Ill Wind Part 29

"Don't you feel any responsibility for what happened? Remember spraying Promethus? Well, I do."

"But there are so many important things we can do here. I agree that the world is going to have to pick itself up, but it has to be a gra.s.sroots movement, in small places like this. We have to build from the bottom up, not the top down. We don't have a foundation anymore, that's what we have to work on."

Todd thought of the days he spent aimlessly riding around the hills, just talking to people, shooting the breeze, carrying news and gossip from one group to another. What point did that serve? He tried to keep from snorting. "Like what?"

"Like fine-tuning trade between the communities surrounding us. Like working on getting those electrical lines laid from the windmills out to Tracy, or back down into Livermore. You said yourself the Lab people there have come up with ways to refurbish substations and bring back limited electricity. Think of what that would mean in rebuilding the world."

Todd didn't see how that was different from using the solar-power satellites. Besides, once the smallsats were functioning they could serve a much wider area than just a limited island up in the hills. But that wasn't the main reason he wanted to go.

"Everything that we do here sets an example. It has an impact, Todd. Just stick with it and you'll see."

"Yeah, like your music concert. Tell me how that's more important than getting an entire solar-power farm working. Explain to me how finding a way to play rock-and-roll is going to help a lot of people."

Iris looked stung. "You've got to have a dream, Todd."

"Sounds more like a nightmare to me," Todd muttered, his own anger growing . . . he couldn't reign it in anymore. "Bringing back drugs and noise and juvenile delinquents-that's one thing I'd rather leave behind with the old society. Iron Zeppelin and Visual Purple and Neon k.u.mquats or whatever those bands are called. You can keep them."

Appalled, Iris actually giggled. "Todd, you're so stupid sometimes."

Todd knocked the wooden chair backward as he stood up. The chair would have tipped over, but the trailer was so cramped it merely b.u.mped against the wall and righted itself again.

"Fine, Iris," he said. "If trying to make the world a better place makes me stupid, I'll just go on being an idiot. But at least I'll be helping a heck of a lot more people then these wackos we're living with." He opened the door.

"Todd-where are you going?" Iris's dark eyes widened.

"Out. Away from . . . from this this."

"Todd!"

"Don't worry, I'll be back. That's a promise," he growled and stomped outside.

The door slammed by itself, and he heard Iris calling, "Wait!" But her words were cut off by the smack of the door, which sounded like a gunshot in the darkness. Todd walked off. He considered taking one of the horses to Tracy, where Casey Jones and his steam train waited. But he knew the commune would need Ren and Stimpy-and they'd be safe here, just like Alex Kramer would have wanted. He went off on foot into the moonlit night.

Inside the refurbished dining car of the steam train, Captain Miles Uma, formerly of the Oilstar Zoroaster Zoroaster, relaxed and pondered the night. Used for storage, the dining car now carried crates of ripening fruits and vegetables, nuts, and other produce. The odors mingled in the tight s.p.a.ce.

Rex O'Keefe and the Gambotti brothers kept to themselves in the pa.s.senger car; Uma didn't mind. Once Uma had gained their confidence, they did what they were told, as if they were happy that someone had finally stepped up and taken charge, accepted some responsibility. Like any good captain, Uma treated them with respect-and now that they had order back in their lives, they didn't mind the work.

Uma cracked open two of the narrow windows to let the night breeze in. Outside, the sleeping city of Tracy was dark, save for the fires of a few late-night people; everyone else bedded down with the fall of darkness.

By the flickering light of a stubby beeswax candle, Uma dipped his fingers in a bowl of tepid water, took a bar of soap and lathered his face and head. He removed a long, sharp straight-razor, propped a small mirror up against the inner wall of the train where he could see his reflection, then began to shave by candlelight. First, to hone his attention, he shaved his eyebrows; then he worked at his beard stubble, and finally sc.r.a.ped his head, shaving the back by feel alone.

It made him feel clean, and renewed and different. He wished he could slice away the pounding guilt as easily.

Guiding a train along the abandoned tracks was very different from captaining an enormous supertanker like the Zoroaster Zoroaster. But it kept him moving and gave him some way to stop the clamoring depression; Rex O'Keefe and the others were swept along with his dream. Uma found that by focusing on a task, he could stop thinking about the wreck against the Golden Gate Bridge . . . .

As everything fell apart, Uma had wandered north from San Francisco, changing his name, fearing that someone might recognize him. Uma had been doing a good job of blaming himself. He worked odd jobs, trying to run from himself and watching with a growing anguish as things grew worse. Until he stumbled across the train station in Napa Valley.

Uma finished shaving and blew out the candle, feeling his way to an empty, comfortable seat in the refurbished dining car. He was exhausted, not from the work that he did to keep the wood piled in the furnace, but from being sociable tonight.

He didn't enjoy social occasions, but the people had prepared a meal for them, wanting to talk for hours, until Uma and the others had finally gone back to the train. He had tried to answer most of their questions, but it got tiresome after a while.

In the morning at dawn, just as he was struggling to awaken from his cramped sleeping s.p.a.ce on the dining car bench, Uma snapped his eyes open when he heard a rapping on one of the half-open windows.

"Hey, Casey Jones, you in there?" Uma wrenched his stocky body into a sitting position and blinked out at a tall cowboy. "I want to join your group," the cowboy said. "I think you need another person."

Uma went stiffly to the window of the dining car, not welcoming the man inside. The cowboy walked over with a large nervous grin on his face and stuck his hand through the open window.

"I'm Todd Severyn, pleased to meet you." Uma shook his hand warily. The cowboy looked strong, but troubled circles surrounded his red-rimmed eyes. Gra.s.s stains splotched his pants. "I walked all night long just to get here."

"We could maybe use some help, " Uma said, "but it's a backbreaking job. You sure it's worth it to you?"

"It depends on your priorities." Todd's gruff answer seemed to speak to more than just the question Uma had asked. "I got my reasons."

Uma stepped aside just enough to let the cowboy onto the train. "Don't we all?"

Chapter 59.

Five miles south of General Bayclock's Manzano Mountain headquarters, a field of mirrors spread across three acres. Though gaps separated the three-foot mirrors, the reflected glare gave the impression of a seamless plain of molten silver.

The suggestion to use Sandia Albuquerque's abandoned solar test project to generate electricity sounded like a good idea, but Bayclock wanted to see the apparatus himself.

The computer-controlled mirrors were designed to rotate, follow the sun and focus the blinding rays on a three-story concrete tower. The intense illumination heated a special vessel to generate steam that would turn turbines and produce power. Now the mirrors stood frozen in place, useless without hourly brute-force manual adjustment. It would take years to polish the mothballed mirrors back to the accuracy needed for optimal focus.

The scientific pinheads didn't have the common sense to engineer anything practical, Bayclock thought as he scowled at the useless apparatus. No allowance for contingencies. No allowance for contingencies. They reveled in the nifty toys they built and patted each other on the back. The general held little hope that refurbis.h.i.+ng this system would be anything more than a futile effort. He had seen enough. He strode through the field of mirrors, back to where his horse waited with the armed escort. They reveled in the nifty toys they built and patted each other on the back. The general held little hope that refurbis.h.i.+ng this system would be anything more than a futile effort. He had seen enough. He strode through the field of mirrors, back to where his horse waited with the armed escort.

The woman who headed up Sandia's energy research program-Bayclock had already forgotten her name-trailed after him. She looked as overbearing as the number of programs she had once managed. At just over six feet tall and weighing close to 200 pounds, she rivaled Bayclock in size; her big b.u.t.t and flabby arms implied a contempt for her own physical health. Her ragtag group of scientists followed as she kept up with Bayclock, step by step.

"You want the electricity, we'll deliver. It's a simple matter of granting us access to the dry lubricants. I guarantee we can have part of the mirror field up and running at minimal levels within a week. Replacing the seals comes next. And after that, eighteen months to optimize the mirrors. No problem."

Bayclock reached the edge of the mirror maze. His executive officer and three armed guards waited on their own horses. Bayclock said, "You told me this field was computer controlled. How are you going to synchronize the mirrors' movements to the sun without computers?"

The woman waved her hands while she talked, as if pointing at an equation-strewn whiteboard. "We'd need less than a hundred people, each physically positioning ten mirrors apiece."

Bayclock snorted. "A hundred people out in the sun everyday? While you're polis.h.i.+ng mirrors? That's an awful lot of work to get a hundred kilowatts of power. Intelligence reports that's ten times less than the White Sands group can deliver!"

The Sandia woman put her hands on her hips. "That's a hundred kilowatts more than you have right now! And it's a lot fewer people than you use to chase kids after curfew. What's more important?"

Bayclock walked away, ignoring her. She grabbed him by the elbow. "Look, General, you wanted a way to generate electricity. We can do it. It's not much, but it's a start."

Bayclock shook his arm free. One of the guards unshouldered his firearm, but the exec put out an arm to stop him. The exec called, "Messenger approaching, General."

Bayclock spotted a lone horseman traveling across the desert. He had left orders not to be bothered-unless it was important. He turned back to the scientists. "There's not enough dry lubricant to go around. We need it for refurbis.h.i.+ng our weapons, so you'll have to come up with another way. In case you haven't noticed, there's a slight problem obtaining supplies right now."

"But without the lubricant, the mirrors won't turn," the woman said.

"Figure out a way! Your minimal electricity should be enough to power the Manzano complex. I want it before the end of the week. The rest of the city will have to wait."

Dismissing the Sandia woman, Bayclock turned as the approaching horseman reached the field of mirrors. Wearing desert camouflage, the rider dismounted and popped to attention, snapping off a salute. "The White Sands expedition has returned, General."

Bayclock said, "Thank G.o.d for that Navy pilot." He swung up on his horse, leaving the scientists in the middle of a thousand reflected suns. The exec motioned for the guards to follow.

The Sandia woman raised her voice. "General, you're asking the impossible!"

Bayclock dug his heels in the black gelding's flank, turning the mount around. "Do you think you're playing in some R&D sandbox? Just do it! You also better be ready to interface with White Sands. I've had it with people questioning my authority."

As the general rode off with his escort, he felt a grim satisfaction that at least Lieutenant Carron had come through. Two types of people-fighter pilots and weenies. He knew who he could trust.

Bayclock took the point at a fast trot as his party rode through the high chain-link gates of the Manzano complex. Armed guards stood at attention in the shade, giving their commander a salute as he rode past.

Four razor-wire fences surrounded the complex, twenty feet apart with bare dirt in between, making the area look like a giant racetrack draped over the rugged hills. Several two-story buildings, made of wood and covered with chipped white paint, formed the central part of the installation. Dozens of concrete bunkers dotted the four hills.

Bayclock rode directly up to the largest bunker behind the old wooden buildings. Only two horses stood outside tied to a NO PARKING sign, nuzzling the dusty ground for something to eat.

Bayclock turned to his exec. "Get Mayor Reinski out here ASAP. Tell him Lieutenant Carron is back from White Sands. His luck just changed."

Reaching his office, Bayclock found Sergeant Catilyn Morris and a gaunt bearded man he did not recognize. They both stood when the general entered. Covered with trail dust, the stocky blond sergeant looked as if she hadn't had a shower in weeks. He would have to reprimand her for not making herself more presentable for her commanding officer.

"Afternoon, General."

"Sergeant." He nodded at the stranger, looking around for the Navy pilot. "Welcome back. Where's Lieutenant Carron? I expect him to give me a full debriefing."

Sergeant Morris drew her mouth tight. "Well, sir-"

The bearded man stepped forward and held out a dirty hand. "I'm Dr. Lance Nedermyer, General. We met a few months ago at a ceremony to turn over the adaptive optics facility to the University of New Mexico. Jeffrey Mayeaux was with us."

Bayclock returned the handshake and squinted at Nedermyer's face. He remembered the stranger as a heavier man with mirrored sungla.s.ses and a brusque manner. Nedermyer looked as if he had lost thirty pounds, the beard offset the thinness of his face. Bayclock did not approve of beards. The Was.h.i.+ngton bureaucrat looked more like an old prospector than a DOE inspector.

"Okay, what the h.e.l.l is going on?" Bayclock asked, looking at Sergeant Morris. "And what are you doing here, Nedermyer?"

Sergeant Morris stiffened as Nedermyer spoke quickly. "I was stuck down at White Sands when the petroplague hit. I tried to help the people of Alamogordo move to safety in the mountains, but they elected to throw their hats in with Spencer Lockwood. He's a loose cannon, General, does whatever he d.a.m.ned well feels like, without regard to the consequences.

"He's got them convinced he can save the world with his solar satellites. Instead of trying to make themselves self-sufficient with the resources on hand, he's got them working on a railgun launcher, running electrical wires out to substations in the middle of the desert."

Bayclock sat behind his desk. "Does the solar farm work?"

"That depends." Nedermyer fidgeted. "But-"

Bayclock raised his voice. He'd been doing that a lot lately. "I asked a simple question, Nedermyer. Does it work?"

"Well, yes sir, it does."

"So, Lieutenant Carron and the Sandia scientists I sent down there are finalizing plans to bring the microwave technology up to Albuquerque? How soon can we get it working here?"

Nedermyer looked annoyed. "You don't understand, General. Lockwood's dangerous. He's got his priorities all wrong. He's having trouble even transmitting the power over twenty miles-"

Bayclock interrupted, tired of being nickel-and-dimed to death. "Do you d.a.m.ned scientists have to find a caveat in every argument? The microwave farm works, does it or doesn't it?"

"Well, yes it does, but-"

"Then I don't care if they transmit the power into the New Mexico utility grid or if they build us another microwave farm up here. It works-that's all that matters. The orbiting satellites are immune to the petroplague, and it's a resource we should use. I've got two laboratories full of people that can work out the details. Got it?"

Nedermyer opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it, frustrated. Sergeant Morris stepped forward. "General, I'm afraid you're not going to get any support from White Sands."

"What?" Bayclock looked up. "That's ludicrous. The White Sands facility is under my command. Did Lieutenant Carron stay down there to iron out the details?"

Sergeant Morris looked hopelessly to Nedermyer, who shook his head. Nedermyer said, "Your boys have jumped s.h.i.+p, General. Not only is White Sands refusing to help you, but the scientists you sent and your Navy lieutenant have elected to work for Lockwood. They're not coming back."

"They deserted," Sergeant Morris said, as if it was her fault.

A storm gathered inside Bayclock's head. "Impossible! Carron wouldn't even think of desertion. He's a fighter pilot! He can't can't."

"I"m afraid it's true, General," said Sergeant Morris. Her voice sounded strained, as if each word might carry her over the edge of a cliff. "I . . . I warned him about what he was doing. He fully understands the consequences."

Bayclock felt his face flush with anger and disbelief. He looked at his lithographs of fighter aircraft, his awards, his diplomas. Survival in the post-petroleum world was built on a foundation of eggsh.e.l.ls, and cornerstones could not be allowed to crumble. He'd trusted the Navy lieutenant-fighter pilots were a special breed, too tightly taught, too highly focused and motivated to make frivolous decisions. Dammit, there had to be a mistake, some other reason why Carron would appear to bug out.

Bayclock looked narrowly at Nedermyer. "Could this Lockwood character have coerced Lieutenant Carron into staying, forced him in some way?"

Nedermyer shook his head. "No, General. It was pretty clear the lieutenant chose to stay. Dr. Lockwood vowed never to help you and practically dared you to come take over his site . . . ."

Bayclock's breathing quickened. "Sergeant? Is that your a.s.sessment as well?"

Sergeant Morris held Bayclock's gaze. This time her voice was firm. "That's pretty much it, sir. Except that Dr. Lockwood said that the people of Albuquerque should revolt and oust you."

The general simmered. When he was in a fighter plane and lost control, Bayclock relied on his training: keep a cool head, run through the procedures. Losing control of himself as well as the machine he commanded would kill him for sure. The same thing was happening now on a larger scale. He focused his anger into a small, laser-bright pinpoint.

He knew his priorities. Returning electrical power to Albuquerque was the next crucial step in pulling the city out of this mess. He intended his operation to be a model for President Mayeaux's monumental efforts to keep the country together. The U.S. needed reliable electricity to bring access to water, food, transportation, communication.

And they needed law and order. With half a million people relying on Bayclock's effort, he knew what he had to do.

His exec stepped through the office door. He tucked his blue cap under his arm and wiped a sheen of perspiration from his sunburned forehead. "Sir, Mayor Reinski is on his way over and will be here within the hour. Do you still want to see him?"

"Later." Bayclock dismissed his exec with a wave. His jaw tightened. "Nedermyer, what do you know about Lockwood's operation at White Sands?"

Nedermyer looked puzzled. "Most everything, I suppose. I approved all his designs back at DOE headquarters."

"Could you get it fully functional?"