argued, except for amusement. They were gentle and content. They were humane ... but were they quite human?
This was the question that had been in the back of Julian's mind from the time Marty first described the Twenty: maybe war is an inevitable product of human nature. Maybe to get rid of war, we have to become something other than human.
The others picked up on this worry and said no, we're still human in all the ways that count. Human nature does change, and the fact that we've developed tools to direct that change is quintessentially human. And it must be a nearly universal concomitant to technological growth everywhere in the universe; otherwise, there would be no universe. Unless we're the only technological intelligence in the universe, Julian pointed out; so far there's no evidence to the contrary. Maybe our own existence is evidence that we're the first creatures to evolve far enough to hit the reset button. Someone does have to be first.
But maybe the first is always the last.
They caught the hopefulness that Julian was protecting with pessimism. You're much more idealistic than us, Tyler pointed out. Most of us have killed, but none of us was driven to attempt suicide by remorse over the act.
Of course there were a lot of other factors, which Julian didn't have to explain. He was cushioned by wisdom and forgiveness-and suddenly had to get out!
He pulled the plug and was surrounded but alone, fifteen people staring down at the wildflowers. Staring into their collective soul.
He checked his watch and was shocked. Only twelve minutes had actually passed during all those seeming hours.
One by one they unjacked. Mendez kneaded his face and grimaced. 'You felt outnumbered.'
'That's part of it... out-gunned. All of you are so good at this, it's automatic. I felt, I don't know, out of control.'
'We weren't manipulating you.'
Julian shook his head. 'I know. You were being very careful that way. But I felt like I was being absorbed anyhow. By... by my own willingness. I don't know how long I could stay jacked with you before becoming one of you.'
'And that would be such a bad thing?' Ellie Frazer said. She was the youngest, almost Amelia's age, beautiful hair prematurely white.
'Not for me, I think. Not for me personally.' Julian studied her quiet beauty and knew, along with everyone else, exactly how desperately she desired him. 'But I can't do it yet. The next stage of this project involves going back to Portobello with a set of false memories, infiltrating the command cadre. I can't be as ... obviously different as you are.'
'We know that,' she said. 'But you could still spend a lot more time with us – '
'Ellie,' Mendez said gently, 'turn off the goddamned pheromones. Julian knows what's best for him.'
'I don't, actually. Who would? Nobody's ever done anything like this before.'
'You have to be cautious,' Ellie said in a way that was reassuring and infuriating: we know exactly what you think, and though you're wrong, we'll go along with it.
Marc Lobell, the chess master and wife murderer who had stayed out of the circle to answer the phone, ran pounding over the little bridges and skidded to a stop in front of them.
'A guy in uniform,' he said, panting. 'Here to see Sergeant Class.'
'Who is it?' Julian said.
'A doctor,' he said. 'Colonel Zamat Jefferson.'
MENDEZ IN ALL THE authority of his own black uniform, came along with me to meet Jefferson. He stood up slowly when we walked into the shabby foyer, setting down a Reader's Digest half his age.
'Father Mendez; Colonel Jefferson,' I said. 'You went to some trouble to find me.'
'No,' he said, 'it was some trouble to get here, but the computer tracked you down in a few seconds.'
'To Fargo.'
'I knew you'd take a bicycle. There was only one place to do that at the airport, and you left them an address.'
'You pulled rank.'
'Not on civilians. I showed them my ID and said I was your doctor. Which is not false.'
'I'm okay now. You can go.'
He laughed. 'Wrong on both counts. Can we sit?'
'We have a place,' Mendez said. 'Follow me.'
'What is 'a place'?' Jefferson said.
'A place where we can sit.' They looked at each other for a moment and Jefferson nodded.
Two doors down the corridor, we turned into an unmarked room. It had a mahogany conference table with overstuffed chairs and an autobar. 'Something to drink?'
Jefferson and I wanted water and wine; Mendez asked for apple juice. The bar wheelie brought our orders while we were sitting down.
'Is there some way we can help each other?' Mendez said, folding his hands on his small paunch.
'There are some things Sergeant Class might shed some light on.' He stared at me for one second. 'I suddenly made full colonel and had orders cut for Fort Powell. Nobody in Brigade knew anything about it; the orders came from Washington, some 'Medical Personnel Redistribution Group.''
'This was a bad thing?' Mendez said.
'No. I was gratified. I've never been happy with the Texas and Portobello posting, and this move took me back to the area where I grew up.
'I'm still in the middle of moving, settling in. But I was going through my appointment calendar yesterday, and your name came up. I was scheduled to jack with you and see how well the antidepressants are working.'
'They're working fine. Are you traveling thousands of miles to check up on all your old patients?'
'Of course not. But I punched up your file out of curiosity, almost automatically-and what do you know? There's no record of your having contemplated suicide. And it seems you have new orders cut, too. Authorized by the same major general in Washington who cut my orders. But you're not part of the 'Medical Personnel Redistribution Group'; you're in a training program for assimilation into command structure. A soldier who wanted to commit suicide because he killed someone. That's interesting.
'And so I trace you down to here. A rest home for old soldiers who aren't so old, and some of whom aren't soldiers.'
'So you want to lose your colonelcy,' Mendez said, 'and go back to Texas? To Portobello?'
'Not at all. I'll risk telling you this: I didn't go through channels. I don't want to rock the boat.' He pointed at me. 'But I have a patient here, and a mystery I'd like to solve.'
'The patient's fine,' I said. 'The mystery is something that you don't want to be involved in.'
There was a long, thick silence. 'People know where I am.'
'We don't mean to threaten you, or frighten you,' Mendez said. 'But there's no way you have the clearance to be told about this. Julian can't let you jack with him, for that reason.'
'I have top-secret clearance.'
'I know.' Mendez leaned forward and said quietly: 'Your ex-wife's name is Eudora and you have two children – Pash, who's in medical school in Ohio, and Roger, who's in a New Orleans dance company. You were born on 5 March 1990 and your blood type is O-Negative. Do you want to know your dog's name?'
'You're not threatening me with this.'
'I'm trying to communicate with you.'
'But you're not even in the military. Nobody here is, except Sergeant Class.'
'That should tell you something. You have top-secret clearance and yet my identity is concealed from you.'
The colonel shook his head. He leaned back and drank some wine. 'There's been time enough for somebody to find out these things about me. I can't decide whether you're some kind of super-spook or just one of the best bullshit artists I've ever come across.'
