Independence Day: Crucible (The Official Prequel) (35 page)

In a way, that no longer mattered.

He tried to fix an image in his mind of his father, years ago, before the aliens came. He had been stern, fiercely proud of his name and lineage, a strong leader who demanded respect. There was—in those days—more to him than that. He was a man who believed that his obligation to his people was greater than theirs to him, that a ruler’s courage could be measured by the burden he was willing to bear, rather than how much he could make his people do. He was a man who loved his children, the father who wanted his boys to grow to be strong and wise.

His father was still those things, but they had all been bent into strange and terrible shapes. Some part of Dikembe had always believed his father would get better, become at least something of the man he had been. In the space of what Dikembe experienced and what he dreamed of—that was where anger lived, where it transfigured into hatred.

Dikembe did not want to die hating his father, as much as he detested what the old man had become.

The empty road took him on toward what he could only think of as his destiny—a concept he had once rejected. As a young man he had believed he had free will, could do anything he wanted, walk any path he saw,
make
the path. Now, at last, he understood it wasn’t so.

Perhaps it was surrender to that that made his steps so light.

As the compound came in sight, an odd thing began to happen. People began emerging from trails and side roads onto the highway. At first just a few, but then their numbers grew, and he realized that many more were arriving from behind him. He recognized many from Zuberi’s village. They were mostly women and children, although he made out a few elders in the growing crowd. They surrounded him, some singing, most looking terrified.

“What is this?” Dikembe finally asked. In his mind’s eye he saw messengers from Zuberi’s village—on foot, on bicycles—spreading out through the countryside, telling of Prince Dikembe’s mad march toward the executioner.

“My prince,” one boy said. “We do not intend that you should die. We will go with you.”

The boy’s words filled him with an almost unbearable pride for his people. The land seemed almost to swell beneath his feet. He gazed around at the faces, young and old, and he loved them all—began to understand how such love might drive a man to madness.

“Listen to me,” he said. “My father is not the man we once knew. He will not hesitate to order his men to attack you, and that I could not bear. Please, for my sake, return to your villages.”

A woman broke through the crowd, and he saw to his dismay that she was Eshe, Zuberi’s wife, followed by her children, and flanked by Mayele and Jelani.

“They are not his men,” Eshe declared, in a voice more carrying than he had known she possessed. “They are our husbands, our fathers, our sons. Our country has descended into madness and misery. There is no place left to go. If our men are willing to shoot us, what is the point of living on?”

The crowd stirred at her words. Some began to shout.

“You must not do this,” Dikembe said to Eshe. “I cannot have your deaths on my conscience. This road I must walk alone.”

“No,” Jelani said. “We will walk it with you, my prince. To the end.”

Off in the distance, the doors of the compound opened. A tank and several other vehicles appeared. He was out of time.

“Go,” he shouted at the crowd.

No one budged.

He sighed. “Any of you with arms,” he said, “put them down now. Please. We must not give them an excuse to open fire. Do not shout or carry on. Let me speak to him.”

His father stood up from the hatch of the tank, just as he had done in the final assault on the aliens. He wore the flayed exoskeletons of several aliens and a necklace made of their bones. His Home Guard surrounded the tank, marching on foot. In one of the two armored Humvees, Dikembe saw Zuberi. He did not appear to be armed.

The tank rumbled to a stop, and his father peered at him from behind dark sunglasses.

“These men around me,” he said, gesturing, “they believed you had gone away. Abandoned Umbutu.”

“That was my intent,” Dikembe said. “When your men pulled me out of the hole you put me in, they were not prepared for what I had become. Perhaps they expected a broken man. That they did not find—isn’t that true, my old ‘friend’?” He gestured toward Zuberi, at his bruised and swollen face.

“I am aware of Zuberi’s failure,” the old man said. “And I know why you came back. It is because you understand what you must do, just as Bakari did.”

“What did Bakari do, Father?” Dikembe asked.

“He joined his other half. He became whole.”

“My brother,” Dikembe said, “was killed by a stray bullet.”

“There are no stray bullets,” his father said. “There are no accidents, and chance is a phantom without substance. We all have a place and a purpose.”

“I remember a man who taught me that my place and purpose was in service to my people,” Dikembe said. “A man who taught that one should never place oneself above the needs of those he rules. Of the man who taught me these things, I no longer see any trace. I see instead a man caught up in the vision of his own greatness, his own importance. A man whose pride has eaten him and taken his shape. I see a man who has become what he once hated, and that is what these people around me see. Your people, Father. You loved them once.”

His father gazed at the mass of people behind Dikembe as if seeing them for the first time.

“See what you have done,” he said. “See what you have done.”

He motioned with his hand.

“Zuberi,” he said. “Come here.”

Zuberi didn’t hesitate. He climbed from his vehicle and walked over to the tank. Dikembe’s father handed Zuberi a handgun.

“Go to my son,” he said.

Zuberi crossed the few meters with measured strides.

“Zuberi!” Eshe cried from behind.

Zuberi’s expression was flat, hard to read.

“Give my son the gun,” Umbutu said.

Zuberi handed Dikembe the weapon and stepped to the side.

“What do you think?” his father said. “You believe you can kill me? It isn’t possible, you know—but perhaps I am wrong. Let me see, once and for all, what kind of son you are.”

The wide world seemed to shrink as Dikembe felt the grip of the gun in his hand, the weight of it. He chambered a round and raised the pistol. Several of the guards brought their weapons to ready.

“No, no,” Umbutu said to them, motioning them to lower their rifles. “Let him.”

Dikembe put his father in the sights.

Then his father took off his sunglasses, and Dikembe saw him—really saw him.

His eyes were pools of misery and madness—and hope. In that instant, Dikembe knew it wasn’t a trick of some kind. His father was pleading with him. This was something he hadn’t seen before.

Those who believed in
uchawi
were wrong. Madness was not a demon or a spell that entered a man from the outside. In his father’s eyes he saw it all—the man he had been, the man he could have been, the man he was. For each of those versions of his father, there was a sort of reflection of who he, Dikembe, had been, could have been, still might be.

For his father, there was no “still might be.”

Dikembe put his finger on the trigger. His hand was shaking. His father stared into the gun barrel, unflinching.

Dikembe lowered the gun and saw the disappointment in his father’s eyes, followed swiftly by anger.

“Again you fail me,” he said. “Zuberi, take the gun.”

Zuberi reached for it.

“Come along, old man,” Zuberi whispered. “Give it to me.”

Dikembe surrendered the weapon.

“You did your best,” Zuberi said, still under his breath. “There is no shame.”

“Zuberi,” the old man said. “Send my son to be reborn with his ancestors.”

* * *

Jake banked right, but Dylan was there, keeping him from passing. He couldn’t go over him—the next depth goal was too close.

As he counted it, four pilots were already out. He executed a dizzying series of banks, all the while glaring right at Dylan’s tail.

Where are the other two?

The flight officer answered his question a moment later.

“Lebos and Blankenship, you’re out. Hiller and Morrison—looks like it’s down to you two.”

“Okay, then,” Jake said. He pushed right up, but Dylan was flying as fast as the craft would go in Earth’s atmosphere—at this altitude, anyway.

“Why don’t you just give up, Morrison?” Dylan said. “You’ll never catch me. Number two’s gonna have to be good enough for you.”

It sounded like his usual banter, but in that instant Jake knew it wasn’t. As far as Dylan was concerned, there was no version of his world where Jake could beat him.

He was wrong.

Dylan was a good pilot, but he wasn’t as good as everyone thought he was. He was still coasting on his father’s reputation, and Jake had been forced to take that, all of these months, to settle for feeling like second place. Because, of course, the son of Steve Hiller had to be the best. It only made sense.

Jake could’ve made the shot in the moon run. He knew he could have. Dylan had used his rank to stop him. To keep him in his place.

But second
wasn’t
his place. Not this time.

The canyon took a turn, and a brief window opened up.

“We’ll see about that,” he told Dylan. “Passing on your left.”

“Negative, Morrison,” the flight officer cut in. “There’s not enough room.”

Jake saw how tight it was, but he knew he could make it.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I got this.” He pushed the stick a little further, and began pulling around before Dylan could get in his way.

“
Dammit
, Jake,” Dylan snapped. “I’m the ranking officer! What the hell are you—”

Dylan stopped in mid-sentence.

The next moment was a long one. The craft were so close to the same speed that it almost seemed as if they were standing still, but the canyon was a blur. Jake wondered why Dylan thought he could give him orders when they were in the middle of a free-for-all.

A reply formed on his lips—

—and something hit him.

Or, rather, he hit something. Dylan’s wing. His friend’s fighter spun, utterly out of control, but then Jake had to put everything he had into not crashing.

It was instinct more than anything else that kept him from slamming into the canyon wall. Over the radio, he heard Dylan shouting in what sounded like sheer panic, and he fought his own, banking hard.

“I’m going down!” Dylan yelped. “Eject, eject, eject—”

As Jake came around, he saw Dylan’s fighter explode against the canyon wall.

* * *

Zuberi raised the pistol and took a few steps back. Dikembe locked his gaze on him and prepared himself as best he could.

Then, suddenly the crowd moved to engulf him, form a wall around him, Eshe and her children among them.

“Didn’t you hear me, Zuberi?” Umbutu shouted. His Home Guard shouldered their rifles and took aim.

Zuberi took a step forward.

“No,” Dikembe said, pushing the hands away from him. “Back up, all of you. This must be as it must be.” He fought his way free and for a moment, faced with all of that firepower, they fell back. He was alone, in the open.

“Do it now, Zuberi,” he said. “Before they come again.”

Zuberi nodded. He raised the weapon.

Then he turned and shot Dikembe’s father, once, twice, three times. Dikembe saw the impacts on his uniform, but the final bullet went in just to the side of Umbutu’s nose.

There was a thunder of arms, and Zuberi staggered as bullets and plasma rays tore through his body. A few went beyond him, striking people in the crowd. Dikembe, horrified, started forward, and so did everyone else.

For a moment everything froze, and the only sounds were the whimpering and cries of the wounded.

Upanga Umbutu toppled from the tank, rolled down the side, and thudded unceremoniously to the ground. Dikembe took a step toward his father, but the Home Guard turned their weapons toward him.

Again his people surrounded him, and he felt their strength as his own. He saw Zuberi draw his last breath, as his wife and children ran to him.

He pointed his finger at the Home Guard.

“Put your weapons down,” he said. He saw the uncertainty in their eyes, and so he walked up to them. “Put them down and walk away,” he said. “Or will you murder what remains of your people in the service of a dead madman?”

The man he was nearest to dropped his weapon, and then, in a matter of seconds, they all did.

Dikembe went to his father then, but it was far too late. His father’s final words to him would always be,
Again you fail me
.

Jake showed up for the hearing in his class-A uniform, feeling very alone. No one seemed to want to look at him, much less talk to him.

Things were moving fast. Dylan’s crash was only a week in the past. Jake had been under house arrest during that time, not allowed any communication with anyone. He wished he could at least talk to Patricia and Charlie, to try to explain things, but he also wondered if it would do any good. Patricia wanted a low-key relationship, and right now, he was probably news.

The investigation had taken place immediately and internally, and the brass were working hard to minimize everything in the press. According to his counsel, they were likely to do one of two things—crucify him to make him an example, or try to quietly make him go away. Either way, even though there were several more training scenarios to go, he wasn’t going to be in them, and Legacy Squadron had gone from being within reach to utterly impossible.

He saw his judge advocate approaching—Second Lieutenant Dalton. He was a sandy-haired fellow with a weak chin, younger than Jake, and—if it was possible—seemed more nervous.

“Right this way, Lieutenant,” Dalton said.

Jake had expected a courtroom, but instead he was led into an office occupied by a single man—Lieutenant Colonel Mitchum.

“Sir,” Jake said.

Mitchum was in his late sixties, a compact man with piercing black eyes and a quick temper. Jake had made it his business to avoid the lieutenant colonel’s scrutiny until now—not always successfully.