Independence Day: Crucible (The Official Prequel) (28 page)

He just held her a little tighter. She felt his heart beating in his chest. In that moment she wanted to lift her head, look him in the eyes, see what he was thinking. What would happen.

Instead she reluctantly pushed back from him.

“I’m sorry you had to listen to all of that.”

“No,” Jake said. “I’m happy you felt you could talk to me. I know we joke a lot, Patricia. I know I do. But I want you to know that if there is ever anything I can do, any way I can help—I’m here for you.”

“I know that, Jake,” she said.

Then she kissed him, because she didn’t care anymore. She knew it was wrong, that it was a problem, that nothing good could come of it. And she simply did not care.

For a moment he was so surprised he didn’t respond, but then he did, carefully, thoughtfully, and, Jake being Jake, playfully. When they finally broke to look at each other, he grinned.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that?”

“Of course,” she said. “Since we met.”

He blinked and raised up a little.

“Oh
really
,” he said. “When we met the first thing you thought was, ‘This guy wants to kiss me’?”

“A girl knows, Jake. I was disappointed to learn you had a girlfriend.”

“But you had a boyfriend,” he said.

“That’s true,” she said. “I’m horrible.”

“We’re both horrible,” he said.

“Completely,” she said, as he bent to kiss her again.

* * *

Dikembe woke the next morning, cold, stiff, living pain in every joint. His side felt like it was on fire. The skin around the wound was puffy and red and the only part of him that felt hot. Groaning, he roused himself and went to the spring.

He surprised a red-flanked duiker that was drinking the clear, cool water. Its head jerked up in alarm, and then the tiny antelope dashed off into the bushes. Overhead, in the leafy tops of the bush mangos and khaya trees, a troop of vervet monkeys chittered a protest at his presence.

He washed his wound again, gritting his teeth against the agony. He cupped his hands and took a drink, then another.

Water was perhaps the chief constraint on his plans. He could go for a while without eating again, but not without water. He didn’t know how long it would be before he ran across another source from which he could drink without becoming ill. It might be a long time if he went south or west. North, and he would be back on the savanna, too easily seen from the air. That left east, and the mountains.

It would be hard going, especially wounded, but clean water would be easier to come by.

He sat with his back against a tree, trying to focus. What else did he need? Antibiotics would be nice. He could carry a little water in the tins he had emptied out. A machete would be good, a gun even better. There were some villages in the foothills. They might help him.

Yet if they did, and they were found out…

He remembered the mass grave.

No. He would have to avoid villages until he crossed the border.

He wasn’t going to get any stronger, only weaker. The sooner he left, the better. So with a groan he rose from his resting place, realizing as he did so that the tree he had leaned against was an mvule, which some held as sacred and others thought of as being possessed of evil spirits. Either way, it was considered best to avoid them.

Like so many things, it was too late for that.

Dikembe returned to the cabin and began loading what little there was of use into an old rucksack. When he turned to go, he saw a shadow outside, and froze in place.

“It’s me, old man,” a voice said. “Zuberi.”

Dikembe leaned around the corner and saw it was indeed his old friend, leaning against a tree.

“Remember?” Zuberi said. “I came up here with you and Bakari, now and then. We had some good times.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dikembe said. “If my father learns you are here…”

“Let me worry about that,” Zuberi said. “You’re wounded. I brought medicine.”

“Leave it,” Dikembe said. “I can make use of it.”

“Just let me do this for you,” Zuberi said. “Then I’ll disappear.” He motioned. “Lie on the table in there.”

Grudgingly, Dikembe did as he was told.

“I should have known you would try something like that,” Zuberi said as he examined the wound. “And that you would not invite me.”

“Your family,” Dikembe responded. “I would not put them at risk.”

“I understand that,” Zuberi said, “and I appreciate it.” He made a clucking sound. “This is getting infected,” he said. “You won’t make it two days.”

“I will,” Dikembe said.

“Your whole family,” Zuberi said. “So hard-headed.” He irrigated the wound with alcohol while Dikembe throttled a scream. Through tears of pain he saw his friend produce a hypodermic.

“Antibiotic,” he said. “I have more you can take by mouth.”

Dikembe hardly felt the sting of the shot.

“What happened to the others?” he asked.

“Your mercenaries?” Zuberi said. “Mostly massacred, I’m sorry to say. The old man knew somehow. He always knows. Maybe he’s right, the voices in his head—do you have them, Dikembe? I thought they were long gone, but I’ve begun to have the dreams again.”

“Yes,” Dikembe said. “I have them, but I don’t think my father had any sort of supernatural instruction. I think I wasn’t careful enough in choosing my mercenaries. The helicopter pilot was supposed to be with me, but he was really in my father’s pay. There may have been others. He let my trap for him become his trap for me.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Zuberi replied. “Even in his madness, he is as clever as always. I’m going to sew this up, okay? It won’t be a very good job.”

“Just hurry,” Dikembe said. He was feeling suddenly torpid, as if moving his limbs was the most difficult thing in the world to do.

He was surprised at how distant the pain felt when Zuberi began passing the needle through his flesh. He watched him sew, reminded by the long strand of catgut of a spider weaving a web.

“Zuberi?” he said.

“Just relax,” Zuberi said.

“That was no antibiotic,” Dikembe said.

“No,” Zuberi said. “It wasn’t. I’m sorry, old friend. This was the best I could do for you.”

Dikembe tried to roll from the table, but everything was going light, and Zuberi was holding him down, an apologetic look on his face.

Then miasma, falling, darkness.

For a long moment Jake thought his friend was going to hit him. Dylan vaulted out of his cockpit, and was actually shaking with fury. He braced to take the punch. Nearby, the final ship of the squadron settled onto the tarmac. Jake’s own H-7 was behind him, and Dylan had come down only a few meters away, dangerously close.

The moment passed. Dylan’s fingers unclenched.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded.

“What?” Jake said. “You mean the part where I saved our asses?”

Dylan jabbed a finger at him. “I mean the part where I told you to do one thing, and you did something else,” he said.

“Well,” Jake said, “maybe it’s because the thing you wanted me to do would have gotten me shot out of the sky, leaving what was left of the squadron wide open from the back. The ‘something else’ I did gave us the win.”

“That’s not the point,” Dylan said. “I was designated leader for that run.”

“And you made a bad call,” Jake countered.

“I had a plan,” Dylan snapped.

“Then you should have shared it,” Jake retorted. “Because from where I was sitting, I didn’t sense a plan.”

“I think you’re trying to shave my points,” Dylan said. “Make me look bad. You want the Legacy Squadron spot for yourself.”

For a moment, the accusation left Jake breathless.

People were starting to notice them.

“Okay,” he said, slower and softer. “First of all, no, I wasn’t trying to make you look bad. I’ve never done that, I never would do that, and you freaking know it. Second, yes—hell yes, I want the Legacy Squadron spot. I’m not going to bow out just because you think you’re supposed to inherit the position.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Dylan demanded.

“You know exactly what it means,” Jake said. He started walking off, already wishing he hadn’t said it.

“You know what?” Dylan said. “My father saved the world. Patricia’s father saved the world. What did yours ever do?”

Jake stopped in his tracks.

“Really?” he said.

“You went there first,” Dylan said.

“No,” Jake said. “I didn’t go
there
. That’s a whole different place—and maybe this isn’t about what just happened up in space, huh? Maybe this is about something else. Someone else.”

“Shut up,” Dylan said. “Let’s get off the tarmac. People are staring.”

Jake began walking again, steering them clear of everyone else on the tarmac. Dylan paced him. It didn’t take him long to break his own imperative.

“You don’t deserve her,” Dylan said as they exited the hangar.

Here we go
, Jake thought.

“And you do?” he said.

Dylan didn’t answer, but Jake knew—had known from the moment he and Patricia let him in on their relationship. Patricia thought it would go better if they did it together. All that had done was delay this conversation. His comments about their respective fathers made it all pretty clear how Dylan thought things should be.

“Dylan,” he said, “if you have something to say, say it.”

“Emily,” Dylan said.

“What about her? We haven’t been together in years.”

“You destroyed her,” Dylan said. “You took her virginity, and then you left her.”

That stung. He’d known even in the moment that making love with Emily was a bad idea, that it was important to her, that she would think of it as a promise even if she didn’t say so. He hadn’t exactly been thinking with his head at that point, and he regretted it.

“She broke up with me,” Jake said.

Dylan wagged a finger at him.

“Yeah, but she would have taken you back in a second,” he said. “She was testing you. She wanted to see if you would fight for the relationship. Not only didn’t you fight, you took off running.”

“She told you all this?” Jake asked.

“In several long, painful crying jags,” he said. “She wanted me to talk to you, try to convince you to come back.”

“What can this possibly have to do with Patricia?” Jake demanded.

“Emily thought Patricia was the reason—she thought that you were in love with her. I told her that was stupid, that you guys had just met. Now I think she was right. If you told Emily you loved her and then did that to her, you can do it to Patricia—and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

Jake took his time to reply.

“You know,” he said, “I know I didn’t handle the Emily thing very well, and you’re right, I was relieved when she broke up with me. I did know she would take me back, but if I had stayed with her, I wouldn’t have had a future. I wouldn’t be flying.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he continued. “And yeah, maybe when I first met Patricia I saw her as part of that future, the one I couldn’t have with Emily. But I did nothing about it, not then and not later. Not until Patricia was single, anyway, and not until I knew she felt the same way.”

Dylan absorbed that quietly—by that time they had reached the locker rooms, where the conversation would be anything but private. They changed out of their flight suits and took a shuttle to the dorms.

Once they were in the room, Dylan started up again.

“You’re endangering your career,” he said. “That’s fine if you want to do that, but you’re also endangering Patricia’s.”

“I know that,” Jake said. “Don’t you think I haven’t thought about that?”

There was a light knock on the doorframe, and they both turned. The door hadn’t shut all the way, and to his dismay Jake saw Patricia standing there.

“You guys should maybe have the door shut when you have these heart-to-hearts,” she said.

“Hey,” Jake said. Then he noticed she had been crying. He rose and went to her. “What’s wrong?”

She closed the door gently.

“I saw you guys come in,” she said. “I guess I should have given you more space, but I didn’t know you were fighting. I’m pretty sure I know what it’s about, and let me assure you both—no careers are in danger.”

“What do you mean?” Dylan asked.

“I’ve resigned from flight school,” she said.

“Why?” Jake said. “Because of me? You should have talked to me, I would have—”

“No, Jake,” she said, taking his hand. “It wasn’t about you. Or us.”

“Then why?” Jake asked.

“It’s my dad,” she said softly. “He needs me. I need to be there with him.”

“It’s worse?” Jake said.

“Yeah,” she said. “It is, and I’ve put off doing this for too long.”

“But—what will you do?” Dylan asked. “You owe the ESD some time. You can’t just walk away.”

She smiled, but it was a transparently false one.

“I can, actually. Turns out I’m Patricia Whitmore. I’ll still be military for a while, but I’m going to be an aide to President Lanford. I majored in poly-sci with a minor in communications, remember? And I’ve been swimming in the political pond most of my life. I can be close to Dad that way.”

“I can’t believe this,” Jake said. He would rather Dylan had hit him. It couldn’t have hurt as much.

“When do you leave?” Dylan asked.

“End of the week,” she said.

* * *

“So?” Julius Levinson said, as he sat on the couch. He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Have you read it?”

That was fast
, David thought. The driver had only dropped his father at the house two minutes before. Luggage down, brief hug, review please.

“It’s good to see you, too, Pops,” David said. “How was the trip out?”

Julius’s thick eyebrows shot up. “It’s very fancy, first class,” he said. “Warm towels. Who knew? But the kosher meal—meh. Still, much better than coach. Not exactly Air Force One, but it’ll do. So, eh—thanks for the ticket.”

“You should see Air Force One now,” David said. “They’ve made… improvements.”

His father was looking around, as if trying to spot something. “It’s all the same,” he said. “Nothing’s changed.”