J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (34 page)

"It's landed-gentry time," Norton said approvingly. "Seriously speaking, Colonel, I think I could get used to this."

"Oh," Debi breathed worshipfully, her nose and hands pressed against the car window, "you didn't tell me about a horse."

"I didn't know about a horse." Suzanne frowned. She had never been near an animal that size, and wasn't so sure she liked the idea of Deb getting

close to one. She pulled the wagon to a stop behind the Bronco. "Besides, I thought you hated making new friends."

"Oh, Mommm . . ." Deb groaned, meaning: Surely you knew better than to take the remark seriously.

"Be careful," Suzanne warned, but Deb was already out of the car and dashing toward the corral. Deb ran right up to the fence and called out to the handsome chestnut-colored animal, who, much to Suzanne's relief, remained at a respectable distance, studying her warily as he took another mouthful of hay. Satisfied that her daughter was in no imminent danger, Suzanne opened up the back of the station wagon and started to unload luggage.

A familiar voice came from the porch. "Leave those, Suzanne. Tom and the colonel can take care of them for you."

She looked up and gasped. Mrs. Pennyworth stood smiling on the front porch, the usual braid wound around her head, and wearing the usual jeans and Reeboks. She was wiping her hands on a yellow-plaid dish towel as if she'd just come from the kitchen.

"Mrs. Pennyworth! How on earth-—"

The Dutch woman's smile went from welcoming to mysterious. "Ephram said you would be needing someone to tutor Deborah and to cook . . ."

"But you were sitting with Deb only a few hours before we started packing." Come to think of it, Mrs. Pennyworth had been the
only
baby-sitter on the list Jacobi had given her. No wonder the woman had never questioned Suzanne's constant "emergencies."

"You
might say this is my
home
away
from home,"
the older woman said enigmatically,
"so there
was
no
need for me to spend any time packing."

Debi came wandering back, looking frustrated
by
her inability to establish communications with the horse. "He's awfully shy—" She broke off at the sight of Mrs. Pennyworth and sped like a bullet toward the porch. Her hug was so enthusiastic, Mrs. Pennyworth staggered backward a step. "Mrs. Pennyworth—how did
you
get here?"

Mrs. Pennyworth hugged back, dish towel in hand. "Well, I explained to your mother's employer that I was good friends with you and so had to come along. Besides, I heard you needed a teacher."

"That's great!" Deb stepped back and gazed wistfully in the direction of the corral. "This place won't be so bad after all."

"And here is Mr. Thomas Kensington." Mrs. Pennyworth gestured at the man approaching from the direction of the stables.

Dressed in riding breeches, suede jacket, and a felt hat, Kensington was gray-haired, lean, and walked with a slight limp. As he joined the group, he nodded unsmilingly at them. "Tom Kensington," he said rather stiffly.

"Thomas is responsible for the maintenance of everything here," Mrs. Pennyworth said. She was apparently the only one not taken aback by the man's cold demeanor. "The house, the grounds .. . and Deborah will be interested to know, the stables. He is the owner of the horse, Spirit."

"Oh, Mr. Kensington." Debi fastened her adoring gaze on him. "Please, could you teach me how to ride?"

Kensington coughed nervously and shrugged. "I think that depends on your mother and Mrs. Pennyworth, young lady."

Suzanne sighed. "If it's all right with everyone else, I suppose it's all right with me."

Mrs. Pennyworth nodded. "So long as you finish your lessons first." She gestured with the dish towel at Harrison and the others as they approached. "Is anyone here hungry? I have a roast with potatoes and carrots in the oven." And at the grateful sounds of appreciation that followed, Mrs. Pennyworth smiled. "Come in, then, so we can all get acquainted."

TWENTY-THREE

By the time Norton finally made it out of his bedroom the next morning, Colonel Ironhorse was waiting for him.

Poker-faced, the burly colonel stared down at him. "You didn't come down to breakfast, Mr. Drake. Frankly, I was beginning to get concerned."

Norton curled his lip sourly at both the realization he'd missed breakfast and the patronizing remark. The colonel was just another typically ignorant non-plege (Norton's own term for anyone who walked on two legs and blithely assumed everyone else did too). Without help, it'd taken Norton a full hour to wash up and get dressed, even though the facilities here were great: a private toilet and shower designed for a paraplegic, just off his bedroom. It was now only nine o'clock; Norton had risen at eight, and after the sleep he'd missed lately, that was pretty damn good, even for a military type.

"Wasn't in the mood for breakfast anyway," Norton snapped. Even Harrison had the good grace not to bother him before he'd had his first cup of coffee. "Did it occur to you I might be tired, Colonel? Excuse me. I'm on my way to a date with a cup of coffee."

"We'll get you some—" Ironhorse began.

"I'll get it myself, thank you," Norton replied rather nastily. This guy was laying on the "help-the-crip" bit just a little too thick this morning. And still wearing his uniform—was he expecting a surprise inspection, maybe? "Gertrude—full speed ahead."

The colonel followed him. "I was going to say, we'll get you some when we get to where we're going. But you're headed in the wrong direction."

"Gertrude, stop," Norton ordered, then scowled up at the colonel. "I thought the kitchen was that way."

"The coffee is this way—toward the elevator."

"Elevator?" Norton's frown deepened. "You're hallucinating, Ironside. This is a one-story hacienda."

"It's Iron
horse."
The colonel's black eyes regarded him humorlessly. "I was going to show you to your office, Mr. Drake. If you'll come with me, please." The colonel gestured for him to follow.

Norton balked. "I don't need an escort, thanks. I'll find my way around."

"Do you know where the elevator is?"

"Well, no, but. . ."

"I was going to show you your office as a common courtesy," Ironhorse said patiently, "the way I did for Dr. McCullough and Blackwood."

"Oh." Norton became vaguely aware that he might have overreacted. "Well then, let's go."

But Ironhorse stood staring at him. "And I wanted to be sure you had the equipment you needed. It's my job, after all."

"All right, all right." Norton waved an impatient hand at him. "Just get me to the coffee first."

Ironhorse turned and headed down the hallway.

"Gertrude, full speed ahead." The chair followed the colonel. At the end of the hallway, back by Norton's bedroom, was the elevator.

"Handicapped access." A snideness crept into Norton's tone, one he really hadn't intended. "Very considerate of you. Gertrude—ahead three and rotate one eighty."

The chair carried him into the elevator. The controls were low, easy for him to reach, and he blinked at the three choices:
Down, Up
and
Open Doors. No
top floor, so he pressed the
Down
button, and tried to ignore the fact that Ironhorse was watching him. "Chip on your shoulder, Mr. Drake?"

So there it was. The colonel was just looking for a polite way to get even for the razzing Norton had given him the other day. If Norton and Harrison had anything in common besides their hatred of the aliens, it was their hatred of uptight, regulations-spouting military types, but Norton wasn't prepared to take him on without any caffeine in his system.

"I'm tired." Norton drew a palm down over his forehead, eyes, cheek. "And Harrison will verify that I'm not known for my cheerfulness before my first cup of the day." He paused, then tilted his chin up

defiantly at Ironhorse. "Besides, Colonel Ironass, what's it to you? Bet you have a few chips of your own."

To his astonishment, the colonel didn't take offense. In fact, Norton thought he saw a glint of humor in those inscrutable black eyes. "Just call me Chief and find out," Ironhorse said softly.

Norton looked the Indian's powerful build up and down and swallowed. "No thanks."

The elevator came to a smooth stop; the door opened. Ironhorse stepped out. "As you can see, the elevator directly accesses your office." He turned to glance at Norton. "More consideration."

Norton directed the chair out of the elevator and closed his eyes as he sniffed the air. "My God, I'm having an olfactory hallucination—that's my own private blend of coffee I smell. How did you—" He broke off as he opened his eyes and caught sight of the room around him. A slow smile spread over his face.

The office was huge. Not only did it contain the same transmission equipment as his office at the Institute, and then some, but over in one corner— now he knew he was hallucinating—sat a Cray supercomputer operator's console, complete with laserjet printer. "Gertie—rotate forty-five left, ahead ten." The chair rolled him up alongside the computer console, which he stroked lovingly. "Colonel, pinch me if I'm dreaming, but am I to understand that this is my
very own
Cray?"

The barest hint of a smile crossed Ironhorse's thin lips, then vanished; obviously, the colonel was pleased with Norton's reaction. "The computer engineers

didn't have much set-up time," he replied nonchalantly. "But this baby can still access the DDN the Defense Data Network." "Where are you hiding the CPU?" "In the next room," Ironhorse replied. "I understand it's pretty noisy . .. and I figured you might not enjoy working at a constant fifty-five degrees. Like I said, if you find there's anything else you need, more memory, more peripheral storage—"

Norton grinned and shook his head. He'd clearly underestimated the man. So he was an uptight military asshole, but there was actually a working brain hidden beneath that ultratough exterior. "This'll do fine for now. I don't think anything else has been invented yet. What'd you do? Read my Christmas

list?"

The colonel crossed the room as Norton spoke, picked up a Melitta glass pitcher and poured coffee into a mug. "You can't be expected to do the job if you don't have the equipment." He set the pitcher of coffee back on a hotplate and walked over to Norton and the Cray.

"Keep up that attitude, Colonel, and I might even get to like you."

Ironhorse handed him the cup of steaming coffee. "If I can offer this as a common courtesy, Mr. Drake—without adding to that chip of yours."

Norton hesitated only for a split second before taking it.

Ironhorse stepped across the hallway to Dr. McCullough's office. There was something he liked

about Drake in spite of the guy's smart mouth. Maybe it was the fact that like the colonel himself Drake had overcome the odds, had come out the victor in an impossible situation. He'd read Drake's dossier: bom into a poor family, which, like Blackwood's, had been killed in an alien attack that left the three-year-old child orphaned. After that he'd lived in a children's home, then a couple of foster homes . . . but instead of turning sour, Drake had harnessed his bitterness and set it to work for him. The kid had been a National Merit scholar, had won math scholarships to the best universities. Ironhorse had to admire him.

Learning about Blackwood's tragic past had eased Ironhorse's contempt for him somewhat, but he doubted he'd ever come to like the guy. Dr. McCullough was a different story. Now,
there
was a responsible, hardworking individual who would have done well in the military. Ironhorse peered into the doorway of her office and did his best to assume a pleasant expression—something he was quite unused to doing. "Finding everything you need, Doctor?"

The windowless office was about two-thirds the size of Drake's. Glossy black-topped counters ran the length of two interior walls; above them, glass-front cabinets displayed every conceivable type of lab equipment: beakers, test tubes, petri dishes, and a lot of instruments Ironhorse didn't recognize. The exterior wall was a bookshelf stocked with reference volumes; next to it, in one comer, stood a computer terminal and leather ergonomic chair. One of the cabinet doors was open, and McCullough had unloaded some instruments onto the counter and was studying them. At the sound of the colonel's
voice,
she looked up with a distracted expression.

Give her horn-rimmed glasses and a white smock instead of the blue jeans and red checked shirt, Ironhorse decided, and she'd be the perfect caricature of the absent-minded scientist. Brains and looks, the whole package—yet the lady seemed quite unaware of it.

"Yes, thank you," Dr. McCuIlough answered blankly. "There are things here / don't even understand. Somebody must have spent a fortune."

Ironhorse squared his shoulders, proud that his work had not gone unappreciated. "The government wants everyone happy."

McCuIlough sighed and frowned down at the mysterious instrument before her. "I'm happy enough, I suppose. Now all I have to do is find a bacteria harmless to man, impervious to radiation, and lethal to the aliens." She shook her head. "Maybe I should just cure the common cold first."