Ultimate Thriller Box Set (16 page)

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Belgium answered. His Adam's apple wobbled up and down in his throat.

“I muuuuuust learn moooore.”

Belgium laughed, high pitched and near hysterical. “You're joking! You went through the entire website of the Encyclopedia Britannica in an hour and a half. You can process information faster than it loads.”

“Open the dooooor,”
Bub said.
“Let meeeee oooooout.”

“I don't think...”

“I’ll tell Raaaaace,”
Bub interrupted.

“What? Are you blackmailing me?”

“Fraaaaaank,”
Bub said softly, the trace of a purr in his voice.
“I need more tiiiiiime to seeeeequence my geeeeenome.”

Belgium said nothing.

“Don’t you want to leeeeave heeeere, Fraaaaank?”

Belgium pictured himself, in a boat on a lake, a rod in his hand, the sun in his eyes. He hadn't fished since he was in grade school, but right now it seemed like the most appealing thing in the world.

He hit the code to Bub's door. It rose pneumatically and the demon folded his wings and left his habitat for the second time that day. He squatted next to Dr. Belgium and gave him a pat on the head, which Frank recoiled from.

“Gooooood, Fraaaaaank.”
         

Frank ducked down, away from the hand. The claws grazed his scalp. It was like a hairbrush made of needles.

“You maaaay goooooo,”
Bub said, lumbering over to the Cray computer.

Belgium squatted and stayed put, watching as Bub hunched over his workstation. The keyboard was like a pocket calculator to Bub, the monitor must have been like looking at a digital watch. Belgium laughed. It reminded him of an old cartoon, where an elephant moved into a mouse's house, dwarfing everything to comic proportions.

Using the tip of his pinky claw, Bub accessed the ISP and began to surf the World Wide Web. Samhain's Internet connection was fiber-optic. The load times were instantaneous. Bub's hand became a blur, as did the monitor. It seemed impossible that Bub could be absorbing all of that information that fast, but Belgium knew that he was.

He tried to think of all the reasons this was bad. Why shouldn't Bub be allowed to learn about the world he was in? Think of the things he could teach us, the bridges he could gap, the mysteries he could solve. Bub could be the key to solving all of the world's problems; disease, hunger, war, death. Bub could create a utopia.

Or he could destroy everything.

But what would be the point in that? Bub had shown himself to be cooperative, and interested in humans. There would be no point in his using the world's knowledge for bad things.

Belgium laughed again, at the memory of the cartoon elephant drinking out of the mouse's tiny tea cup.

“This is all insane,” he said to himself.

Then he closed his eyes and imagined sitting on that boat, the sun warm on his face.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The alarm went off at 7:00 AM, but Race was already up. He hadn't slept much; it seemed that every time he got comfortable his mind woke him up, offering images of combat and war games.

Soon. Very soon.

He hopped out of bed and did a quick round of calisthenics, working his muscles, feeling the sweat and increased respiration, enjoying it more than usual. Healthy body, healthy mind. He finished and hit the shower.

He was tempted to wake everyone up, get this show on the road, but restraint was as important a leadership quality as action. Race dressed in some chinos and a green crew neck and left his room for the Mess Hall. He made a large bowl of pancake batter and added two cans of blueberries to it while a pat of butter melted on the skillet. Helen had taught him how to make pancakes, years ago. He'd always hoped one day she would teach him other dishes. That was becoming more of a possibility with every passing day.

He made six cakes for himself and ate them with honey. Then he made twenty more with the rest of the batter for whoever wanted them. The thought amused him; a Brigadier General making blueberry pancakes for his troops. Even more amusing; the Secretary of Defense making blueberry pancakes.

Race chuckled to himself. He put two more pancakes on his plate and put the rest in the refrigerator. He then poured a glass of milk, and took that and the plate out of the Mess Hall, through the Octopus, and into Yellow 1.

“Who are you?” his wife asked. “What am I doing here? Why am I tied to this bed? Are you a doctor?”

“I'm your husband, dear.”

He set the plate and glass on the nightstand and changed her diaper while fielding her usual questions. She had some diaper rash, and he applied ointment as she protested between sobs. Then he untethered her hands and helped her sit up.

“Oh Race, how did we get so old?” she cried.

He checked her for bed sores and found none; Harker was good at her job in that respect.

“Can you get up, sit at the table for breakfast?”

She sniffled and nodded. Race put his arm around her waist and walked with her to the small breakfast bar on the other side of the room. Her legs were wobbly things, incapable of supporting her fragile body without his help.

“Remember how we used to cut the rug?” Race said, grinning.

Her teary eyes shone for a moment.

“You were quite the dancer,” Helen said.

“You too. I was the envy of every CO on the base with a pretty thing like you at my side.”

He sat her in a chair and fetched the pancakes and milk.

“Blueberry pancakes,” Helen said. “Just like I make.”

He helped her cut them up and she tried to feed herself until the chorea hit, her arm knocking the plate across the table. Race held her until it passed, then gave her some milk.

“Dr. Harker mentioned that Bub was speaking,” Helen said.

This startled Race. Helen usually couldn't remember anything that happened within the last forty years.

“He is. I'm going to run the Roosevelt Book by him today.”

“Then we can go home,” Helen said.

Race's eyes welled up. He'd put up so many emotional defenses over the years it was rare when something slipped through.

“Yes, my love. Then we can go home.”

Helen gave him a small kiss on the lips.

“Walk me back to bed, dear. I think I'll watch some television.”

Race carried her back to bed and retied her arms. The television remote control was bolted to the frame under her right hand. He pressed the power button for her. Helen flipped channels until she found a game show, and Race kissed her forehead and left with the plate and glass. He found Father Thrist in the Octopus, typing away on a computer.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, General. Today is the big day.”

“It is. Hopefully I'll get all of it done. It depends how talkative he is.”

“Yes. I would also like some time with Bub. When you've finished, of course. The President has granted me that.”

“Of course, Father. You can sit in on my interrogation as well.”

Thrist nodded and turned back to his terminal. Race returned to his room, Blue 1, and picked up his phone. He hit the intercom code and spoke into the receiver.

“Good morning, there are blueberry pancakes in the fridge in limited supply, first come first serve. I would like everyone to meet in the Mess Hall by o-nine hundred hours. Today is the big day.”

He hung up the phone and forced himself to concentrate. His focus should have been on the game, but his mind was already on the victory party. First would be a briefing with the President, of course. Before he accepted any appointments, Race wanted to take a vacation. See how much his country had changed over the last four decades. If things went according to his plan, Helen could accompany him. She always wanted to go to Hollywood. How could he say no?

The President would undoubtedly also want his input on the future of Samhain. Depending on the answers Race got from Bub, there were three possible venues to take. Keep Bub a secret and let the project continue, end the project and go public, or end the project and terminate Bub. Samhain was home to Race, but it was a foster home, and he wouldn't miss it in the least. Race would help train his replacement, or he would talk with reporters, or he would push the buttons in Yellow 4 that would detonate Bub's implanted explosives. Whatever the President wanted, Race didn't care. It wasn't a soldier's job to care. But a forty-year tour was long enough. Race wanted out.

He picked up the Roosevelt Book from the dresser and tucked it in his armpit. When he arrived at the Mess Hall Andy and Sun were already there, digging into his pancakes.

“Good morning,” Race beamed. “How's the grub?”

“Good, thanks,” Andy said.

Sun nodded her approval; she was chewing. Race noted their close proximity to each other, one that implied intimacy, and thought of how times had changed. Race had dated Helen for six weeks before even getting a kiss. These two had known each other for two days and it was apparent they had something going on.

“How's our permanent resident?” Race asked. “Is he ready to be questioned?”

“He had breakfast earlier,” Sun said. “He's talking up a storm.”

Andy agreed. “His grasp of language is remarkable. It's as if he's been speaking it his whole life. By the time we were done with him last night, his English was better than mine.”

“Great. We'll begin after everyone has breakfast. Good morning, Frank.”

Dr. Belgium entered Green 2 wearing the rumpled lab coat he'd had on the night before. His face was stubbly and the bags under his eyes were large enough to pack.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

“You look like hell, Doctor. Do you feel okay?”

“Headache. Didn't sleep well.”

“Let Dr. Harker take a look at you later,” Race said. “Good morning, Rabbi.”

“Shalom,” Rabbi Shotzen said. He sat down at the table. “So the demon is speaking English, yes?”

“Like a native,” Andy said.

“And everyone thinks he learned an entire language overnight? No one is suspicious that he may have known English all along and has been feigning ignorance?”

“Have some pancakes, Rabbi,” Race gave the holy man a pat on the back.

“Thank you, General, I will. You used the kashered cast iron skillet, yes? Good. Remember; we must take everything the demon says with two grains of salt. Bub may not be a fallen angel, but he's imitating one, and all of hell's angels lie. Now if someone could pass me a plate maybe?”

Father Thrist came in next, and Race noted that he and Shotzen avoided one another. Thrist waved off on the pancakes and opted for black coffee instead. Dr. Harker was the last to arrive. Race wished her a good morning, and suggested she examine Dr. Belgium after breakfast. Harker grunted acknowledgment, and instead of pancakes she made herself some buttered toast.

Quite a dysfunctional little family,
Race thought. It had always been like that, in its many incarnations dating back to 1968. Not like the Army. On the battlefield, men were close-knit with strong bonds. It came from functioning as a unit, rather than as individuals. The dozens of specialists that have lived at Samhain since its inception had never been like that. This motley bunch would last two minutes in combat. Good thing it would never have to be proven.

“If everyone is ready, I'd like to lay down some ground rules,” Race said.

All eyes were on him. He stood up to project better.

“I'm sure we all have things to ask Bub, and everyone will get private time with him, I promise. But the first order of business is to get all of the questions in this book answered. If we go off on tangents, it'll take forever. We need to stay focused. I'm not going to ask you all to zip your lips, but I am asking for the extraneous questions to be kept to the barest minimum. I also ask that we remain united in our opinion. I've done interrogations before, and group numbers give us the psychological advantage. But if there's dissension, Bub could possibly play on that.”

“What is our opinion, General?” Father Thrist asked.

“We haven't formed one yet. But we can't have any in-group bickering in front of Bub. Dr. Belgium, is the video operational?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes yes yes. I just put in a new DVD-R a little bit ago. It’s good for six hours.”

“Good. Remember people, we're going into this treating Bub as a source of information. He's like a gold vein that we are trying to dig up. Personal opinions, preconceptions, whether you think he's the Antichrist or just a nice guy... file it all away. Our object is to get these questions answered.”

“What if we figure out the demon is lying?” Rabbi Shotzen said.

“If Bub appears to be lying, or intentionally evasive, we'll have to regroup and approach the situation differently. But please let me be the judge of that. Any other questions?”

There were none. Race made eye contact with each member of the group, to make sure he was understood on all counts.

“Okay,” he said, grinning broadly. “Let's go rattle the gates of hell.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“The gang’s all heeeeeeere.”
Bub grinned his horrible grin. 

No one laughed. Andy couldn’t speak for the rest of the group, but he was very much awed by Bub. Not only by the demon’s physical presence—which was substantial—or his apparent powers over the dead, but how quickly he learned. Bub mastered English in just a day, to the point where he was comfortable making jokes. That kind of genius, and all it implied, almost made the linguist speechless.

“We have questions, Bub,” Race said. “Questions we've been waiting a very long time to have answered.”

“You may aaaaaask,”
Bub said.

He squatted on his haunches in front of the Plexiglas, to the right of the large blood stain the headless sheep had made the previous day. It had turned brown and begun to flake. Andy tried not to look at it.

Race sat in a chair facing Bub. The rest of the group formed a semicircle behind him. Andy sat next to Sun, the holies were on opposite ends, Dr. Harker sat way in the back, and Dr. Belgium stood, pacing back and forth like he was the one in the cage.