Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Read online

  So got right to it; wide-eyed, unaffectedly enthusiastic as any other kid who'd just learned long-dead father possibly not: “Danni,” I demanded, “Teacher says you guys heard something about Daddy during your recon. Where is he? Who's got him?”

  Mentor regarded me thoughtfully before replying. Does that a lot. Depending upon circumstances, can generate sensations akin to those no doubt experienced by bird trying to stare down hungry snake.

  “We don't know that anyone's actually got him got him,” Danya began eventually; “at least at this point. While scouting Serdtsevina Rasovyi, the base outside their big shelter under the Urals, just north of the Russian/Kazakhstani border, I questioned a Khranitel who admitted to being part of the Bratstvo group who snatched Dr. Foster out of Washington just before they vaporized it.”

  Honest, Posterity, really tried to restrain self, but couldn't have held tongue at gunpoint: “So he is alive!”

  “He was alive then,” Danya corrected sympathically. “He didn't die when Washington did; we know that. He—”

  “Did your contact tell you where he is?” I pressed.

  Danni hesitated again; then: “You have to understand,” she temporized, “this was not a contact per se; not a friendly conversation with a helpful local. I made this man disappear from the base in the middle of the night.

  “And he was of course a Khranitel; by definition, a zealot. He did not wish to tell me anything. I had to...” paused again, obviously trying to choose words with care, “...encourage him...” Paused again, eyed me with detectible concern, then finished in rush, “—quite a lot.”

  Yet another pause. “And while I did want to hear more about Dr. Foster, my mission was to learn what I could about the Khraniteli's current military situation: strategy, assets, technology levels, agent deployment...”

  A final pause. “His mention of Dr. Foster occurred early in the questioning. About all this man told me was that they had taken your father back to Serdtsevina Rasovyi. In addition to housing their headquarters, that's where one of their larger, better-equipped laboratories is located.

  “The Khraniteli wanted to pick his brains. Apparently they've come up with the notion of using gene-engineering to try to develop a bug we hominems aren't immune to. They correctly surmise that, as probably the world's leading expert in combating biological warfare before the holocaust, today he's the only real expert in existence on how one goes about developing such microbes.

  “By the time I was certain I'd gotten everything from this fellow I could pertinent to my mission objectives, it was ... he was...” Danni trailed off tastefully, eyes averted.

  Nodded silently to convey understanding, hint of sympathy for unpleasant necessities. But behind otherwise carefully nonreacting expression, had difficulty not grinding teeth: Whenever so-called grownup topics (e.g., killing, torture, generic mayhem of any description) intrude upon discussions, adults—even Danni, despite ongoing special-ops training's patently lethal focus!—tend to walk on eggs in my presence; act as if somehow, despite short, blood-soaked history, am still vulnerable innocent, needing to be protected from realities of post-apocalypse life, death.

  Sweet little self-deceptions like this no doubt helpful to adults’ emotional well-being—but damned nuisancy for people who have things to do, places to go, people to rescue. Interferes with efficient information-gathering.

  Delays departure.

  So bit lip; maintained grateful, cheery smile; thanked her effusively. Finished shower; departed at apparent leisure.

  —And immediately set out to track down Wallace Griffin. Happily, found officially number one spook not in shower.

  ("Happily": Though for majority of younger hominems, skinny-dipping down at lovely little creek-fed pond between housing and airfield pretty much routine, Wallace not one of Teacher's actual AAs; not even of their generation; instead, one of those anomalous older H. post hominems who had emerged previously, differences unnoticed at the time by World at Large. Sweetly old-fashioned in so many ways; and, when too much skin involved, age/gender distinctions tend to distract, possibly even distress him.)

  Found head spook in office, door open, informally closeted with Peter Bell, de facto number two hominem after Teacher.

  Peter also (though don't think he knows this) subject of dearest leader's first delicate matchmaking suggestion for me.

  This, of course, prior to my meeting Adam: unrivaled electromechanical genius; world-class pianist; universe-class chef; amateur EMT (who has restarted my heart twice thus far); frighteningly intelligent; side-splittingly funny; ruggedly handsome (for someone who doesn't shave yet—still sticking to age-18 story [but, sh-h-h, early on I found birth certificate; boy really only 13]); and actually (when not crashing cars), world-class driver; pilot, too...

  Sorry, Posterity; yes, have been told I tend to digress.

  Like most fundamentally innocent, older hominem males, where Yours Truly is concerned, Wallace can't help himself: Unambiguously dotes upon very ground I tread.

  Usually I go out of my way not to, but this was special occasion: Took shameless advantage of slack grownups all cut me (cute little Selfless Savior of Our People, etc.) to interrupt intelmeister, pump dry: Gleaned everything he'd heard, deduced, divined about Daddy's purported/potential whereabouts. Got away with interrogating him in far greater depth than would have dared attempt with Danya. Even coaxed him into giving me copies of his, Danni's field reports.

  Thanked him; hugged ‘til eyes popped—

  Went straight home.

  Despite protests, dropped off Terry. Though would miss baby brother desperately, avians, even large ones (actually, especially larger ones), simply too fragile, too vulnerable to impact. Plus birds in general horribly susceptible to even faintest traces of airborne toxins. (Remember coal mine canaries?) Besides, exotic tropical species tend to be cold-sensitive, and nippy conditions definitely in travel forecast. Withal, unnecessary exposure to potentially fraught situations simply not rational.

  (Additionally, in Terry's case, way too loud for covert enemy stronghold infiltration, recon....)

  However, also had mission-specific reason (selfish sounds so negative): Leaving Terry home ensured that, notwithstanding circumstances, as long as manage to remain more or less conscious, even if just barely, will be able to “phone home” from anywhere on planet. Given destination, not to mention likelihood of encounters with indigenes of unrivaled bloodthirstiness, malevolence (those are adversaries’ good qualities), Terrylink communication might well prove vital: for Daddy, if there (if alive), not to mention Intrepid Special-Ops Girl herself.

  Made sure birdbrain's stand provisioned for day. Unworried about featherheaded sibling's care, feeding, need for snuggles during projected absence; knew family would love, care for him. Especially Lisa: Adores him; vice-versa. Plus Kim's baby girl shares my mental connection with him—and thereby is linked to me, though in her case contact seems limited to empathy: sensing emotions, feelings, etc.

  Threw together necessities for trip: weapons, tools.—Oh, yeah; also food, water, clothing, toiletries, etc. Loaded swag into van.

  Left note: pro forma apology to Adam, Danni, Teacher, Kim, Gayle. Assigned Lisa responsibility for taking care of Terry. Suggested they might consider keeping eye on baby brother; take notes if babbling begins sounding relevant.

  Adjourned thereafter to airfield. Noted, with relief, no one around. Skimmed hurriedly through maintenance logs covering hominems’ small fleet of STOL turboprop Helio Stallions. Identified plane with “youngest” engine; i.e., fewest operating hours since major overhaul. Preflighted ship; everything came up green.

  Transferred duffle, necessities from van. Fired up, lifted off.

  Headed north, bound for Canada, Alaska, Bering Strait, Siberia—Kazakhstani/Russian Urals beyond.

  Six months in-bleeping-deed...!

  * * * *

  INTERLUDE

  Archivist's Note (a)

  This semi-stream-of-consciousness ope
ning passage is typical of the journals kept by young Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, as preserved in the Homo Post Hominem Genesis Library. Typically, when possible in the field, she has updated them at least daily.

  In an earlier volume (informally titled Seeking), Candy indicated a preference (only partially, we suspect, tongue-in-cheek) that her memoirs be accumulated and maintained in an institution to be known one day as the Smith-Foster Post-Armageddon Historical Library and Archives. Obviously, it is too soon in the brief history of our budding species’ civilization to divert those kinds of resources to the construction of a one-person library. However, if her contributions to the survival and perpetuation of our kind continue at the level of her past activities, such an institution is almost inevitable....

  Candy has kept her journals in the condensed, cryptic, “pothook” symbols of the once nearly extinct written language known as Pitman shorthand. And though some of us have come to employ it personally nowadays, and its use is spreading, we have translated the original texts into English and typeset them for general consumption.

  For a classically trained archivist, this has not been an entirely comfortable process...

  First, Candy's narration employs a terse, telegraphic-style sentence structure, omitting almost all but the most necessary of pronouns, adjectives, conjunctions, and adverbs, eschewing what she refers to (with perceptible contempt) as “flowery academese.”

  Then, consistent with that compressed-text philosophy, while she does spell out numbers from zero to ten in accordance with conventional stylebook practice, for eleven and above she employs actual numerical digits.

  Worse, she not only overuses et cetera, a lazy, almost sloppy literary device at best, but insists upon using the abbreviated form, etc., rather than spelling out the full Latin phrase.

  Worst of all, with some regularity, she even (heaven help us all) employs actual ampersands when stooping to her own, invariably initial-capped, often sideways fractured variations on customary cliches, such as the “Thud & Blunder” novels mentioned above.

  Now a personal note: As an archivist who, prior to the holocaust, had obtained his Ph.D. summa cum laude in library science from Yale, a university with generally acceptable academic qualifications, I am also accustomed to functioning as a copyeditor, assisting contributors in the production of clear historical records.

  Candy, however, has been quite emphatic that each of her words, her every punctuation mark (or deliberate omission thereof), and even her formatting have been chosen with care: Each sentence, phrase, and/or word, initial capped or lower-case, is the precise assemblage of letters which conveys her exact shade of meaning. The actual wording of her instructions in this regard was devoid of ambiguity: “Don't mess with my text.”

  By all accounts, Candy Smith-Foster is a sweet, well-mannered, and particularly well-intentioned child. Each of her instructors report that, in their fields of expertise, she is one of the most attentive, most responsive, and, without exception, fastest learning students they've ever had the good fortune to mentor.

  However, in areas in which she herself possesses a demonstrated competence, she does not lack for conviction. And she has a history of getting what she wants, despite the quality or quantity of opposition.

  I am an academician. Though a hominem, I do not possess a Belt, black or any other color. Accordingly, I prefer that she not become cross with me. Wherefore, I must include this disclaimer:

  Other than basic translation, transcription, and typesetting of the text from Pitman shorthand into English—and notwithstanding the inherent redundancy of one of her favorite all-capped, ironic self-descriptives, “Plucky Girl Aviatrix"[2]—nothing in this record has been “messed” with.

  [2: Archivist's note: Yes, your archivist did point out to Candy that aviatrix is by definition female. She responded that girl implies youth, and that therefore girl aviatrix, while superficially redundant, is in fact an accurate, if ironic, self-description. Your archivist did not press the issue....]

  Now, from a practical standpoint, Candy's merger of Pitman shorthand with telegraphic-style sentence compression and simplified basic formatting cannot be argued with: The result is a compact, easily transportable, original physical record. More importantly, of course, an expert Pitman writer like Candy can memorialize her thoughts substantially in excess of two hundred words per minute, which encourages detailed journal-keeping, even under the most difficult of field conditions.

  This, of course, typifies how many of her previous journal entries were made: One entire volume, for instance, was written sealed in a spacesuit, in darkness relieved only by a flashlight, while riding in the belly of that earlier-referred-to bomb-carrying missile.

  Now, the reader will note that these journals are replete with what, at first glimpse, appear to be impulsive, almost reckless decisions, but which, as events develop, are revealed to have been as well thought-out as the press of circumstances permitted.

  In this instance, of course, the controlling “circumstances” were that, since Teacher had informed her that it would be another six months before we would be able to mount another expedition into the area where her adopted father was reported to have been held, nothing short of imprisonment, behind actual solid bars, possibly in chains, would have prevented Candy from departing immediately to follow-up on that lead to his whereabouts. And even a cursory review of previous journals would suggest that even that might not suffice to stop her for long.

  Now, for those who may not have had the benefit of earlier volumes, the background basics: We Homo post hominems are the heirs and successors to Homo sapiens. Multiple theories have been offered to explain our abrupt, simultaneous emergence upon the scene at a rate of roughly one of us to every twenty-nine hundred H. sapiens births worldwide.

  It was Soo Kim McDivott, our discoverer (and world-renowned pediatrician, child psychiatrist, and anthropologist; known, of course, as Teacher to every hominem the world over) who proposed the current favorite: Since the grandmothers of these children were all born within a two-year span, conceived during the rampage of the great influenza pandemic of 1918-19, the “coincidence” fairly shouts its implications: sweeping genetic recombination due to specific viral invasion, affecting either of the gametes before, or both during, formation of the zygotes which became these grandmothers, creating in each half of the matrix which fitted together two generations later to become us.

  In addition to an apparent complete immunity to the full spectrum of “human” disease, we're stronger, faster, more resistant to trauma, and possess quicker reflexes. As well, visual, aural, and olfactory functions operate over a broader range and at higher levels of sensitivity than in H. sapiens.

  As with all of us hominems, Candidia Maria was born to normal Homo sapiens parents. Those parents, the Smiths, were killed in a car accident only months later. Before day's end, she was placed temporarily with Marshall and Megan Foster, who moved formally to adopt her as soon thereafter as the system permitted.

  Candy's identification as a hominem came about through amusing circumstances: At not quite five years of age, she glanced up and commented that the living-room wall looked “...awful hot.” Testing the surface with his hand, Marshall discovered that she was correct; that a wiring fault was on the verge of burning down the house.

  Aware of the newly emergent species from his long friendship and professional association with Soo Kim McDivott, the implications of a child whose vision extended into the fringes of the infrared spectrum could not be missed. They had her tested immediately, and indeed she did prove to be an H. post hominem.

  Regrettably, however, also just before Candy's fifth birthday, Megan's long-in-remission leukemia returned with a vengeance. Medical science was unable to stop it, and she soon died. As a result, the child's bond with Marshall tightened—and vice-versa, we might add: She became, and remains to this day, very much a “Daddy's girl.”

  Candy's phenomenal rate of intellectual development remains an anomaly. Sh
e was reading entirely on her own by age two. By three she understood basic mathematical relationships, and could add, subtract, multiply, and divide three-, four-, and even five-digit numbers.

  Teacher suspected that the whipsaw effect of Marshall's original heel-dragging desire to raise a stereotypically sweet, “normal” little girl, “full of sugar and spice,” quietly opposed by Megan's determination to supply as much information (over or under the table, as necessary) as Candy could absorb on any subject about which she expressed an interest (and apparently she was interested in everything), offers at least a partial explanation of why, according to every benchmark, her progress was well ahead of his experience with members of Teacher's original AA study population—themselves a substantially accelerated group compared to H. sapiens norms. Accordingly, upon Megan Foster's death, Teacher moved in next-door and assumed her role as facilitator, while Marshall continued to pretend to act as the public brake.

  In addition, as one of the few Tenth Degree Black Belt masters of karate on the planet, Teacher also took her on as his personal martial arts pupil. Under his instruction, her progress in this field was as phenomenal as her rate of education: She earned numerous championships in her age/weight group.

  By eleven, her age at the time of the holocaust, she had acquired the equivalent of an advanced high school education with some college. She had mastered math through calculus, some chemistry, had acquired a strong foundation in physics, and had made a good start on college biology. Her progress in karate had progressed to the limits of Fifth Degree Black Belt advancement; Teacher was in the process of grooming her for Sixth when the Bratstvo struck.

  Candy rode out the bionuclear attack that ended the reign of Homo sapiens in the large underground shelter beneath their Wisconsin small-town home, which Doctor Foster had built in secret, both for their protection and as a repository for copies of most of the accumulated science and art of mankind. The attack found her reading down in the shelter, alone except for Terry, her macaw, whom she regards, again we suspect only partially tongue-in-cheek, as her retarded twin sibling.