The Coming

  Marya faced the camera and her expression became serious, then grim: "Good evening. This is Marya Washington coming to you from Gainesville, Florida. This afternoon I talked with Professor Aurora Bell, who is chief administrator of the Committee on the Coming.

  "This morning, Dr. Bell had a VR conference call from the White House. Were there other witnesses to the call, Professor?"

  "Oh, yes. The governor of Florida, the chancellor of this university, and … another professor. And science adviser Grayson Pauling."

  "Did anything happen between the president and Pauling that might have presaged today's tragic events?"

  "In retrospect, yes." She shook her head at the memory. "She blew up at him. At all of us, actually."

  "What did you say?"

  "LaSalle talked about orbiting three antimissile weapons, to destroy the alien spaceship if it made a wrong move. I think it was the DOD's idea, but she was behind it a hundred percent.

  "This was before the new message came in. Even so, we argued that it would be suicide. The aliens' technology is so superior to ours that we would be like mice attacking an elephant. Ants."

  Rory's phone was buzzing; she took it out of her pocket and skimmed it across the room.

  "And Pauling was on your side?"

  "As any reasonable person would be. She was annoyed at him, and then openly angry. Pauling implied that the rationale for orbiting these weapons was to have them flying over Europe. Over France, in case we did decide to enter the war. If the war happens."

  "Do you agree?"

  "I don't know much about politics. If I were French I'd be nervous. But the issue isn't Earth politics."

  "Especially in light of the new message."

  "If they believe it. The president didn't."

  "You know that for a fact?"

  "Oh yes. She called me back, right after the new message came out."

  "Really!"

  "She was mad as a hornet. 'I don't know how you did it, but it's not going to work.'"

  "Well, the timing is interesting."

  "Yes, but nobody on Earth could have done it. The signal started our way long before the conference call."

  "We're off," Deeb said. "We had a second of white noise, and they cut to a commercial."

  "Well, shit. Erase it back to Dr. Bell saying 'conference call,' and we'll continue as if nothing's happened. Okay?"

  "Sure," Rory said. "It might be aired eventually."

  "By historians."

  "In five," Deeb said, holding out five fingers and folding them one at a time.

  "Well, suppose the president were right, and it was a hoax. The hoaxers—one of whom would have to be you, or someone else who witnessed the conference call, could have had the second message made up long ago, and just signaled for it to be sent."

  "But not from way beyond the solar system. It would take more than a day for the signal to get there, and more than a day for the message to get back. Parallax on the signal—comparing the angle of it from two different positions—proves how far away the aliens are."

  "But a really paranoid person would point out that we have to take your word for that—yours and some other scientists' on the Moon. They could be in on it, too."

  Rory smiled. "You could have said that, a month or two ago. But now it's close enough for two sites on Earth to triangulate it. It's a little fantastic to think of a conspiracy involving every astronomer in the world." Off-camera, Marya nodded to Deeb.

  "Don't think nobody will suggest it, Dr. Bell. So … would you have any advice for President Davis?"

  "Only the obvious: listen to the experts. LaSalle's problem, and finally her undoing, was that she surrounded herself with yes-men, and then followed their advice when they parroted her views."

  "Pauling the exception."

  "Which became obvious. She might have saved her life by replacing him. Though as Pauling said in his … suicide note, she would have died a month later, along with the rest of humanity."

  "And suppose Davis does follow her example, and orbits these weapons?"

  "I suspect the aliens won't even bother demonstrating with Phobos. They'll just destroy us out of hand."

  "A terrible thing to contemplate … thank you, Dr. Bell, for being with us on this strange and awful day. This is Marya Washington, reporting from Gainesville, Florida."

  "Out," Deeb said.

  "Just wrap it and send it on up with no comment," Marya said. "As if."

  "You're going to be in real trouble over this," Rory said.

  "All of us. Maybe they'll put up a statue someday." She shook a pill out of a vial and took it with the ice water.

  She leaned back. "Off the record. It could work, couldn't it?"

  "The maser weapon? It's never really been tested."

  "I mean in principle. It goes at the speed of light, right? The alien ship wouldn't have any warning."

  "Assuming there's only one alien ship, and the beam doesn't miss, and they don't have any defense against twenty-first-century weapons. A lot of assumptions."

  "Just trying to look at the bright side."

  "Oh, yeah." Rory crossed the room and picked up her buzzing phone. "Buenas."

  It was the chancellor. "Rory, what did you do? The governor's been on the phone screaming at me. He wants you fired immediately, yesterday!"

  She played dumb. "Because of this morning?"

  "He just saw you on the cube. Says you betrayed him and the country and the sacred memory of the president. Divulged top secret information."

  "I don't have clearance to get top secret information. Was this an interview?"

  "Yes, with that black New York woman."

  "Well, I did an interview. But it won't be aired until seven o'clock tonight."

  "That might be what they told you. But the governor sure as hell saw it."

  "So I'm fired? Just like that?"

  "No, no. But I have to give you a sabbatical, get you out of the public eye. Out of the line of fire."

  "No longer head of the committee?"

  "No. In fact, off the committee altogether. You have other things to pursue—go do them until mid-January. Full pay. You don't have any classes this semester?"

  "No, because—"

  "So do some research. Preferably somewhere far away. Turn your phone off and disappear."

  "Is that an order, Mal?"

  "You know it's not. Just advice, good advice." His voice was tight. "For all of us, Rory. You should've heard the governor. Our budget's in committee! He's liable to do anything."

  "Okay, I'm out. Won't make a fuss over it. Can I choose my own successor?"

  "Sure, of course. Thanks, Rory. I know you could fight it."

  "And win. Academic freedom." She took a deep breath. "Pepe Parker would be the logical successor. I'll see whether he wants the job."

  "I owe you for this, Rory. I haven't seen the interview myself…"

  "The governor's probably right. I was not respectful of the late president. But then she was a lunatic."

  "Rory…"

  "I'm off-camera. Are you?"

  "Sure."

  "I'm coming to think that Pauling was a brave man. He didn't see any other option, so he gave his life to save the world. You were there, Mal. Am I wrong?"

  There was a short silence. "No. I don't think you're wrong. But don't ask me to back you up, not until after the governor signs the budget."

  "Understandable. I'll call Pepe." She pushed the "off" button without saying good-bye and stood there looking at the phone. The other three were looking at her.

  "You got the axe?" Marya said.

  "Yeah. Until the aliens go home or the world ends, or whatever." She punched two keys.

  Pepe

  His phone buzzed but he didn't answer it. His boss was on the cube, committing political suicide.

  "…nobody on Earth could have done it. The signal started our way long before the conference call—" The cube went blank and Carl Lamb appeared. "That was Professor Auror
a Bell, in a transmission—" Pepe stabbed a finger at the phone. "Buenas?"

  "Pepe…" It was Rory. "The shit has really hit the fan."

  "I just saw it."

  "The governor wants me tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail. You want my job?"

  "You make it sound so attractive."

  "I'm serious. Mal Barrett just put me on sabbatical indefinitely. Nobody else but you can run the thing."

  He knew that, of course. "Sure, okay. Where are you now?"

  "Up at the office."

  "I'll be right up. Buenas?"

  "Sí, buenas." He turned off the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

  "What was that?" Lisa Marie said.

  "My boss. Ex-boss." He finished off his beer and set the mug down with a thump. "Looks like I've been promoted." He took out a card and slid it through the pay slot. "I've gotta run. Don't know how long this will be. I will be with you tonight, though, as soon as I can get free. Call when I know."

  She nodded. "Dinner if you can. I'll get us some steaks or something."

  "Deal." He kissed her on the cheek. "Buenas."

  "Sí, buenas. Muy buena suerte."

  He went a block and a half before he realized he'd left his umbrella back at the café. It wasn't raining hard, though, and Lisa Marie could use it.

  This was how it happened. Rory sacrificed her job, making sure the world knew the truth. So he would be standing down at the Cape with President Davis, to meet the supposed aliens.

  He passed a woman who was sitting on a park bench, sobbing, her face in her hands. Her white dress, saturated with rain, revealed her alluring figure. He vaguely recognized her—a student?—and slowed to say something, but then went on. She didn't want company in her grief.

  Gabrielle

  She heard his steps hesitate—please stop, talk to me, hold me—but he didn't stop, would she? Probably, it didn't happen all that often, you come home and find your cat lying dead, and then the president and all those others, she had poor Happy's body in a shoebox and didn't know what to do with it.

  Am I being punished for sin, is my mother's God really up there counting the times I put a camera up my cunt to pay the bills? No, cats die, presidents die, snap out of it, you know better, you know better. Her nose was running and she didn't have anything in her purse; she blew into her wet hand and scraped the mucus onto the bottom of the park bench, then splashed her palm in the puddle at her feet, and rubbed her nose hard against her forearm.

  Aliens dropping out of the sky, a science father figure blows up himself and everybody in the room, a perfectly good cat drops over dead, and I'm ten minutes late for an anal-intercourse shoot. Which I'm not going to do. Even if it means my job. Louis is gentle but he's just too big around. It's not the proper use for that opening; things are supposed to come out, not go in.

  "Oh, sweetheart. Things can't be that bad."

  She wiped her eyes and looked up. It was the old lady with the shopping cart. She sat down next to her. "What is it that's so bad?"

  She looked into the old kind face. "My cat died."

  "Oh, my." She lifted a corner of the sodden shoebox and looked inside. "What was her name?"

  "His name. Happy."

  "Never had a boy cat. Lots of girl cats. You want one?"

  "Not now, no. Thank you, no."

  "You got cat people and dog people, you know? My husband, he was a dog person. One reason I had to get rid of him."

  Gabrielle smiled. "He take the dog with him?"

  "No, that would be cruel. I kept the dog, even though he smelled bad." She leaned close and whispered. "He had gas. Both of them did."

  Gabrielle wiped her eyes. "How long ago was that?"

  "Thirty-some years, I guess. Buried him when Hull was president. Hardly anybody had the cube back then."

  "You still think about the poor thing."

  "Oh, yeah. Buried him under a big piece of plywood out in the swamp. Mall there now."

  "You couldn't just bury him in the backyard?"

  "No. Gosh and golly. Way too big. Laws, too."

  "There are laws about burying dogs?"

  She nodded slowly. "Some kinds." She looked over Gabrielle's shoulder. "Afternoon, Officer."

  Rabin

  He touched the brim of his plastic cap. "Good afternoon, Suzy Q. Are you ladies all right?"

  "Nobody's all right, Officer. Nobody's all wrong, nobody's all right. We all of us stuck in the middle."

  He smiled a little. "It's a hard day for everybody. Can't I give you a ride to the shelter?"

  "We gone through that before, Officer. I don't want nobody preachin' at me."

  "You could stand it for a little while. It's a roof over your head."

  "Ain't nothin' wrong with my head."

  He held up a hand. "I just don't want you to get pneumonia again. You remember two years ago?"

  "I remember eighty years ago. Don't you worry about me."

  "She won't catch pneumonia from exposure," the beautiful woman said. She touched the old woman's hand. "But he's right. You should get out of this rain."

  "You should, too, ma'am. You're not exactly dressed for this."

  "No." She startled him by taking off her hair and wringing it out. "What I'm dressed for is getting fucked in the ass."

  "What?"

  "People do it," Suzy Q. said in her defense. "Where you been all these years?"

  Rabin swallowed a couple of times. "Sure. But you're wet. You're cold and wet."

  The beautiful woman patted her hair into place and favored him with a brilliant smile. "It's a living. Not the cold and wet. The other."

  "You aren't a whore, are you?" Suzy Q. said.

  "No. No, I'm an actress. And a medical student." She looked up at Rabin. "No laws broken. I just do cube for the Institute of Sexual Studies here." Still smiling, she started to cry. "Could you do me a favor? Could you do something with my cat?"

  "¿Perdón?"

  She pushed the shoebox an inch toward him. "My cat died. He just died, with the president. I don't know what to do with him. And I don't want to go to work and I wish it would stop raining."

  He carefully picked up the sodden box. "Sure, don't worry about it. But will you do something for me?"

  "Sure. That's what I do, is do things for men."

  "Get yourself and Suzy inside somewhere. I don't want her to die on my shift."

  "Okay. Is that a deal, Suzy?"

  "Okay. Let's get a cuppa coffee." They headed toward Main Street, the beautiful woman pushing the cart. She wasn't wearing underwear, and her buttocks clung to the translucent fabric, rolling. Rabin's heterosexual fraction watched with interest. What would it be like to do that with a woman? Just different scenery, he supposed.

  His civilian phone rang. He wiggled it out of his pocket. "Yeah?"

  "Qabil, this is Felicity."

  "What?" The dispatcher? Why wasn't she calling on the shoulder unit?

  "I'm downstairs, on the pay phone. Look, you're friends with Norman Bell."

  "Well, I…"

  "You're friends. He and his wife have to disappear right now. I was just up in the boss's office and he got a call from some FBI guy. The feds are gonna pick them up tonight and take them to Washington for questioning."

  "About what?"

  "You didn't see the cube? Of course not. Look, they're suspected of being foreign agents. For France or her allies."

  "What bullshit!"

  "Yeah, and they know it is. He joked about it; they just want to lock her up and throw away the key. It's serious, Qabil. A presidential order. From that senile old Indian."

  "Allah. Thanks, Felicity. I'll call him right away."

  Norman

  Exasperated, Norman hit the "save" button on the Roland and touched the phone screen. It stayed blank.

  "Turn off your house," said a voice he didn't recognize. Another blackmailer?

  "House, turn yourself off for thirty minutes." It chimed. "Okay. Who are you?"
r />   There was a click, the distorter going off, and a heavy sigh. "Norm, it's Qabil. There's real trouble."

  "Yeah? ¿Qué pasa?"

  "Is Rory home?"

  "No. I expect her any minute."

  "You have to pack up and leave as soon as she gets home. The FBI's going to pick you up tonight, take you to Washington and bury you."

  "What, that damned interview?"

  "I guess; I didn't see it. They claim you're agents, working for France."

  "For France? We've never even been there."

  "Well, you can stay at home and talk it over with them, or you can be missing. That's what I'd advise. It's not like the cube; these guys are a law unto themselves."

  "So I've heard. How long do we have?"

  "Maybe until dark. I'd leave as soon as possible. Do you have cash?"

  "A little."

  "What I'd do … take a cab down to Oaks and max out the ATM, then get on the first train to Archer. From there you can use cash to get anywhere, short trips. Go to Canada or Mexico, someplace you don't need a passport."

  "But she didn't break any law."

  "All I know is that the FBI is after her. I think they can find a law."

  "Jesus. When it rains, it pours."

  "Don't worry about the rain. Just move as fast as you can."

  Norman had to smile. How long did you have to live in a country before you picked up the catchphrases? "Okay. If Rory agrees, we'll be out long before dark."

  "If she doesn't agree, you leave by yourself, okay? All this shit in Washington."

  "Sure. I'll get packing. Buenas." Qabil said good-bye and Norman turned off the phone. Of course he wouldn't really leave Rory behind. Both or neither of them would go to Washington. To be buried. In shit? He wondered what Qabil meant by that.

  He'd pack for both of them, though. He set out two bags, small enough for carry-on, on the bed, and neatly stacked warm-weather clothing in each. He assumed Rory would rather go to Mexico, for the winter, than Canada. Besides, she didn't speak Canadian.

  With both of them packed, he carefully lifted out the contents of Rory's bag. Let her check through and make changes.

  She should be here by now, he thought. He went to the phone and punched RR, Rory roving.