02, p.21
02, page 21
You could hear Jamie’s watch ticking; that’s how quiet it was, as everyone sat in their chairs and peered out the windows, peered into the fog. As Gargantua sat in the middle of Rodgerton Drive—behind and just northeast of the Garden—with her lights out and engine off. As Lazaro manned the .50 cal—at last—and Nigel loaded his sidearm and Jamie, Eagleton and Black Mr. Fantastic brooded.
“‘And so, as kinsmen met a night,’” said Eagleton softly, “‘We talked between the rooms. Until the moss had reached our lips,’” He breathed in slowly, haltingly, “... and covered up our names.’”
Jamie just looked at him. “I don’t recognize it. Is it from a—”
Eagleton shook his head. “No-no. Emily Dickinson. I Died for Beauty. 1862.”
Jamie nodded soberly, thoughtfully, then gazed into the fog.
“I’ve got one,” he said at last, and pushed back in his seat. “It’s from Gravity’s Rainbow, by Thomas Pynchon. It goes, ‘It’s been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home.’” He looked out his side window. “‘A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home, only the millions of last moments, nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.’” He swivelled to look at him.
“Is that what you’re afraid of? That none of this will make any difference?”
Jamie just shrugged.
“And yet it may, Jamie. We may just find, before the end, that it may.”
O’Neil brooded, looking at the Santa Monica pier but not looking at it; hearing the seabirds cry but not listening. Rubbing the note between his fingers.
Bakersfield, Barstow, Escondido ...
He thought of Robert Oppenheimer and the Bhagavad-Gita— he supposed it would have been impossible not to—tried to recall how it went:
If the radiance of a thousand suns
Were to burst at once into the sky
That would be like the splendour of the Mighty One ...
He looked at the cold, dark water and wondered: How many people in those cities? How many souls? And what if he acted and the Flashback was not in fact reversed—as the dreams suggested it could be?
But he knew the answer. Knew the dreadful, cold equation and terrible arithmetic of it—the awesome responsibility; the damnation if he were wrong. Enough that he crumpled the note in his fist out of sheer frustration, sheer anger.
I am become Death,
The destroyer of worlds.
And then he put it on the gunwale, in the middle of a spiral he’d etched on the morning of the vision, where it wobbled, and went below.
Sammy frowned as he inspected the lines: It wasn’t going to be enough. Not if they’d marshalled the kinds of forces Galaren had predicted, and certainly not if they were equipped with automatic weapons (as opposed to the mounted knights’ lances and polearms, which were canted like punji sticks all along the perimeter). No, the best they were going to be able to do was to slow them down—give the Architect and the kids time. The best they were going to be able to do was to pave the way back from the Flashback with their lives—even if none would ever thank them for it or even know what they accomplished.
Not even ourselves, thought Sammy, and squinted along his rifle.
And something zipped past him: something which split the air with a little whoosh, fhwipped like a dart from a blowgun. A thing which smote the leaves behind him and seemed to hit wood; to burrow deep. A thing, Sammy realized, which had acted a lot like a bullet.
He gripped the rifle and listened.
Nothing. Just the sound of armor clinking and the rattling of weapons—of horses snorting and sparks sizzling against the shield. Of the knight next to him lowering his faceplate and drawing his sword—and of his own heart beating.
“Easy, easy. Hold your position.”
And the man did; held his position, that is. Even after the sound came again—right between them this time; right beside their faces—and Sammy knew: Someone was shooting at them. Just firing blindly with a silenced weapon—poking the hornet’s nest—even as the knight next to him screamed and was snatched clean from his horse—just lifted into the fog, vanished without a trace. As he caught a fleeting glimpse of a great, leathery wing and a spaded tail before the crunching noises started and the man fell like a stone; like a car crushed at the junkyard. As the horses went crazy and the ground shook and the enemy came—hundreds upon hundreds of them—screaming like Comanches, brandishing their weapons. As a cloud of dinosaurs appeared out of the mists like a tidal wave, like the sandworms of Arrakis, and thundered toward their lines.
∆Yes, I hear it too, but we mustn’t faulter, mustn’t allow the Mobis to lose critical capacity, to, to—∆ But its green fire was dying even as he spoke; as they held hands around the obelisk and focused on it to the exclusion of all else—or tried to; as Oonin finally released them and simply hung his head.
∆Alas, it is no use ... without the added energies of the men and women in the hills, we are, how do you say it, ‘dead in the water’ ... and will never reach the level of power needed to reverse the Flashback.∆ He listened to the sounds of battle outside the maze. ∆I am so very sorry. I truly thought it was possible and that—∆
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—now wait just a hot damn millisecond,” interrupted Quint, appearing red in the face. “You mean to tell me that that’s it? That we came something like a thousand fucking miles —on bicycles—just so you could roll over and play dead? Is that what time it is?”
∆I am sorry, Quint. I truly am. But without the proximity of the others—or at least some way to focus them in on this location, and all at once—then the battle would appear to be lost before it’s even—∆
“No. No, that’s bullshit. Give me your—your claw, or whatever.” Quint held out his hand. “Just take it, Oonin. Jesse, Miles, you too.”
And they did so, slowly, reluctantly.
And then they tried again—once more, with feeling. Then they focused their minds on the Sphaera Mobis even as the great ships prepared to rain hell and their new friends fought and died outside.
The first thing Nick saw as they smashed through the gates of the Mount Lee Communications Facility (and the Compies scattered) were the missiles; just blasting up through the mists like shooting stars, only in reverse, just rocketing through the southwestern sky (toward Bakersfield and Barstow and Escondido) like fireworks—like spears.
“And they’re on their way,” he said—and exhaled. He pointed through the windshield. “We can park over there. Right above the letters.”
Lisa steered for the edge and brought them to halt—ratcheted the brake.
“Can you walk?”
“I think so,” He threw open his door. “With a little help. But we’ve got to hurry ...”
And then they were out, out and shuffling down the dusty slope (even as Lisa steadied Nick and Puck nipped at their heels), all the way to the Hollywood sign where they stopped to rest between an ‘O’ and the ‘D.’
“Okay, okay. This’ll work right here.” He leaned against the sign and gazed out over the hills; over Hollywoodland and Beachwood. “But I’m going to need absolute quiet; and for you to keep Puck away. Because we’re only going to get one shot at this. Can you do that?”
“But you haven’t even told me what this is about, or what it is you’re—”
“Look, all I know is that the array is failing and that we need to find some way for everyone to focus on it—and at the same time. That we need to create a convergence, of sorts, a singularity—don’t ask me how I know that, I just do. And that I think I can rely on the eyes in my hand to do it—which is to say, if we can use them as a sort of unifying lens, a prism, we should be able to concentrate everyone’s energy to a fine point. But there’s no time to—”
“Nick!” She pointed at the bushes a couple hundred feet below. “Jesus, we’ve got to—”
But he’d already closed his eyes—already extended his arm.
Was already in the trance when the desert raptors—which numbered in the hundreds, even thousands, all of them barking and baying and weaving between manzanita bushes—laid siege to the hill.
“That’s it, easy does it,” said Archie, as he helped the last person onto the tower. “Be mindful of the edge now. Just hold on, Alexa.”
And Alexa did hold on; literally—to Preston and Miguel’s hands but also, by extension, everyone else’s. “If we’re going to do this, Sheriff, it needs to be now. Before those ships do,” She turned to look at the sky timorously, “Whatever it is they’re preparing to do.”
“All right—I’m coming,” said Archie, even though he wasn’t in fact coming but rather gazing down at the raptors; at the sea of predators surging around and past the water tower like a living pyroclastic flow.
“Come on, Chief,” said Bennet, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s move.”
And then he did—move, that is; joining the circle along with Bennet so that they formed a tight ring in the middle of the roof at which Alexa, who was to be the prayer leader, crossed herself and bowed her head. For they were going to pray and then focus upon the labyrinth—channel the vision. They were going to fight with the only weapons they had left: their psyches and their wills.
“Oh, Heavenly Father, we thank you for the Power of your—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Coup, and looked around. “There’s only twenty-five of us. There were twenty-six previously.”
Everyone looked at the people next to themselves, as well as across from them.
“You know he’s right,” said Lou, and took off his yellow glasses. “There were—”
“Jesus, it’s Hodge,” said Bennet, and looked at Archie. “He’s gone.”
They all looked out at the herd—at the virtual onslaught of velociraptors.
“There’s nothing we can do for him,” said Alexa abruptly, clinically. “Nothing, that is, except for what we’re already doing.”
And then she held out her hands and Preston and Miguel took them; and once again the circumference—the circuit—was closed.
And they prayed.
He’d been right, of course—it wasn’t going to be enough; even with Gargantua having joined the fray. There were just too many of them: too many men and women, too many beasts, too much gunfire—too little space. It was all Sammy could do to even get a burst in; such as when he’d targeted the T. rex’s head only to realize Satanta had somehow scaled its back and was even then straddling its neck like a rodeo rider—just holding on no matter how much it bucked and shook and stabbing it again and again and again (with one of his poisoned arrows); bringing the animal down only to be crushed himself when the thing rolled over. Or when he’d tried to sight the bloody-horned triceratops (for it had already impaled at least two of Galaren’s men) only to be blocked by Galaren himself as the man drove a lance into its mouth and brain. Or when he’d had a clear shot at the man-bat (or whatever the hell it was) but had been hit by a rearing horse’s ass and so only clipped its wing—grounding it, yes, but not killing it. And now he was pinned down between two burning vehicles—the man with the flamethrower had since been slain—with a bullet in his side and unable to move; even as the bat-thing approached. As he tried to reach for one of the clips in his back pocket but was met with a pain so acute he nearly passed out.
“A golden-winged Angel stood ... before the Eternal Judgement seat,” said the bat-thing, the demon that had once been Leif. “His looks were wild, and Devil’s blood stained his dainty hands and feet ... for the Father and Son knew that strife had begun; and that Satan had broken his chain—and with millions of daemons in his train,” He revealed a glass shard which glinted and gleamed. “Was ranging over the world again.”
He stopped and used the shard to move the dark hair away from Sammy’s eyes—gently, almost affectionately. “Look around you, golden-winged Angel, and tell me, truthfully, that all is not lost.”
And Sammy did; even as his vision began to blur and his life’s blood drained away: as Galaren was pulled from his horse and set upon by the mob—just ‘disappeared’ beneath their rising and falling weapons, their axe handles and rifle butts, their pitchforks and clubs. As Peter and Preston went down similarly and Gargantua burned, and he looked at the sky to see a shaft of blue light penetrating the mists like a tower, like the powerful beams of the 9-11 memorial (although in truth he wasn’t sure if he in fact saw it or imagined it).
As he remembered the serpentine Architect’s final message to them: ∆As for the rest of you: guard this door, this place, this garden—with your lives. And mind the sky. Because something is about to happen. And when it does—you must know what to do.∆
After which, resigning himself, he was able to stand up on his knees (somehow, in spite of the excruciating pain) and, with the last of his energy, begin to pray. After which he turned his mind’s eye to the light and just walked into it; just returned to what felt like home—like God Himself.
Leif, for his part, only sneered. “What is this, prayer?”
But Sammy was already in another place, another world—even as the Leif-thing wrapped his hair up in his hand and slashed his throat. Already wandering the byways of limbo where he again asked the Architect: “What? What’s about to happen?” And the Architect—the potential saviour of all mankind—only said, ∆For you, Sam of Zemlja; of Dharatee, and of Earth—nothing, or very little. For others, Everything.∆
Meaning, Sammy presumed, that the being had observed him and found him wanting. That the endless stream of one-night stands and dangerous women had not been to taste; and that he’d ruled him out as being of any value. But he was wrong, thought Sammy. He’d changed since the Flashback. And if he could do it all again he’d—
And then he was gone; annihilated. Lost to the sands of time.
Jesse gazed up at the shaft of light, at the swirling beam emanating from the now luminous obelisk, and felt tears in her eyes. “My God, Oonin ... it’s beautiful.”
∆It rises because we have been joined by the others, somehow, and because I have lowered the shield; but you mustn’t allow it to distract you—to weaken your output. Not when we are so exposed to their airpower—to what you would call their ‘weapons of mass—∆
And then the tuba sound came still again—this was the third time— and Oonin felt a chill; for he knew that meant the arming progression had been completed and they could fire at any instant.
∆Hurry—and marshal your energies. It has all come down to this.∆
And so they did; even as the blue beam shimmered and all the darkling spheres hovered and spun. As the last of the defenders fell like starlings and the enemy started spilling into the labyrinth; into its halls. As the bodies lay everywhere and the garden burned.
They were less than a hundred feet away now and indeed, one of them was already there–leaping from the manzanita bushes like a wallaby; like some hellish kangaroo–pouncing on Lisa savagely even as yet another targeted Nick but was intercepted by Puck. As Nick opened his eyes to mere slits (even while maintaining the vision) and saw the rest of the raptors rushing toward them up the slope, over the rocks and stones. As he saw a third raptor leap at him and—
And get hit by what looked like a wrecking ball; just knocked clean from the sky. Just swatted like a fly as Nick thought he heard gunshots and saw an ankylosaurus and a man in a wide brimmed hat enter his vision–enter it and begin to counterattack: tearing the things down with automatic rifle fire, ramming them with a bony head. As he looked and saw two more people taking positions to either side of him: another man with a rifle and a little girl with pure white hair—who only gazed up at the ships. As he caught a glimpse of Lisa lying still as the dead and tried not to think about it, tried not to feel.
Because he had a job to do—just as she had. Just as they did.
Because it had all come down to this and there was nothing left to be done but that which was fated him; that which he was born to do. Because he was the composite; the second prism—as per one of Pang’s memories, which he’d had access to—the thing that would combine the many back into the One. And he could not be allowed to fail. Not if they wanted to see their vanished loved ones—or indeed, the (mostly) peaceful hills of Pre-Earth—ever again.
Leif—who was far ahead of the others—cursed as he encountered another dead end. The Traitor had been wise to make his camp here; the labyrinth was as large as it was confounding. Still, it was no matter—he would find them, and he would kill them, make no mistake, just as soon as he’d eliminated all the false passages and diversions; the vexing switchbacks, the mischievous misdirects. Just as soon as he—
And then, like magic, he was there—he was at the center of the maze. And lo, there was the Traitor: holding court with three youths (just kids, really, all of them younger even them himself). There was the Architect whom Szambelan had told him to kill on sight. Nor did he hesitate but threw himself at them immediately; leaping like a panther, bounding like a cheetah—even as the shot ripped through his flesh and he was propelled against the far wall; smashed against its hedges. As Jesse and Miles and Quint looked and saw Hodge standing there with a shotgun even as an expanding sphere of gold light consumed them and overtook Hodge as well; although not before he saw them smile and returned a crisp salute.
Not before they all recognized each other and, acknowledging the beauty and simplicity of it—the seeming perfection, the fated inevitability, the bond they’d formed on Thunder Road—ceased to exist. Together.
Luna stood with one hand in the air just as Nick stood with one hand outstretched; and as she did, the great ships keeled and fell, burning, smoking—falling into the growing sphere of light; crashing into some other world.
“It is done,” said Williams. “It is finished.” —even as the little girl collided with him and wrapped her arms around his waist—hid her face in his poncho. As Ank looked at him and the others gathered around and they all gazed at the light–at the expanding sphere.
