"c312" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

3:53 P.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Desiree sat in her car at an interminable stop light, drumming her fingers on the wheel. The light had power, but nobody had yet reset it to proper timing. It let two, at most three cars through per cycle. She honked. People were such sheep! They should agree to string two cycles together, at least. If everyone just cooperated... Wasn't that what civilization was? Everyone cooperating? Yet she couldn't fault anyone for being grouchy how could anyone cooperate when they had to wait in so damn many lines? Of course, if nobody ever cooperated, the lines would never go away, and people would stay grouchy, and... It was a vicious cycle. Bah. She simply shouldn't have come down Great South Road, but she'd had to get her weekly petrol ration. An hour's wait for a measly ten liters. She should have taken the bus. She could handle the crazies. She had a gun now. But here she was. The CyberCorps liaison office closed in just over an hour, and she had to wriggle all the way into downtown Auckland. She honked again. At least it distracted her from thinking about Jeremy. Grrr! She'd done it again. Couldn't she quit thinking about her stupid mistake for one lousy second? The boy was dead, it was her fault, and she was doing the best she could to find her husband to tell him. What more could the gods want from her? Wasn't her guilt punishment enough, did she have to torture herself with it every fucking moment of the day? The car ahead of her squeezed through as the light changed back to red again. Damn it, she was going too. The cross-traffic drivers blared their horns at her. She flipped them off. In her heart she knew they'd all probably had lousy days too, but damn it, she really doubted any of them had just killed their kid. At quarter til closing she banged through the door into the CyberCorps' liaison office, wearing her Don't Tread On Me face. She knew she had to keep calm; these were people who had something she wanted. She had nothing they wanted. She had to be nice. Polite. Courteous. She thumped her purse on the counter. "I have to get on your next flight to Boston." No. This wasn't going well. She waved her hands. "I'm sorry. Hi. My name's Desiree Hyland, my husband is stationed in Boston, and our baby has just died. I have to visit him. He doesn't even know." "Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that!" the woman said, her eyes crinkling in pain. At least it was a woman. Women were so much easier to deal with for customer service. "What was your name again?" She took it down and said she'd see what she could do, please have a seat, sorry we're out of coffee for the day. Desiree waited. Another uniformed clerk came and locked up the front door, smiling tiredly at Desiree. The first clerk finally came back, a stack of rubber-banded letters in her hand. "I'm sorry love, but all we can do is send a CyberCorpsman home, if they request it. Can't send kin out. We'll try to get a message to him. I did find these, though." She plopped the letters on the counter. They were from Morgan. They'd all been opened. "Arrived postage due, wouldn't you know. We've been so backlogged we haven't been able to contact you." Desiree barely controlled her trembling rage. She didn't know who to direct it to. The CyberCorps for being so callous, or Morgan for not putting the right damn postage on them. "How much do I owe?" She let out a ragged breath. "Hmmmm, looks like a dollar forty-four." Desiree, steaming, gave her a $10 note, a "blue swimmer," and told her to keep the change. Inflation had rendered it about enough to buy a Hershey's bar. Desiree had another go at getting a ticket to Boston. Another polite rebuff. Desiree's face reddened. The soldier in question had to request the bereavement leave. She took three deep breaths. And she knew what might work. Bartering. "Is your boss here?" The woman looked irritated, but fetched a Major Stearns. "Ms.—" he looked at a sheet of paper on a clipboard. "Ms. Hyland, is it? I'm very sorry we can't—" Desiree beckoned him out from behind the counter to a small table in the corner, normally used by draftees to fill out the induction papers. She lowered her voice. "How'd you like to make Lt. Colonel?" she asked. "You'd like to look good to your bosses, right?" She looked in his eyes. Yes, hidden under that paper shuffling exterior was a hungry wolf. "What are you suggesting?" "Dieter Axton." He shook his head. "Dieter Axton?" "I can give you a draft dodging programmer for you to arrest. Or drug smuggler, your choice." She shrugged. "You can play the hero." Damn Axton. Her husband had to leave, why not this scumbag? "Hmm. And all you want in exchange is passage to Boston?" "That's it. Heckuva deal, isn't it?" She stood to go. Play hard to get. "Think about it." She made it to the door. "I've thought about it..." Within six hours and two tearful goodbyes with Matty, she was on a commandeered QANTAS Airbus to Sydney as CyberCorps recruit Deborah Hyatt, destination Sydney, Los Angeles, Boston. Stearns had suggested she destroy the orders as soon as she landed in Boston, lest she end up actually inducted. Piece of cake. She sat back and listened to the thrum of the engines. No cocktails, no peanuts, and only last year's in-flight magazine, but the night sky was clear and the plane mostly empty. She flicked on the overhead reading light. "Dearest dearest Desiree," began Morgan's first letter. "You'll never believe what happened. I landed in what I thought was Boston, but it turns out I'm in _______." The CyberCorps censors had cut the word out. Desiree tossed the sheaf of papers in the air. "Fuck!" She gathered the papers together again, sorted them into order. You can do this Desiree. You'll figure out where ____ is when you land in LA. You can rent a fucking car and drive to Boston, or wherever. Just get to LA. She continued reading, looking for clues. The censors had left in "Damn, is it cold here," so she knew she could at least rule out half the country. The warm half, unfortunately. But here was a gem. "If anything happens to me, contact Nate Zamora in Agate, Colorado, or his people there. He's got some kind of survivalist farmhouse there." And a phone number. Perhaps—she dared not hope someone there would know where ____ was. The last letter was dated February 16th. She read them all several times, terribly missing Morgan's comforting arms around her. The emptiness of the plane made her shiver. Once in LA she pushed past a crowd trying to emigrate to Hawaii, where, they claimed loudly, they had all services restored. Armed guards resisted their pressure and let Desiree slip though. The LA Times headline read, "Coal Shortage End in Sight? Rolling blackouts may end by June." No wonder they wanted to emigrate. Desiree found a phone booth in the otherwise deserted terminal and called the Colorado number in Morgan's letter. It rang! A funny, grainy, old fashioned sounding ring, but a ring! But just rang. And rang. Desiree was poised to hang up when it answered. "Hello?" said a male voice. Breathless, she asked, "Is this—" But the line went very dead.

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Chapter 31.2

3:53 P.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Desiree sat in her car at an interminable stop light, drumming her fingers on the wheel. The light had power, but nobody had yet reset it to proper timing. It let two, at most three cars through per cycle. She honked. People were such sheep! They should agree to string two cycles together, at least. If everyone just cooperated... Wasn't that what civilization was? Everyone cooperating? Yet she couldn't fault anyone for being grouchy how could anyone cooperate when they had to wait in so damn many lines? Of course, if nobody ever cooperated, the lines would never go away, and people would stay grouchy, and... It was a vicious cycle. Bah. She simply shouldn't have come down Great South Road, but she'd had to get her weekly petrol ration. An hour's wait for a measly ten liters. She should have taken the bus. She could handle the crazies. She had a gun now. But here she was. The CyberCorps liaison office closed in just over an hour, and she had to wriggle all the way into downtown Auckland. She honked again. At least it distracted her from thinking about Jeremy. Grrr! She'd done it again. Couldn't she quit thinking about her stupid mistake for one lousy second? The boy was dead, it was her fault, and she was doing the best she could to find her husband to tell him. What more could the gods want from her? Wasn't her guilt punishment enough, did she have to torture herself with it every fucking moment of the day? The car ahead of her squeezed through as the light changed back to red again. Damn it, she was going too. The cross-traffic drivers blared their horns at her. She flipped them off. In her heart she knew they'd all probably had lousy days too, but damn it, she really doubted any of them had just killed their kid. At quarter til closing she banged through the door into the CyberCorps' liaison office, wearing her Don't Tread On Me face. She knew she had to keep calm; these were people who had something she wanted. She had nothing they wanted. She had to be nice. Polite. Courteous. She thumped her purse on the counter. "I have to get on your next flight to Boston." No. This wasn't going well. She waved her hands. "I'm sorry. Hi. My name's Desiree Hyland, my husband is stationed in Boston, and our baby has just died. I have to visit him. He doesn't even know." "Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that!" the woman said, her eyes crinkling in pain. At least it was a woman. Women were so much easier to deal with for customer service. "What was your name again?" She took it down and said she'd see what she could do, please have a seat, sorry we're out of coffee for the day. Desiree waited. Another uniformed clerk came and locked up the front door, smiling tiredly at Desiree. The first clerk finally came back, a stack of rubber-banded letters in her hand. "I'm sorry love, but all we can do is send a CyberCorpsman home, if they request it. Can't send kin out. We'll try to get a message to him. I did find these, though." She plopped the letters on the counter. They were from Morgan. They'd all been opened. "Arrived postage due, wouldn't you know. We've been so backlogged we haven't been able to contact you." Desiree barely controlled her trembling rage. She didn't know who to direct it to. The CyberCorps for being so callous, or Morgan for not putting the right damn postage on them. "How much do I owe?" She let out a ragged breath. "Hmmmm, looks like a dollar forty-four." Desiree, steaming, gave her a $10 note, a "blue swimmer," and told her to keep the change. Inflation had rendered it about enough to buy a Hershey's bar. Desiree had another go at getting a ticket to Boston. Another polite rebuff. Desiree's face reddened. The soldier in question had to request the bereavement leave. She took three deep breaths. And she knew what might work. Bartering. "Is your boss here?" The woman looked irritated, but fetched a Major Stearns. "Ms.—" he looked at a sheet of paper on a clipboard. "Ms. Hyland, is it? I'm very sorry we can't—" Desiree beckoned him out from behind the counter to a small table in the corner, normally used by draftees to fill out the induction papers. She lowered her voice. "How'd you like to make Lt. Colonel?" she asked. "You'd like to look good to your bosses, right?" She looked in his eyes. Yes, hidden under that paper shuffling exterior was a hungry wolf. "What are you suggesting?" "Dieter Axton." He shook his head. "Dieter Axton?" "I can give you a draft dodging programmer for you to arrest. Or drug smuggler, your choice." She shrugged. "You can play the hero." Damn Axton. Her husband had to leave, why not this scumbag? "Hmm. And all you want in exchange is passage to Boston?" "That's it. Heckuva deal, isn't it?" She stood to go. Play hard to get. "Think about it." She made it to the door. "I've thought about it..." Within six hours and two tearful goodbyes with Matty, she was on a commandeered QANTAS Airbus to Sydney as CyberCorps recruit Deborah Hyatt, destination Sydney, Los Angeles, Boston. Stearns had suggested she destroy the orders as soon as she landed in Boston, lest she end up actually inducted. Piece of cake. She sat back and listened to the thrum of the engines. No cocktails, no peanuts, and only last year's in-flight magazine, but the night sky was clear and the plane mostly empty. She flicked on the overhead reading light. "Dearest dearest Desiree," began Morgan's first letter. "You'll never believe what happened. I landed in what I thought was Boston, but it turns out I'm in _______." The CyberCorps censors had cut the word out. Desiree tossed the sheaf of papers in the air. "Fuck!" She gathered the papers together again, sorted them into order. You can do this Desiree. You'll figure out where ____ is when you land in LA. You can rent a fucking car and drive to Boston, or wherever. Just get to LA. She continued reading, looking for clues. The censors had left in "Damn, is it cold here," so she knew she could at least rule out half the country. The warm half, unfortunately. But here was a gem. "If anything happens to me, contact Nate Zamora in Agate, Colorado, or his people there. He's got some kind of survivalist farmhouse there." And a phone number. Perhaps—she dared not hope someone there would know where ____ was. The last letter was dated February 16th. She read them all several times, terribly missing Morgan's comforting arms around her. The emptiness of the plane made her shiver. Once in LA she pushed past a crowd trying to emigrate to Hawaii, where, they claimed loudly, they had all services restored. Armed guards resisted their pressure and let Desiree slip though. The LA Times headline read, "Coal Shortage End in Sight? Rolling blackouts may end by June." No wonder they wanted to emigrate. Desiree found a phone booth in the otherwise deserted terminal and called the Colorado number in Morgan's letter. It rang! A funny, grainy, old fashioned sounding ring, but a ring! But just rang. And rang. Desiree was poised to hang up when it answered. "Hello?" said a male voice. Breathless, she asked, "Is this—" But the line went very dead.


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