"c332" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

11:48 A.M., Tuesday, March 14, 2000
Near Halifax, Nova Scotia

Snow covered woodlands blurred by the window. Desiree kept her eyes on the road, trying not to get hypnotized. Nate slept in the back of the Land Rover. Ten more minutes till it was his turn. Desiree hadn't really contemplated what it meant to drive 3500 more miles on top of the 2000 she'd driven from LA to Denver. Every muscle hurt. Worse, her brain hurt. She hadn't been the best conversationalist with Nate on this trip. Clearly the guy was hurting from being dumped by his girlfriend. God, he jabbered on about it the whole time they were both awake, whether he was driving or riding. She felt bad she'd moped the whole way here. She normally enjoyed talking; though perhaps not as much as Matty. Yet this drive had been torture. Nothing to look at but plains, woods, and crappy small towns like the one she'd grown up in. Nowhere to hide from thinking about Morgan. She seethed the first thousand miles. Nearly bit Nate's head off. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd stopped at a cow barrier in North Dakota and told her to get the hell out. That level of anger was hard to sustain when all you can do is think about it. She hadn't thought about red hot pokers in Morgan's eyes for nearly a thousand miles now. Oh, crap, now she was started on it again. It was bad enough she thought she'd killed Jeremy; but for Morgan to have done it all because of some stupid— No, she didn't know that. She wouldn't know until she looked him in the eyes. She thought for the hundredth time that she better get rid of that gun in her purse before she saw Morgan. And then there were the miles where she did nothing but cry. Only when Nate was asleep in the back. Grief was a personal thing, not to be displayed. So when he was awake, and she wasn't fuming, and she refused to drown in a river of public tears, she simply turned away from him and either drove, or stared at the passing cows. All because of stupid computers. It would be just fine with her if nobody used the god-forsaken things again. Terrific. Maybe this whole thing was the gods way of ensuring humans didn't get bigger than their britches. The war, as terrible as it was to be at war, was bringing people together. She could tell which towns had heard the country was at war with Iraq and which hadn't. Whereas days ago, driving from LA to Denver, she'd been refused stays at roadside hotels, because they lacked power—or more likely because they were only available to someone with barterables—now she and Nate were more often welcomed. "Terrible, this war, isn't it?" mom of a mom & pop might say, but with a reassurance in their voices that, of course, we would win. Or, the night they were stranded by a blizzard by Lake Sakakawea. "Oh, you're soldiers! There's a spot by the wood stove, if you don't mind a sleeping bag. For the war effort, you know." People were happy with an identifiable enemy they could fight, not something ethereal like a date or software. A corner had been turned, a goal in sight. When they stopped for food, satellite TV showed bright infrared flashes of cruise missiles blowing up targets in Iraq, American flags burning, Brent Sadler reporting live for CNN. There was talk of sending in ground troops, of getting rid of Saddam Hussein once and for all. People nodded approvingly. As her father had always said, a little war was good for the country. But deep thoughts were like gravity wells; her mind kept falling back into the hole of what to say to Morgan. On a rational level she knew life would go on, losing a child wasn't the end of the world, just as The Chaos hadn't been the end of the world. They could rebuild. But she was keenly aware her subconscious was in actual control. It could be overridden given time for enough thought; but it often acted on impulse. Having the gun in her purse seemed, consciously, like a terrible idea now. She wasn't sure she had the strength to throw it away. A sign indicated the Halifax Citadel was ahead. Desiree pulled off into a parking lot and roused Nate. "We're there. I think. Anyway, it's your shift." While they were stopped, she willed herself to throw away the gun. Couldn't do it. She settled instead on burying it deep in her tote bag of clothes and necessities. Her apprehension reached olympic heights as Nate drove over the bridge at the end of North street. Her chest felt constricted. Her breath rapid. Her brain numb. Everything looked stark and cheerless. Then they were at the base's check-in post. Morgan was only a few feet away on the opposite side of the chain link fence. From there the events were a blur—CyberCorps MPs surrounded the car with drawn guns and arrested them both faster than she could blink. She was escorted before a parade of people, MPs, local police, doctors, nurses, a psychiatrist because she'd become nearly hysterical saying she couldn't hold herself together any longer; then after a sedative, she did the tour of base command people from lieutenants on up the chain, then down again, finally to Morgan's superior officer, Sam. The crushing news sank in. Morgan wasn't here. Nobody knew when he would return. Desiree couldn't remember exactly what came next. Hours ran together; hours of explaining, detailing, repeating. Hours of pleading, begging, demanding. At some point she'd been released and told there were no charges against her. She must have eaten something, at least a dinner if not lunch as well. She had no memory of it. Only of a huge hole in her heart where Jeremy belonged. Morgan had become some kind of distant, unattainable object, a holy grail. And the gun; she remembered trying never to look at her tote bag, for fear they'd search it. Somewhere she'd slept, or at least tossed and turned in the dark. She thought another day or two passed, but days had been cheap recently. Maybe it was three. She'd quit keeping track. Which was the day she'd talked at length with Sam? Sam was a nice man. This morning she remembered slightly better. A cup of coffee for breakfast stood out. She knew she was acting bewildered, but she was locked away in her brain, a bystander. Somewhere along the line she'd come to be here, on this plane, heading for Washington, D.C. She must have said something pretty amazing, since next to her was Nate.

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Chapter 33.2

11:48 A.M., Tuesday, March 14, 2000
Near Halifax, Nova Scotia

Snow covered woodlands blurred by the window. Desiree kept her eyes on the road, trying not to get hypnotized. Nate slept in the back of the Land Rover. Ten more minutes till it was his turn. Desiree hadn't really contemplated what it meant to drive 3500 more miles on top of the 2000 she'd driven from LA to Denver. Every muscle hurt. Worse, her brain hurt. She hadn't been the best conversationalist with Nate on this trip. Clearly the guy was hurting from being dumped by his girlfriend. God, he jabbered on about it the whole time they were both awake, whether he was driving or riding. She felt bad she'd moped the whole way here. She normally enjoyed talking; though perhaps not as much as Matty. Yet this drive had been torture. Nothing to look at but plains, woods, and crappy small towns like the one she'd grown up in. Nowhere to hide from thinking about Morgan. She seethed the first thousand miles. Nearly bit Nate's head off. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd stopped at a cow barrier in North Dakota and told her to get the hell out. That level of anger was hard to sustain when all you can do is think about it. She hadn't thought about red hot pokers in Morgan's eyes for nearly a thousand miles now. Oh, crap, now she was started on it again. It was bad enough she thought she'd killed Jeremy; but for Morgan to have done it all because of some stupid— No, she didn't know that. She wouldn't know until she looked him in the eyes. She thought for the hundredth time that she better get rid of that gun in her purse before she saw Morgan. And then there were the miles where she did nothing but cry. Only when Nate was asleep in the back. Grief was a personal thing, not to be displayed. So when he was awake, and she wasn't fuming, and she refused to drown in a river of public tears, she simply turned away from him and either drove, or stared at the passing cows. All because of stupid computers. It would be just fine with her if nobody used the god-forsaken things again. Terrific. Maybe this whole thing was the gods way of ensuring humans didn't get bigger than their britches. The war, as terrible as it was to be at war, was bringing people together. She could tell which towns had heard the country was at war with Iraq and which hadn't. Whereas days ago, driving from LA to Denver, she'd been refused stays at roadside hotels, because they lacked power—or more likely because they were only available to someone with barterables—now she and Nate were more often welcomed. "Terrible, this war, isn't it?" mom of a mom & pop might say, but with a reassurance in their voices that, of course, we would win. Or, the night they were stranded by a blizzard by Lake Sakakawea. "Oh, you're soldiers! There's a spot by the wood stove, if you don't mind a sleeping bag. For the war effort, you know." People were happy with an identifiable enemy they could fight, not something ethereal like a date or software. A corner had been turned, a goal in sight. When they stopped for food, satellite TV showed bright infrared flashes of cruise missiles blowing up targets in Iraq, American flags burning, Brent Sadler reporting live for CNN. There was talk of sending in ground troops, of getting rid of Saddam Hussein once and for all. People nodded approvingly. As her father had always said, a little war was good for the country. But deep thoughts were like gravity wells; her mind kept falling back into the hole of what to say to Morgan. On a rational level she knew life would go on, losing a child wasn't the end of the world, just as The Chaos hadn't been the end of the world. They could rebuild. But she was keenly aware her subconscious was in actual control. It could be overridden given time for enough thought; but it often acted on impulse. Having the gun in her purse seemed, consciously, like a terrible idea now. She wasn't sure she had the strength to throw it away. A sign indicated the Halifax Citadel was ahead. Desiree pulled off into a parking lot and roused Nate. "We're there. I think. Anyway, it's your shift." While they were stopped, she willed herself to throw away the gun. Couldn't do it. She settled instead on burying it deep in her tote bag of clothes and necessities. Her apprehension reached olympic heights as Nate drove over the bridge at the end of North street. Her chest felt constricted. Her breath rapid. Her brain numb. Everything looked stark and cheerless. Then they were at the base's check-in post. Morgan was only a few feet away on the opposite side of the chain link fence. From there the events were a blur—CyberCorps MPs surrounded the car with drawn guns and arrested them both faster than she could blink. She was escorted before a parade of people, MPs, local police, doctors, nurses, a psychiatrist because she'd become nearly hysterical saying she couldn't hold herself together any longer; then after a sedative, she did the tour of base command people from lieutenants on up the chain, then down again, finally to Morgan's superior officer, Sam. The crushing news sank in. Morgan wasn't here. Nobody knew when he would return. Desiree couldn't remember exactly what came next. Hours ran together; hours of explaining, detailing, repeating. Hours of pleading, begging, demanding. At some point she'd been released and told there were no charges against her. She must have eaten something, at least a dinner if not lunch as well. She had no memory of it. Only of a huge hole in her heart where Jeremy belonged. Morgan had become some kind of distant, unattainable object, a holy grail. And the gun; she remembered trying never to look at her tote bag, for fear they'd search it. Somewhere she'd slept, or at least tossed and turned in the dark. She thought another day or two passed, but days had been cheap recently. Maybe it was three. She'd quit keeping track. Which was the day she'd talked at length with Sam? Sam was a nice man. This morning she remembered slightly better. A cup of coffee for breakfast stood out. She knew she was acting bewildered, but she was locked away in her brain, a bystander. Somewhere along the line she'd come to be here, on this plane, heading for Washington, D.C. She must have said something pretty amazing, since next to her was Nate.


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