J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (5 page)

Good of her? Suzanne tried not to look skeptical. They'd offered her forty percent more pay than she'd gotten in Ohio, plus all expenses incurred in the move. And suddenly she panicked. Dammit, she
knew
it was too good to be true. But she'd laid it all out to Jacobi the very first interview. Yes, she'd worked on a secret project in Canton, but it was a joint project with NASA and had nothing whatsoever to do with biological warfare, which she absolutely refused to have anything to do with. And if that was what Jacobi was offering, she'd just leave now, thank you.

He'd sworn it wasn't.
Nothing like that,
he'd reassured her. After all, hadn't he been one of the scientists on the Manhattan Project who'd later publicly denounced the use of atomic weapons, had demonstrated on the Capitol steps for peace? No, he permitted nothing like that to go on at the Pacific Institute. Not as long as he had a breath of life in him. And he spoke with such conviction that she'd believed him.

What would she do now if he told her otherwise? Quit immediately, of course . .. But then what would happen to her and Debi? She'd never be able to reimburse them the moving costs, at least not for a while. ...

That's what you get for behaving impulsively, moving all the way to California without knowing exactly what the job was all about. Sounds more like something Derek would do.

"Dr. Jacobi," she said slowly, "I am terribly curious as to what the job entails. As I told you, I refuse to engage in any sort of research that could conceivably be used for biowarfare."

His thin lips curved upward in a smile. "Ah, yes. A scientist of principle. And that's why I hired you, Dr.

McCullough." He riffled distractedly through a stack of pink While You Were Out memos as he spoke. "But before we discuss details, I would like you to meet the man you'll be working with."

"Dr. Jacobi—" she began, frustrated. She was going to say,
I get a strong impression that you are trying to avoid answering my question . . . until you feel I'm caught too tightly in your web to say no.

Jacobi held up his hand. "He'll be able to answer all your questions for you. Dr. Harrison Blackwood, the astrophysicist. Perhaps you've heard of him."

"No," Suzanne answered, calming down a little. An astrophysicist. .. then maybe they hired her because they were interested in space research of the type she'd done at Zubrovski Labs. "But if he can explain, then by all means . .. take me to him."

Blackwood's office was in a different wing of the building which looked like it had been constructed back in the thirties. The man couldn't be very influential around here, then, if he hadn't managed to get one of the plush new offices near Jacobi's. They stopped in front of a dark wooden door that bore the single inscription
Blackwood
. The sign looked as old as the rest of the building; then Dr. Blackwood was no doubt as ancient as Jacobi.

Jacobi pushed open the door without knocking; catching Suzanne's raised brow, he explained: "We're pretty informal around here, Doctor. You'll get used to it." He poked his head inside, then looked back at Suzanne and put his finger to his lips. "Blackwood's lecturing. We let the local schoolchildren visit from

time to time. I'm not sure who enjoys it more." He stepped inside and motioned for her to follow.

"How nice," Suzanne murmured behind him. She eased the door shut as quietly as possible. Blackwood stood speaking with his back to them; before him, a group of children Debi's age listened, wide-eyed, whether totally intent or totally lost, Suzanne wasn't sure. She and Dr. Jacobi tiptoed off to one side of the room. Neither Blackwood nor the children seemed to notice.

"Insofar as science is concerned," Blackwood was saying, "I doubt we've ever experienced a more exciting period in human history. Aided by the computer and other modern research techniques, startling discoveries are happening at an exponential rate...."

The room looked more like a child-scientist's playground than an office: the ceiling was plastered with astral maps; a huge mobile of the solar system hung suspended, as did other celestial bodies, and through this makeshift cosmos sailed an inflatable plastic model of the starship
Enterprise.
About a dozen antique telescopes were aimed at the open window, and above the desk hung a framed poster of Schiaparelli's Mars, complete with
canali.

Jacobi settled against the wall to listen. Next to him, Suzanne tried not to stare at Dr. Blackwood. She'd pictured him as looking like her old boss at Zubrovski Labs, Dr. Solomon, overweight and almost totally bald, his pale eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. She certainly hadn't pictured him looking like . .. like ...

This. Nice-looking. Probably in his late thirties.

Tall, over six feet, with curly, golden brown hair. And for God's sake, dressed like a college kid in a flannel shirt, khakis, and suspenders, no tie. She realized that her mouth was slightly agape, and closed it.

"A wise man once said"—and at this point Blackwood caught sight of Jacobi and winked; Jacobi nodded back—"that a person who tries to know something about everything will eventually know everything about nothing, while the person who tries to know everything about one thing will eventually know nothing about everything."

Suzanne frowned. "Who said that?" she whispered in Jacobi's ear.

He shrugged, still smiling. "Knowing Harrison, he did."

Blackwood droned on. The kids were starting to fidget. "Of both the physical and theoretical sciences, it is crucial for you to always remember that assumptions are fraught with danger. Scientists can't function unless they can postulate theories based on assumptions. But the good scientist will always remain cautious, for to assume even the obvious is to oftentimes overlook the obvious. To help illustrate this point"— and here he withdrew a pocket watch from his khakis —"let me give you a practical example." He opened the watch and stared at its face, counting dramatically. A couple of the kids stirred and began paying attention as they realized something was about to happen.

"Five," Blackwood intoned, "four, three, two, one!"

In one of the nearby offices, a man screamed.

Blackwood's lips curved in a satisfied grin. He closed the watch and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Blaaackwoood!"

The door to Blackwood's office slammed open, and a researcher dressed in a white smock stormed in.
This
man looked like Dr. Solomon, only thinner . .. except that his shoulders and balding head were sprinkled with brightly colored confetti. The children began to titter. Even Jacobi smiled; Suzanne forced herself to maintain a serious expression.

The researcher glared at Blackwood, then realized that Jacobi was standing nearby. "I'm glad Dr. Jacobi is here to witness this, Blackwood," he snapped. "This has all the markings of another one of your infantile practical jokes!"

Blackwood took a step toward him and said in a confidential tone, "Jeffrey, you really should see someone about that scalp condition." More giggles escaped.

"You should see someone about your
mental
condition!" Jeffrey shouted.

At that, someone in the group roared; that did it. The children howled. Jeffrey did a beautiful double take. In his fury, he apparently hadn't noticed that he had an audience. His anger faded to self-consciousness, then to red-faced embarrassment.

Blackwood gestured at him like a leading man encouraging his co-star to take a bow. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce Dr. Guterman, the next stop on your field trip. Dr. Guterman doesn't subscribe to my assumption theory, and occasionally finds things falling down on him when he walks through doorways."

"I'll get you for this, Blackwood," Guterman thundered. He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Blackwood was nonplussed. "Why don't you look around the room for a few minutes," he told the sixth-graders, "while Dr. Guterman regains his composure?"

While the children milled around the office, Blackwood strolled over, hands in his pockets.

"Inspiring young minds is so rewarding. Morning, Ephram." He turned to Suzanne, his blue eyes regarding her curiously. "Hi—Harrison Blackwood."

"Suzanne McCullough." She felt herself frosting up. He was a charmer, just a little too glib. There was a boyishness about him that reminded her uncomfortably of Derek; he even resembled him a little physically. The fact both attracted and repelled her. But he was still too pleased with his joke on Guterman to notice.

Jacobi sensed her disapproval and quit smiling. "I really do wish you'd leave that poor fellow alone, Harrison," he chided mildly. Suzanne got the feeling he said it only for her sake.

Blackwood grinned unrepentantly. "And give up all my fun?" It was clear he wasn't in the least bit afraid of Jacobi. He turned to Suzanne. "I'm a firm believer that a person's reaction to a harmless practical joke is a window to his—or her—soul."

She eyed him coolly. If he wasn't afraid of Jacobi,

then, by God, she wasn't afraid to let him know what she thought of his childish antic. "Does that apply to whoopie cushions as well, Doctor?"

He blinked, but his cheerfulness never wavered. She got the feeling he understood exactly what she meant but didn't give enough of a damn to take offense. He went right on to the next thought without missing a beat.

"Ephram—now that I have you. Whatever happened to my request for a microbiologist?"

She drew in a breath. So Jacobi hadn't even told him about her! She'd moved across country to come here to work for Blackwood, and Blackwood didn't even know yet....

Jacobi's expression was smug. "Have I ever denied you, Harrison?" He rested a supportive hand on Suzanne's shoulder. "Dr. McCullough has just joined us. She's yours if you want her."

"In a manner of speaking," she said, qualifying Jacobi's statement, then blushed to think that she had called attention to the double entendre herself.

But Blackwood politely ignored the remark. "Welcome to the Pacific Institute of Technology and Science ... or, as we so fondly refer to it, the PITS." He extended his hand.

Without thinking, she hesitated.

His smile widened delightedly. "I gave up handshake buzzers years ago."

"Assumptions are dangerous things," she reminded him, and cautiously took his hand.

THREE

By the time dawn came, Mossoud and the others had gone to plant charges around the base's perimeter while Urick and Chambers unloaded the truck.

It had been more than twenty-four hours since Urick had any rest, but she was not in the least bit sleepy. Physically, a bit tired, and bleary-eyed, perhaps. Emotionally, she began with absolute exhilaration—they were doing it, they were actually doing it! Soon the world would hear of them; she would have a place in history. It was all too soon replaced by absolute dread—she'd gone too far to expect mercy, to expect to live if something went wrong with their plans. At weak moments she found herself doubting.

Chambers' plan had seemed so simple: overrun the base and transmit the message. They would booby-trap the perimeter to slow the army down, and the nuclear waste would provide them with more protection than any hostage could. Load some waste onto the truck, along with the explosives, and no one would try to stop them from making good their escape. The important thing, Chambers kept repeating, was to get the message to the world—to call upon fellow anarchists to bring about worldwide chaos.

It had seemed important enough to die for, or, at least, Urick had thought so then. Now despair overcame her. If the government found a way onto the base, she, Chambers, all of them, were dead, as dead as the two men she had killed. As dead as the seventeen blood-caked bodies piled into one far corner of the yard, growing stiff under the sun's first rays.
Only we just don't know it yet.

Through it all, she worked with detached efficiency. She brought the transmitter dish from the back of the truck and knelt down in the sandy soil to adjust it. Didn't need sleep. She'd just as soon never sleep again, but she could definitely use a shower. Tiny red droplets spattered the front of her white jump suit; there were dirty smudges on the knees and pockets.

"Could you help me with this?" Chambers appeared in the back of the truck with a videocam in his arms, the tripod stuck awkwardly in the crook of one elbow and in danger of slipping out. She walked up the ramp and slid it carefully from his arms.

"Thanks," he said. He'd been quiet too, but now he gave her a long look, the way he did when he wanted to initiate conversation. He walked down the ramp in front of her with short, careful steps, and waited while she set the tripod up. It took some time to get it to stand straight in the sand.

"So how're you doing, Lena?" He carefully nestled the camera atop the tripod.

She was on her way back to work on the dish and jerked her head to look back at him. He'd never called her Lena before. At first she almost yelled at him.
Don't call me that. . . Lena is dead. Lena doesn't exist anymore. Only Urick, soldier of the People's Liberation Army.
But his expression was concerned.
Concerned about me?
she wondered.

No matter. We're all going to die soon.