Forever Peace (18 page)

The psychiatrist smiled. "Okay, that's not a bad response. But you have to see that it could be a calculated one, from a potential suicide."

"Sure. Anything I say can be evidence of mental illness. If you're convinced that I'm ill."

He studied his own palm. "Look, Julian. You know I've jacked into the cube that recorded how you felt when you killed that boy. In a way, I've been there. I've been you."

"I know that."

He put Julian's file away and brought out a small white jar of pills. "This is a mild antidepressant. Let's try it for two weeks, a pill after breakfast and one after dinner. It won't affect your intellectual abilities."

"All right."

"And I want to see you"—he checked a desk calendar—"at ten o'clock on July ninth. I want to jack with you and check your responses to this and that. It'll be a two-way jack; I won't hold anything back from you."

"And if you think I'm nuts, you'll send me to the memory eraser."

"We'll see. That's all I can say."

Julian nodded and took the white jar and left.

I WOULD LIE TO Amelia; say it was just a routine checkup. I took one of the pills and it did help me fall asleep, and sleep without dreams. So maybe I would keep taking them if they didn't affect my mental acuity.

In the morning I felt less sad and conducted an internal debate regarding suicide, perhaps in preparation for Dr. Jefferson's invasion. I couldn't lie to him, jacked. But maybe I could bring about a temporary "cure." It was easy to argue against the act—not only the effect on Amelia and my parents and friends, but also the ultimate triviality of the gesture, as far as the army was concerned. They would just find somebody else my size and send the soldierboy out with a fresh brain. If I did succeed in killing a few generals with my exit, they would likewise just promote some colonels. There's never any shortage of meat.

But I wondered whether all the logical arguments against suicide would do anything to conceal the depth of my own resolution. Even before the boy's death I knew I was only going to live as long as I had Amelia. We've stayed together longer than most people do.

And when I came home, she was gone. Gone to see a friend in Washington, the note said. I called the base and found I could fly out to Edwards as a supernumerary if I could get my butt down there in ninety minutes. I was in the air over the Mississippi before I realized I hadn't called the lab to arrange for someone else to monitor the scheduled runs. Was that the pills? Probably not.

But there was no way to call from a military plane, so it was ten o'clock Texas time before I was able to phone the lab. Jean Gordie had covered for me, but that was pure luck; she'd come in to grade some papers, seen I wasn't in, and checked the run schedule. She was more than slightly pissed off, since I couldn't offer a really convincing excuse. Look, I had to take the first flight to Washington to decide whether or not to kill myself.

From Edwards I took the monorail into old Union Station. There was a map machine on the car that showed me I'd be only a couple of miles from her friend's address. I was tempted to walk over and knock on the door, but decided to be civilized and call. A man answered.

"I have to talk to Blaze."

He looked at the screen for a moment. "Oh, you're Julian. Just a moment."

Amelia came on, looking quizzical. "Julian? I said I'd be home tomorrow."

"We have to talk. I'm here in Washington."

"Come on over then. I was just about to fix lunch."

How domestic. "I'd rather... we have to talk alone."

She looked offscreen and then back, worried. "Where are you?"

"Union Station."

The man said something I couldn't quite overhear. "Pete says there's a bar on the second floor called the Roundhouse. I can meet you there in thirty or forty minutes."

"Go ahead and finish lunch," I said. "I can —"

"No. I'll be down as fast as I can."

"Thanks, darling." I thumbed off and looked into the mirror of the screen. Despite the night's sleep, I still looked pretty haggard. I should've shaved and changed out of my uniform.

I ducked into a men's room for a quick shave and comb and then walked down to the second floor. Union Station was a transportation hub, but also a museum of rail technology. I walked by some subways of the previous century, with their makeshift bulletproofing all pitted and dented. Then a steam-powered locomotive from the nineteenth that actually looked to be in better shape.

Amelia was waiting at the door to the bar. "I took a cab," she explained as we embraced.

She steered me into the gloom and odd music of the bar. "So who's this Pete? A friend, you said?"

"He's Peter Blankenship." I shook my head. The name was vaguely familiar. "The cosmologist." A serving robot took our iced tea orders and said we had to spend ten dollars to take the booth. I got a glass of whiskey.

"So you're old friends."

"No, we just met. I wanted to keep our meeting secret."

We took our drinks to an empty booth and sat down. She looked intense. "Let me try to—"

"I killed somebody."

"What?"

"I killed a boy, a civilian. Shot him with my soldier-boy."

"But how could you? I thought you weren't even supposed to kill soldiers."

"It was an accident."

"What, you stepped on him or something?"

"No, it was the laser —"

"You 'accidentally' shot him with a laser?"

"A bullet. I was aiming for his knees."

"An unarmed civilian?"

"He was armed—it was him with the laser! It was a madhouse, a mob out of control. We were ordered to shoot anyone with a weapon."

"But he couldn't have hurt you. Just your machine."

"He was shooting wildly," I lied; half-lied. "He could have killed dozens himself."

"You couldn't have shot for the weapon he was using?"

"No, it was a heavy-duty Nipponex. They have Ablar, a bulletproof and antispalling coating. Look, I aimed for his knees, then somebody jostled him from behind. He pitched forward and the bullet hit him in the chest."

"So it was sort of an industrial accident. He shouldn't have been playing with the big boys' toys."

"If you want to put it that way."

"How would you put it? You pulled the trigger."

"This is crazy. You don't know about Liberia yesterday?"

"Africa? We've been too busy—"

"There's a Liberia in Costa Rica."

"I see. That's where the boy was."

"And a thousand others. Also past tense." I took a long drink of whiskey and coughed. "Some extremists killed a couple of hundred children, and made it look like we'd been responsible. That was horrible enough. Then a mob attacked us, and ... and ... the riot control measures backfired. They're supposed to be benign, but they caused the death of hundreds more, trampled. Then they started shooting, shooting their own people. So we, we..."

"Oh, my God. I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "You need real support, and here I come all edgy with fatigue and preoccupied. You poor... have you been to a counselor?"

"Yeah. He was a big help." I plucked an ice cube from the tea and dropped it in the whiskey. "He said I'd get over it."

"Will you?"

"Sure. He gave me some pills."

"Well, be careful with the pills and the booze."

"Yes, doctor." I took a cool sip.

"Seriously. I'm worried."

"Yeah, me too." Worried, wearied. "So what are you and this Pete doing?"

"But you—"

"Let's just change the subject. What did he want you for?"

"Jupiter. He's challenging some basic cosmological assumptions."

"Then why you? Probably everyone from Macro on down knows more about cosmology—hell, I probably do."

"I'm sure you do. But that's why he chose me—everyone senior to me was in on the planning stages of the Project, and they have this consensus about... certain aspects of it."

"What aspects?"

"I can't tell you."

"Oh, come on."

She touched her tea but didn't drink it; looked into it. "Because you can't really keep a secret. All your platoon would know as soon as you jacked."

"They wouldn't know shit. Nobody else in that platoon can tell a Hamiltonian from a hamburger. Anything technical, they might pick up on my emotional reaction, but that's it. No technical details; they might as well be in Greek."

"Your emotional reaction is what I'm talking about. I can't say any more. Don't ask me."

"Okay. Okay." I took another drink of whiskey and pushed the order button. "Let's get something to eat." She asked it for a salmon sandwich and I got a hamburger and another whiskey, a double.

"So you're total strangers. Never met before."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Only what I asked."

"I met him maybe fifteen years ago, at a colloquium in Denver. If you must know, that's when I was living with Marty. He went to Denver and I tagged along."

"Ah." I finished the first whiskey.

"Julian. Don't be upset about that. There's nothing going on. He's old and fat and more neurotic than you."

"Thanks. So you'll be home, when?"

"I have to teach tomorrow. So I'll be home by morning. Then come back here Wednesday if we still have work to do."

"I see."

"Look, don't tell anyone, especially Macro, that I'm here."

"He'd be jealous?"

"What is this with jealousy? I told you there's nothing ..." She slumped back. "It's just that Peter's been in fights with him, in Physics Review Letters. I may be in a position where I have to defend Peter against my own boss."

"Great career move."

"This is bigger than career. It's ... well, I can't tell you."

"Because I'm so neurotic."

"No. That's not it. That's not it at all. I just—" Our order rolled up to the booth and she wrapped the sandwich in a napkin and stood. "Look, I'm under more pressure than you know. Will you be all right? I have to get back."

"Sure. I understand about work."

"This is more than just work. You'll forgive me later." She slid out of the booth and gave me a long kiss. Her eyes were wet with tears. "We have to talk more about that boy. And the rest of it. Meanwhile, take the pills; take it easy." I watched her hurry out.

The hamburger smelled good but it tasted like dead meat. I took a bite but couldn't swallow it. I transferred the mouthful to a napkin, discreetly, and drank up the double in three quick swallows. Then I buzzed for another, but the table said it couldn't serve me alcohol for another hour.

I took the tube to the airport and had drinks in two places, waiting for the flight back home. A drink on the plane and a sour nap in the cab.

When I got home I found a half-bottle of vodka and poured it over a large mug of ice cubes. I stirred it until the mug was good and frosty. Then I emptied out the bottle of pills and pushed them into seven piles of five each.

I was able to swallow six of the piles, one mouthful of icy vodka apiece. Before I swallowed the seventh, I realized I should write a note. I owed Amelia that much. But I tried to stand up to find some paper and my legs wouldn't obey; they were just lumps. I considered that for awhile and decided to just take the rest of the pills, but I could only make my arm swing like a pendulum. I couldn't focus on the pills, anyhow. I leaned back and it was peaceful, loose, like floating in space. It occurred to me that this was the last thing I would ever feel, and that was all right. It was a lot better than going after all those generals.

AMELIA SMELLED URINE WHEN she unlocked the door eight hours later. She ran from room to room and finally found him in the reading alcove, slumped sideways in her favorite chair, the last neat pile of five pills in front of him, along with the empty prescription vial and half a large glass of warm watered vodka.

Sobbing, she felt his neck for a pulse and thought maybe there was a slight thread. She slapped him twice, hysterically hard, and he didn't respond.

She called 9-1-1 and they said all units were out; it might be an hour. So she switched to the campus emergency room and described the situation and said she was bringing him in. Then she called a cab.

She heaved him out of the chair and tried to pick him up under the arms, staggering back out of the alcove. She wasn't strong enough to carry him that way, though, and she wound up dragging him ignominiously by the feet through the apartment. Backing out through the door, she almost ran into a large male student, who helped her carry him to the cab and went along with her to the hospital, asking questions that she answered in monosyllables.

He wasn't necessary at that end, it turned out; there were two orderlies and a doctor waiting at the ER entrance. They swung him up onto a gurney and a doctor gave him two shots, one in the arm and one in the chest. When he got the chest one, Julian groaned and trembled, and his eyes opened but showed only whites. The doctor said that was a good response. It might be a day before they knew whether he would recover; she could wait here or go home.

She did both. She took a cab with the helpful student back to the apartment building, picked up the notes and papers for her next class, and returned to the hospital.

There was nobody else in the waiting room. She got a cup of coffee from the machine and sat at the end of a couch.

The papers were all graded. She looked at her lecture notes but couldn't concentrate on them. It would have been hard to go through the teaching routine even if she had come home to a normal Julian. If Peter was right, and she was sure he was, the Jupiter Project was over. It had to be shut down. Eleven years, most of her career as a particle physicist, down the drain.

And now this, this strangely reciprocal crisis. A few months ago he had sat this deathwatch for her, brain-deathwatch. But she had caused both of them. If she had been able to put the work with Peter aside—put her career aside—and give him the kind of loving support that he needed to work through his guilt and anguish, he wouldn't have wound up here.

Or maybe he would. But it wouldn't have been her fault.

A black man in a colonel's uniform sat down next to her: His lime cologne cut through the hospital smell. After a moment he said, "You're Amelia."