his own myth of a “Restored United States.”

  It still puzzled him that both fables thrived more than ever in the shadow of the survivalist invasion. They had grown amid the blood and terror into a something for which people were daily giving their lives.

  “It’s just not working,” he told the ruined machine again, not expecting an answer. “Our people fight. They die. But the camouflaged bastards will be here by summer, no matter what we do.”

  He listened to the sweet, sad music and wondered if, after Corvallis fell, anyone anywhere would listen to Pachelbel, ever again.

  There was a faint tapping on the double door behind him. Gordon sat up. Other than himself, only the Servants of Cyclops were allowed in this building at night. “Yes,” he said.

  A narrow trapezoid of light spilled in. The shadow of a tall, long-haired woman stretched across the carpeted floor.

  Dena. If there was anyone he did not want to see right now …

  Her voice was low, quick. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Gordon, but I thought you’d want to know at once. Johnny Stevens just rode in.”

  Gordon stood up, his pulse rising. “My God, he got through!”

  Dena nodded. “There was some trouble, but Johnny did get to Roseburg and back.”