After Earth: A Perfect Beast (10 page)

He turned to Wilkins. “Prime Commander, let’s start with you. What is the current mission of the Rangers?”

Vander Meer settled back in his plush chair and spared a glance at the small studio audience—his wife and two older children included—that had been gathered so that the cameras could capture its reactions. He was happy that at least part of his family could be there to witness in person this historic exchange and, of course, his role in it.

Wilkins, looking every bit the professional in her all-white dress uniform, looked her host in the eye as she considered the question. “My mission is to keep you and your family alive. Should this studio catch fire, who will clear the area and allow the firefighters to do their work? Should your home be robbed, who will investigate and apprehend the burglars? What if there’s a flood? An epidemic? The Rangers maintain the peace and security of this world. We’re fortunate to be a growing population, Mr. Vander Meer, adding new communities and cities with every passing generation. But make no mistake, they all need protection.”

Vander Meer nodded while she spoke. Then he leaned toward her casually, friend to friend as it were. “Protection from what, exactly? Not from what you’ve just listed or you’d be demanding a lot less in terms of our resources. I think you’ll agree that we’ve had nearly three centuries of peace, and yet you continue to refine your weapons and your other pieces of equipment. How can you justify that?”

“As I just said, Mr. Vander Meer, we have a growing population. We must increase our Corps and our investment in technology to match it. Or are you suggesting a population of over three million people requires
fewer
Rangers? Have I missed something about human nature?”

Seeing he wasn’t making any headway with that approach, Vander Meer opted for another one. “Let’s turn to our expert on human nature, then, and ask the Primus his thoughts.”

“Thank you, Trey,” Rostropovich said. Like Wilkins, he looked freshly pressed without a hair out of place. Vander Meer also thought the Primus was wearing some eyeliner and smiled inwardly at the man’s vanity.

Maybe that’s a topic for another day
, he thought.
The vanity of the Primus … Is he truly the man we want to shape our values?

“The issue you raise,” the Primus continued, “is a complex one, to say the least. Originally, the Rangers were formed to ensure that the arks were built and that we could save humankind. We’ve continued to look to them since then, whenever times grew bleak. They have maintained the peace during drought and other natural disasters. They’ve kept us from harming ourselves and our neighbors. And they have done all this remarkably well.”

Blah, blah, blah
, Vander Meer thought. His studio audience was looking bored. He was about to cut the Primus short and pose a question to Flint.

“But,” said the Primus, “the question before us is about today and not yesterday. Our resources are not unlimited. It appears prudent that we periodically stop and reexamine how those resources are allocated. You have spoken of downsizing the Rangers, Mr. Vander Meer, so we can fund more worthy projects. I believe there may be merit to this approach.”

Vander Meer wasn’t expecting him to say that. Neither was Wilkins, judging by the way her mouth had fallen open.

But she was a Ranger. She was trained to respond to sneak attacks. “I’d like to think planetary security is a worthy project,” she shot back.

“Aren’t the satellites doing the bulk of that work?” asked the Primus. He turned to Flint. “Savant?”

Flint looked uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He glanced apologetically at Wilkins, but he answered. “The satellite scans have shown nothing other than routine star static for centuries.”

“As I thought,” Rostropovich said. “Perhaps it is time to reconsider our priorities.”

“What’s more important than our security?” Wilkins asked.

“Our souls, for one thing,” the Primus replied coolly.

“But until they ascend,” the Prime Commander pressed, “shouldn’t we try to prolong their mortal tenure?”

“My augurs,” Rostropovich said, “indicate that the people are questioning our decision to place so much emphasis on the Rangers at the expense of other possibilities.”

“We keep the peace,” Wilkins insisted. “We’re the first responders. We’re there for accidents, fires, thefts, and the occasional bombardment from aliens who have some grudge against us for existing.”

“All well and good,” Vander Meer said, jumping in. “But as the Primus notes, we have other needs on Nova Prime, and—as we’ve pointed out more than once now—those aliens you speak of haven’t been seen for hundreds of years.”

He smiled at Rostropovich, unable to believe his luck. Who would ever have thought that the Primus would take his part, effectively stabbing Wilkins squarely in the back?

“The only logical course,” Vander Meer said, turning back to the beleaguered Prime Commander, “is to reduce our commitment to the Rangers and reapportion the savings. And to do it now.”

The studio audience nodded in agreement. Vander
Meer celebrated inwardly.
I’ve barely had to say a thing
, he thought.
The Primus has said it all for me
.

As soon as Vander Meer’s program was over, Wilkins scowled at Flint and said, “Thanks.”

He held his hands out. “I’m sorry. What was I supposed to say?”

What indeed? Wilkins asked herself. Flint hadn’t had much choice, the way the question was posed. But Rostropovich …

She turned to the Primus. But he had already risen from his seat and headed for the studio’s exit.

“Prime Commander,” said Vander Meer, approaching her with his hand out to shake hers. “I want to thank you for coming. It was a most—”

Wilkins never heard the rest. She was too busy pursuing Rostropovich, weaving her way among the members of the studio audience who had gotten up in order to speak with her and her colleagues.

The Primus walked through the doorway and out to the street beyond it. But it wasn’t difficult for Wilkins to catch up with him. Rostropovich had never been one to take part in exercise.

“I want to speak with you,” she said.

“We’ve already spoken a great deal this morning,” he replied. “What else need be said?”

“You ambushed me,” she snapped, her eyes full of fire.

“Ambushed?” He shrugged off the accusation. “I expressed what was in my heart.”

“If you felt that way, you should have told me so in advance.”

“Maybe you can command your Rangers what to say and when to say it. You don’t have any such authority over the office of the Primus.”

“Of course not—because you set an example for everyone.
An example of fairness. An example of
trustworthiness
.”

The Primus harrumphed. “I did what was necessary. Had I warned you of my intentions, you would have prepared a response. This way, your position was exposed as one of greed and self-interest.”

The Prime Commander felt her face grow hot with indignation. “Greed? Because I want to protect Nova Prime?”

“Because you don’t need the resources you’ve demanded in the past, and you know it. Now some small portion of those resources will go elsewhere. It is hardly a tragedy.”

Wilkins nodded. “I misjudged you.”

“No doubt,” said the Primus.

The Prime Commander watched her colleague walk away. Resentment burned inside her. She had allowed Rostropovich to catch her by surprise, to outmaneuver her. She had permitted him to strip their world of its defenses.

She hated him for his smugness, for his lack of ethics. She hated him for the blindness that would put the citizens of his world at risk. But the Ranger in her knew that she had only one person to blame for what had happened in Vander Meer’s studio: herself.

Lyla was accustomed to being the only spectator at the North Side cageball court on Monday afternoons, when it was full of running, jumping twelve-year-olds noisily trying to put a ball in a basket. It was rare that she had to share the fence with someone.

But this Monday afternoon seemed to be an exception. Farther along the fence, a couple of cadets stopped in the brazen sunlight to watch the game. She wondered if they knew her brother.
No doubt
. Lucas was, after all, Lucas.

One of the cadets was pretty good-looking, she noticed. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked like he wanted to step onto the court and take a few shots himself. The other one was tall, too, but stockier, with a shock of red hair.

After a moment, Lyla noticed them looking at her. Talking about her, too, if she wasn’t mistaken. Feeling a blush coming on, she turned away.

Why? she asked herself. Why not just return their scrutiny, maybe even walk up to them and introduce herself? Or—God help her—go so far as to ask the good-looking one out?

Because if she went up to the guy and opened her mouth, her throat would close like a vise and nothing remotely intelligible would come out.
That’s why
.

Lyla had always been shy as a child. Some people got over their shyness after they put their teen years behind them. In her case, the problem had gotten worse.

That was why she buried herself in lab work: because it was easier than socializing with actual human beings. She was fine in the company of her colleagues, people in whom she had no romantic interest.
Absolutely fine
. But someone like the cadet standing along the fence … no way. If she tried to talk to him, her heart would start beating so hard, it would crack a rib.

So I’ll just stay where I am
, she thought,
and watch the game. And maybe the guy will go away
.

But he didn’t. In fact, he started walking in Lyla’s direction.

She swallowed hard.
Don’t look at him
, she told herself.
Just watch
.

“Excuse me,” the cadet said, “but I’ve got to ask. Are you a cageball fan?”

She shook her head, pretending to remain intent on the game.
Just pretend he’s a colleague, inquiring about your work
. “Not exactly. I’m an engineer. I’ve been working on a hearing device.” She pointed through the fence at one of the kids on the court. “A couple of months ago, I implanted one in that kid over there.”

His name was Pietro, and he was far and away the best player on the court. Not that she was biased or anything.

“And now he can hear?” asked the cadet.

“Perfectly,” Lyla said, unable to keep a note of pride out of her voice.

“That’s great.”

Funny. There was something about his voice she found familiar.
Probably my imagination
.

“So you came down to watch him?” the cadet asked.

“It was part of our deal. If he let me put in the device, I would watch him play one time.”

“And this is the time?”

Lyla smiled. “Actually, this is the
tenth
time. It’s gotten to be a habit with me. I’m here every Monday afternoon, no matter what.”

The cadet laughed. “I guess my friend Blodge was right.”

She turned to him, wondering what that might mean.
Is this one of those deals where a guy talks to you on a dare?
“About what?”

“I need to laugh more. I get a little intense sometimes.”

“I can’t picture you being intense.”

He laughed again, and all of a sudden she realized that they were having a conversation.
A real-life, honest-to-goodness conversation
. It was crazy, but there it was.

They watched the kids go back and forth a little more. Pietro couldn’t have looked happier. Every time a teammate called something to him, he turned in response.

Lyla felt better about that than she’d ever felt about anything in her life. Although talking to a dashing young cadet, actually
talking
to him, might come in a close second.

“I used to play a little cageball myself,” he said. “My dad played it, too. He was better than I was. But I still liked it.”

“You don’t play anymore?” Lyla asked.

The cadet shook his head. “Too busy trying to be a Ranger.”

There was something about the way he smiled, sort of joking but serious at the same time, that seemed familiar—even more so than his voice. Lyla got the feeling that she had met the cadet before.

Then she thought,
No. A guy who looks like he does? I’d have remembered him without a doubt
.

“Anyway,” he said, “my name’s Conner. Conner—”

Oh, my God
, she thought.

That was why he seemed familiar—because he
was
. Because he had been Lucas’s best friend when they were kids. Because he was the one who had had a boxing match with her brother right in the middle of their barracks.

“Raige,” she said, interrupting him.

He looked surprised. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“I’m Lyla Kincaid,” she blurted. “That’s how.” Then
she walked away as fast as she could even though Pietro would glance at her spot at some point and wonder what had happened to her.

She would explain it to the kid later.
Conner Raige. Doesn’t it figure?
She had felt so comfortable talking to him, so at ease with herself. And out of everybody he could have been, everybody on the planet, he had turned out to be …

Conner Raige
.

“From time to time,” the Primus said, his voice echoing impressively, “the world gets remade. Sometimes it is done for us. Sometimes we do it ourselves. Back on Earth, we were foolish. We destroyed God’s creation, our home. But we were given a chance for redemption, brothers and sisters.”

The Primus cast his gaze over his congregation. Most of the time, his goal was simply to comfort them so they were better equipped to face life’s trials. This time, he had an entirely different agenda in mind.

“Before the Earth died, we were permitted to slip its bonds. But we needed to do so in an orderly way. The Rangers provided that order, and for half a millennium they have continued to provide it. Twice they repelled hostile forces that sought to cast us from this new world of ours, this second paradise. They have tended to the sick, to the injured, to the wronged. For that, we owe the Rangers a measure of thanks.