FIFTY-THREE
I’m not dead is my first thought. My field of view is white. I feel my hand being squeezed and I move my eyes from the white to see Gallie.
“What?” is the thing I say and I wince with the effort it took. She smiles at me.
“What?” she repeats. “You’re okay. Banged up, but okay.” I swallow and even that hurts. “You’re bruised with a few cracked ribs. That’s all.” I look down to see bandages wrapped around my chest.
“You got out in time,” I whisper.
Gallie nods. “General Penrose is a reasonable man it turns out. He went along with the possibility of something very nasty coming from the sky.”
“My TMAers?”
“All intact. Worse for wear most of them, but alive.”
“The barn–”
“Yes, I’d say Prasad was off in his calculations. But we’d gotten them out of there.” I turn my head toward Gallie and wince.
“The arsenal?”
“The missile his its target spot on. Gone. Don’t know about Asmus.”
“We acceled here just before the hit. He was alive then.” Talking hurts.
“We didn’t see him.”
I hazard a few shallow breaths. At least the arsenal is gone. But Asmus is at large. How big a problem is that? Would he really bother to go through all of that again? To rebuild his empire of barking madness? Maybe he’s old enough to settle down to just having unhinged thoughts by a roaring fire. Maybe.
“So we can go?” I ask. “Go home?”
“Not broached that with the general yet, but he’s being a charming host,” Gallie says.
For the first time, I scan my surroundings. I see TMAers looking back at me. Jenn, Mack, Ramuhalli, and others too far away to get in focus. “When Prasad comes in,” I whisper, “he won’t find what he expected. What’s ...” I lose my question and the weight of my eyelids shuts me down again.
I count two days and two nights, and with each the pain diminishes provided I avoid any rapid movement. I can sit up, and along with everyone else in the TMA marquee, I speculate on the timing and tactics of our rescue. I share with Gallie and Zhivov my conversation with Asmus, or most of it, and we agree to analyze it later. There are different priorities for now. Unlike the others in this tent, for me going home is no matter for elation. A few cracked ribs will heal soon enough, but the prospect of being sent to a home a-quarter-of-a-century from Gallie is the real agony.
On the third day I hear a commotion outside the tent along with soldiers barking orders at each other. The tent flap is lifted and in ducks Penrose. He doesn’t have an entourage but just one soldier who waits by the flap. Penrose approaches me, tall and formidable in his blue and gold.
“Are you feeling better Mr. Bevan?” he asks.
I look at Gallie and Zhivov. “I am, General. Thank you.” He nods his acknowledgment.
“I wish for you to meet some people,” he says, and turns to signal the soldier who then lifts the tent flap. A man enters, then a woman, another woman and another man. They’re in eighteenth century attire but their bulky backpacks are not contemporary. Hushed conversations break out. Gallie, Zhivov and I exchange panicked looks. They’ve captured the rescue team. Penrose studies me. “I believe these are your colleagues here to take you home.” I stare at him, then at each of the rescue team, ideas for escape shooting through my brain as if I had the strength to make any of them happen. “I shall leave you to do your work,” he says. He’s about to turn when Zhivov speaks up.
“Thank you General,” he says. Penrose nods slowly, turns and walks toward the flap. But then he stops and looks back. “You should be where you belong with the things that belong to you. And we should be where we belong with the things that belong to us. This is the natural way.”
Knowing that all of this mess was the doing of nature did not temp me to contradict him.
“General,” I say on an impulse. “Are you going to win this thing?” He stares at me for a moment until a brief smile of comprehension crosses his face.
“I do believe we shall prevail, Mr. Bevan. I do.”
The backpacks are full of wrist accelerators. The marquee billows in the wind as if with laughter, disbelief, and joy. In ones and twos we pop and the sounds of excited conversation taper out. Prasad had the devices preset and my team accel to 2021. That’s what the immutable laws of TMA had dictated, and what Prasad demanded. They’re set to arrive shortly after the destruction of the array.
“I’m sure they’ll pick up the pieces,” Gallie says.
“They’ve got the leadership to help them through it,” I say, looking at Boris. He agrees without a hint of cognizance. He really doesn’t know. Zhivov, Gallie and I are the last to be handed our accelerators. I tap mine to display the destination. 1996. I exhale and smile. Gallie is watching me.
“Prasad needs your debrief, Joad,” she says dolefully. “That’s all.”
“One day at a time, Gallie. Prasad can have his one second per
