Joe Haldeman - Forever Peace
She didn't have her plastic gun and knife, of course; she'd even left behind the scalpel she'd used on Ellie. There were thousands of weapons inside the base, but all were locked up and accounted for, except for a few guards and MPs with pistols. Killing an MP sounded like a bad way to get a weapon. She went down to the armory and loitered for a while, inspecting it while appearing to read the notices on the bulletin board, then waiting in line for a few minutes and rushing off as if she'd forgotten something.
She went outside the building and then re-entered through a back door. From the floor plan she'd memorized, she went straight to routine maintenance. There was a duty roster posted; she went to an adjacent room and called the specialist on maintenance duty, and told him a Major Feldman wanted to see him at the desk. He left the room unlocked, and Gavrila slipped in.
She had perhaps ninety seconds. Find something lethal that looked like it worked and wouldn't be missed immediately.
There was a jumbled pile of M-31s, mud-spattered but otherwise in good shape. Probably used in an exercise – by officers, who wouldn't be expected to clean them afterward. She picked one and wrapped it in a green towel, along with a cassette of exploding darts and a bayonet. Poison darts would have been better, quieter, but there weren't any in the open stock.
She slipped outside undetected. This didn't appear to be the kind of base where a soldier could casually carry a light assault weapon around, so she kept the M-31 wrapped up. She put the sheathed bayonet inside her belt, under her shirt.
The binding that compressed her breasts was uncomfortable, but she left it on in case it would buy her an extra second or two of surprise. The uniform was loose, and she looked like a slightly chubby man, short with a barrel chest. She walked carefully.
Building 31 looked no different from the ones that surrounded it, except for a low electrified fence and a sentry box. She walked by the box in the dusk, fighting the temptation to rush the shoe guard and shoot her way in. She could do some real damage with the forty rounds in the cassette, but she knew from Jefferson that there would be soldierboy guards on duty. The black man Julian's platoon. Julian Class.
Dr. Jefferson hadn't known anything about the building's floor plan, though, which was what she needed now. If she knew where Harding was, she could create a diversion for the soldierboys as far as possible from her quarry, and then go after her. But the building was too large to just go in cold and hope to find her while the soldierboys were occupied for a few minutes.
They would be expecting her, too, of course. She didn't look at Building 31 as she walked by. They certainly knew about the torture-murders. Was there any way she could use that knowledge against them? Make them careless through fear?
Whatever action she took, it would have to be within the building. Otherwise, outside forces would deal with it, while Harding was protected by the soldierboys.
She stopped dead and then forced herself to move on. That was it! Create a diversion outside, but be inside when they find out about it. Follow the soldierboys to her prey.
Then she would need God's help. The soldierboys would be swift, though probably pacified, if the humanizing scheme had worked. She had to kill Harding before they restrained her.
But she was all confidence. The Lord had gotten her this far; He would not fail her now. Even the woman's name, Blaze, was demonic, as well as her mission. Everything was right.
She turned the corner and said a quiet prayer. A child was playing alone on the sidewalk. A gift from the Lord.
WE WERE LYING IN bed talking when the console chimed its phone signal. It was Marty.
He was weary but smiling. "They called me out of surgery," he said. "Good news, for a change, from Washington. They did a segment on your theory on the Harold Burley Hour tonight."
"Supporting it?" Amelia said.
"Evidently. I just saw a minute of it; back to work. It should be linked to your data queue by now. Take a look." He punched off and we found the program immediately.
It started out with an optical of a galaxy exploding dramatically, sound effects and all. Then the profile of Burley, serious as usual, faded in, looking down on the cataclysm.
"Could this be us, only a month from now? Controversy rages in the highest scientific circles. And not only scientists have questions. The police do, too."
A still picture of Peter, bedraggled and forlorn, naked from the waist up, holding up a number for the police camera. "This is Peter Blankenship, who for two decades has been one of the most highly regarded cosmologists in the world.
"Today he doesn't even know the right number of planets in the Solar System. He thinks he's living in the year 2004-and is confused to be a twenty-year-old man in a sixty-four-year-old body.
"Someone jacked him and extracted all his past, back to that year. Why? What did he know? Here is Simone Mallot, head of the FBI's Forensic Neuropathology Unit." A woman in a white coat, with a jumble of gleaming equipment behind her. "Dr. Mallot, what can you tell us about the level of surgical technique used on this man?"
"The person who did this belongs in jail," she said. "Subtle equipment was used, or misused; microscopic AI-directed investigation shows that they initially tried to erase specific, fairly recent, memories. But they failed repeatedly, and finally erased one huge block with a surge of power. It was the murder of a personality and, we know now, the destruction of a great mind."
Beside me, Amelia sighed, almost a sob, but leaned forward, studying the console intently.
Burley peered directly out of the screen. "Peter Blankenship did know something-or at least believed something, that profoundly affects you and me. He believed that unless we take action to stop it, the world will come to an end on September fourteenth."
There was a picture of the Multiple Mirror Array on the far side of the Moon, irrelevant to anything, tracking ponderously. Then a time-lapse shot of Jupiter rotating. "The Jupiter Project, the largest, most complex scientific experiment ever conducted. Peter Blankenship had calculations that showed it had to be stopped. But then he disappeared, and came back in no shape to testify about anything scientific.
"But his assistant, Professor Blaze Harding" – an inset of Amelia lecturing – "suspected foul play and herself disappeared. From a hiding place in Mexico she sent dozens of copies of Blankenship's theory, and the high hard mathematics behind it, to scientists all over the world. Opinions are divided."
Back in his studio, Burley faced two men, one of them familiar.
"God, not Macro!" Amelia said.
"I have with me tonight Professors Lloyd Doherty and Mac Roman. Dr. Doherty's a longtime associate of Peter Blankenship. Dr. Roman is the dean of sciences at the University of Texas, where Professor Harding works and teaches."
"Teaching isn't work?" I said, and she shushed me.
Macro settled back with a familiar self-satisfied expression. "Professor Harding has been under a great deal of strain recently, including a love affair with one of her students as well as one with Peter Blankenship."
"Stick to the science, Macro," Doherty said. "You've read the paper. What do you think of it?"
"Why, it's ... it's utterly fantastic. Ridiculous."
"Tell me why."
"Lloyd, the audience could never understand the mathematics involved. But the idea is absurd on the face of it. That the physical conditions that obtain inside something smaller than a BB could bring about the end of the universe."
"People once said it was absurd to think that a tiny germ could bring about the death of a human being."
"That's a false analogy." His ruddy face got darker.
"No, it's precise. But I agree with you about it not destroying the universe."
Macro gestured at Burley and the camera. "Well, then."
Doherty continued. "It would only destroy the Solar System, perhaps the Galaxy. A relatively small corner of the universe."
"But it would destroy the Earth," Burley said.
"In less than an hour, yes." The camera came in close on him. "There's no doubt about that."
"But there is!" Macro said, off camera.
Doherty gave him a weary look. "Even if the doubt were reasonable, and it is not, what sort of odds would be acceptable? A fifty-fifty chance? Ten percent? One chance in a hundred that everyone would die?"
"Science doesn't work like that. Things aren't ten percent true."
"And people aren't ten percent dead, either." Doherty turned to Burley. "The problem I found isn't with the first few minutes or even millenniums of the prediction. I just think they've made an error extrapolating into intergalactic space."
"Do tell," Burley said.
"Ultimately, the result would just be twice as much matter; twice as many galaxies. There's room for them."
"If one part of the theory is wrong – " Macro began.
"Furthermore," Doherty confined, "it looks as if this has happened before, in other galaxies. It actually clears up some anomalies here and there."
"Getting back to Earth," Burley said, "or at least to this solar system. How big a job would it be to stop the Jupiter Project? The largest experiment ever set up?"
"Nothing to it, in terms of science. Just one radio signal from JPL. Getting people to send a signal that will end their careers in science, that would normally be hard. But everybody's career ends September fourteenth, if they don't."
"It's still irresponsible nonsense," Macro said. "Bad science, sensationalism."
"You have about ten days to prove that, Mac. A long line is forming behind that button."
Close-up on Burley, shaking his head. "They can't turn it off too soon for me." The console went dead.
We laughed and hugged and split a ginger ale in celebration. But then the screen chimed and turned itself on without my hitting the answer button.
It was the face of Eileen Zakim, my new platoon leader. "Julian, we have a real situation. Are you armed?"
"No-well, yes. There's a pistol here." But it had been left behind, like the ginger ale; I hadn't checked to see if it was loaded. "What's up?"
"That crazy bitch Gavrila is here. Maybe inside. She killed a little girl out front in order to distract the shoe guard at the gate."
"Good grief! We don't have a soldierboy out front?"
"We do, but she patrols. Gavrila waited until the soldierboy was on the opposite side of the compound. The way we've reconstructed it, she slashed up the child and threw her, dying, up against the sentry box door. When the shoe opened the door, she cut his throat and then dragged him across the box and used his handprint to open the inner door."
I had the pistol out and threw the dead bolt on the door. "Reconstructed? You don't know for sure?"
"No way to tell; the inner door isn't monitored. But she did drag him back into the box, and if she's military, she knows how the handprint locks work."
I checked the pistol's magazine. Eight packs of tumblers. Each pack held 144 razor-sharp tumblers-each actually a folded, scored piece of metal that shatters into 144 pieces when you pull the trigger. They come out in a hail of fury that can chew off an arm or a leg.
"Now that she's in the compound – "
"We don't know that for sure."
"If she is, though, are there any more handprint locks? Any monitored entrances?"
"The main entrance is monitored. No handprints; just mechanical locks. My people are checking every door."
