Ariel (29 page)

* * *

Three more days we thudded along the highway, riding, resting, riding again. My saddle sores felt as bad as my feet had not two weeks ago. I gritted my teeth a lot. We paralleled I-95 on U.S. 40 and avoided Baltimore by swinging around on State Road 151. From there it was almost due south on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, straight into D.C.

It was night by the time we entered the city. Mac led on unflaggingly, leaning forward in his saddle as if it would make his tired horse move faster. Our mounts' hooves echoed tumultuously in the dark, silent city, and soon pieces of a dead and fading national culture were gliding past, dim white shapes that marked the grave of a nation. To our right, the Capitol building slowly wheeled by as we clopped along the circular street strewn with dark, dead cars.

We turned left onto Independence Avenue.

What do any of the monuments mean now? I thought.

A straight mile along Independence, made slow by the permanent traffic jam, a few turns, and we stopped before what was one of the few famous buildings in Washington that wasn't white. Few people were in sight around the brick building. Pale yellow candleglow shone through five or six somber windows. People were startled when they heard us trotting up; some ran inside and emerged immediately with weapons in hand. We reined up before them, our horses sweat-slick and breathing hard.

"Hold on, hold on, don't get trigger-happy," said Mac. His voice was dimmed by the pounding in my ears. "It's Vic Magruder of the scouting party, and a friend."

One of them lowered the mace he'd held ready and stepped forward, peering at us. "Mac!" he whooped, and dropped the mace entirely. "Christ, we figured you guys weren't coming back."

Mac grinned and dismounted. After a moment's hesitation I followed suit—slowly, favoring the blisters. The big man continued walking toward Mac until they were shaking hands, and the handshake quickly slid into a friendly hug. While they exchanged bear hugs and insults the rest of the dozen or so people around us looked on with a blend of wonder, admiration, and disbelief. Some gazed at me speculatively. More people appeared from the huge entranceway; word was getting around.

Mac and his friend turned to face me, arms around each other like reunited brothers, both smiling idiotically. "Tom," said Mac, "this is Pete. We found him in New York. I think you'll want to hear what he has to tell us. Pete, meet Tom Pert, self-appointed head of operations here."

He disengaged himself from Mac and extended his hand. I stepped forward.

"Pete!"

I turned at the yell and glimpsed long brown hair streaming behind a woman as she charged down the steps of the Smithsonian Institution, and suddenly I had a double armful of Shaughnessy, crying and laughing at the same time.

Twenty

Sebastian:
Now I will believe That there are unicorns.

—Shakespeare,
The Tempest

Things got sorted out eventually.

Shaughnessy had got there the morning before. She caught me up, following the confusion of our unexpected arrival. Her story spilled out in a run-on stream. "The
Lady Woof
drifted out a little," she told me. "I was afraid they'd come after me again, but when they were sure they had you and Ariel—" She broke off. "Where is she, Pete? What's happened to her?" She searched my beat-up face, my eyes, looking for something.

"They still have her." I tried to keep my voice steady. "If I can't get her out of there soon, she'll die."

"Ah  .  .  .  ." She bit her lower lip. "They might be able to help you here, Pete. They're—"

"Going to war with New York Yeah, I know. Mac told me already. He's part of a scouting team they sent in. I—I got away and came across them. I guess I ought to count my blessings; I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't found them."

She nodded. "They told me there was a chance you might, if you escaped, but I don't think any of them believed it. I kept my fingers crossed."

"So get on with what happened."

"Well, I waited an hour on the
Lady
and then swam ashore. She'd only drifted a couple hundred yards." She frowned. "I tried to bring your backpack with me but it was too heavy. Everything got soaked. I'm afraid I had to let it go."

"That's okay. There wasn't anything in it I can't replace. Thanks for trying."

She brightened. "I did manage to save your blowgun, though. I'll give it to you later; it's in my room. Anyway, I hid in a looted jewelry store all night, all next day I tried to find you. I walked around almost all day, but there was no sign of anyone."

"You were lucky."

"So I've been told. Toward the end of the day, though, I ran into Drew Zenoz. He'd just been sent as a scout from here and had found out their increased activity was because of you and Ariel. And because of Malachi. I told him who I was, and about you and Ariel. I wouldn't have thought he'd believe me, but he knew all about it. He'd been told to be on the lookout for you, and to get you to come back here with him if he saw you."

"He knew about us?" I was confused. I had images of this legend of a Boy and His Unicorn working its way north by word of mouth. Bullshit.

Shaughnessy nodded. "I came back with him and told what I knew about you and Ariel to Tom Pert, but he'd already heard."

"But how did—"

She anticipated the question. "About a week ago—" Her eyes went wide. I turned, automatically reaching for Fred. I barely saw a metallic blur, and before I could think I drew Fred and blocked the slash aimed at my head. The sword lowered and its wielder laughed.

I exploded. "You shithead!" I raised my sword. "You think that was funny, then try—
Malachi!
"

And, for then at least, it seemed everything would be all right.

* * *

I fidgeted in a lecture room within the Smithsonian. Mac had already made his report to Tom Pert and it was being reiterated before the hastily assembled group. Most of the army/commune/whatever was in the room, listening quietly. Mac had been right; there were about four hundred of them. I hadn't seen such a large assembly since before the Change. A baby's wail was punctuated by its mother's shushings. Most everybody looked as if they had been rudely awakened—as, no doubt, they had.

I looked down at my fingers. The wood of the straight-backed chair I sat in pressed against my aching back. Mac's report went on; I heard but didn't listen. I glanced at Malachi Lee, who sat to my right. He wore a dark blue jumpsuit and carried
Kaishaku-nin
. He was the only person I saw who was armed, excepting Mac and myself, who'd had neither time nor opportunity to remove our weapons. Not that I'd have wanted to.

Old home week had been short lived. There were things that needed doing; these people were readying what was by present standards a large-scale assault and they needed any and all information as soon as it arrived. Even if it meant being roughly shaken awake at two in the morning. Tom Pert had wanted to talk to me, so Shaughnessy had broken off with a promise to provide a more detailed account at her first opportunity. I twisted my neck and saw her sitting four rows back on the left side. She'd found a T-shirt somewhere with an iron-on transfer of a unicorn on it. When she saw me she smiled, waved, and pointed to it. The gesture turned into a heartening thumbs-up. I smiled tiredly and nodded.

"The rest of the party will probably be here tomorrow afternoon at the latest," Mac was saying. "I don't know what the target date for leaving for New York is—"

"Four days from now," supplied Tom Pert.

Mac nodded and continued. "But I figured it was worth the risk of splitting up with the rest in order to get Pete here as soon as I could. Hell, for all I knew I was going to run into you guys on the road, headed my way." A few chuckles. "Most of you know the rest." He stopped. He looked tired. "Questions?"

Tom Pert stood. "It can wait, Mac. We'll shove bamboo shoots under your nails tomorrow. And thanks."

"You'll get my bill."

Tom smiled and began talking to the assembly. I barely heard. My mind was on "record," taking it all down for later.

I became aware of an expectant silence in the lecture room. I looked up sharply. Tom Pert smiled gently at me. "You're on, Pete," he whispered.

I nodded, not understanding. Numbly stood. Stepped forward. Turned around. Panorama of waiting strangers. Mute glance. Malachi Lee, straight-backed, one hand on his sword, face blank. Mac leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes expectant. I opened my mouth to speak. Something blocked it. I cleared my throat, swallowed, and tried again "I—" There was Shaughnessy, hands gripping the back of the chair in front of her. "I met Ariel  .  .  . a long time ago." Puzzled looks on the faces of strangers. "She  .  .  . her luh, leg was broken."

"Pete." Tom Pert,
sotto voce
. "You can just tell us what you saw in New York. Malachi's told us the rest."

I shut my eyes. "Her leg was broken! I went to a house and found some wood to make a spuh, splint!" Curious stares. Shaughnessy biting her lower lip, tears blearing her eyes. "I taught her how to speak English. We used to just walk on the roads together, and, and—" The last word heaved out in a great convulsion of my lungs. My eyes burned as everything misted over. Strong hands gripped me as I sobbed, led me down the aisle. My nose dripped on somebody and I wanted to stop, to apologize for getting snot all over them, but I couldn't stop, I could only blubber. I pushed my tongue at the back of my mouth to clear my nose but it was too clogged. My bottom lip quivered. Oh, this is great, this is wonderful, right in front of everybody, Shaughnessy, Malachi Lee  .  .  .  . I stumbled and the hands gripped harder, steadying, guiding. "It's all right," said a voice. "He's exhausted, is all. He's been through a lot."

"The fuck you know," I tried to say, but more snot dripped on my forearm. They led me out of the room, through hallways, and finally left me alone in a quiet room. The glow of a single candle refracted through a film of salt tears. Left to myself, I sobbed into the pillow for another minute, and then it cut off. It figured; nobody was around now.

I didn't hear the door open but felt the small breath of air it made when it moved, disturbing the candle.

"Pete?" And Shaughnessy was kneeling beside me, trying to hold me, to stroke my hair, wet at the temples where tears had streaked as I lay on my back. I twisted away from her, cheek muscles tightening, mouth drawing in.

"Pete, it's okay. It's—"

"It is not okay!"
I sat up and looked at her through leaden eyes. "That's easy for you to say because I'm here with you, but that doesn't mean a fucking thing to me. You
followed
me up here. I don't give a damn about you. What I want is in New York, and I'd die to get her back. Don't take it on yourself to replace her, because you don't hold a candle." I drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Now why don't you just leave me the fuck alone?"

She looked at the steady burning of the white candle in its pewter holder. I wanted her to react, to become enraged, or cry, or anything. But there was only a sad, wistful look on her face, in the brown eyes catching the candle glow in twin points of light, cat-like. "All right," she said softly. "If that's what you want."

"That's what I want."

She blinked. Stood. Turned. Reached. Pulled open the door. All measured, precise.

"Bitch," I added before the door closed softly, punctuated by an understated click as the spring-loaded catch slipped into place.

I turned back to my pillow and cried again.

* * *

A knock on the door awakened me next morning. I automatically reached for Fred and was mildly surprised when my fingers clasped the twined handle—somebody had thoughtfully placed my sword by the head of the folding cot. A Malachi Lee touch. The thought elicited a small smile.

A second, softer knock.

"Come in." My tone made it a question.

I'd expected Shaughnessy. Instead, the door opened and a large, red-faced woman came in, pushing a silver tea service. "Room service," she said brightly. Her bright floral summer dress was two shades short of gaudy, but would nevertheless mark her as a tourist almost anywhere she went. Or would have, I should say, before the Change. She stopped the tea service beside the folding cot, where I had propped myself up on one arm. "I'm sorry if I woke you," she said, "but we let you sleep as late as we could."

"What time is it?"

"Just after one." Her face worked itself into a distasteful look. "You can put that thing away. I'm not here to assassinate you."

I felt sheepish. "Oh, look, I—" I returned Fred to its original position against the wall. "Force of habit," I offered in explanation.

"Mmph." She turned and poured steaming water from the sterling silver pitcher into a cup. "Coffee or tea?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, do you want coffee or tea?"

"Umm—" I wiped my mouth with one hand. "Coffee. Please. Black." She obliged by stirring in a spoonful of instant. I accepted the cup gratefully, blowing on the dark brown liquid at the edge and slurping in loud sips. Its warmth spread through my insides. I paused just long enough to notice her waiting patiently and politely for me to finish. Feeling rude, I raised my cup. "Have some?" I asked, and thought, damn, that sounds awkward! Social nuances were a thing of the past for me; I'd forgotten most of them. But she shook her head. "No, I had more than my share last night. We were all up pretty late talking about you. Mac thinks you can help us."

"What do you think?"

"Like the silver? Thomas Jefferson used it."

I set the cup back onto the stand, three-quarters finished. "You don't trust me," I said, "because Mac found me in New York."

"We've learned not to get our hopes up, that's all." She held one arm at her side, clasped the biceps with her other hand, and walked around the room. I remained quiet, noticing the room for the first time. It had a business desk that had been shoved against the wall by the head of the cot. Sunlight from the window behind it illuminated orange carpeting and mostly empty space. Beside the cot was a small stand, Early American, on which rested the remains of the candle that had melted down to a small puddle of wax during the night. It was an administrative office they'd cleared out. I wondered if they all slept in emptied offices, and decided they didn't. There probably weren't enough to accommodate four hundred-plus people. But the Smithsonian had lots of space, and plenty of rooms full of now-useless memorabilia that could stand being removed—or at least pushed into corners.

The woman turned to face me. "We've spent a lot of time and planning to move against New York. Some of our people have been killed trying to get information to help us, and now you pop up at the last minute, poof! A whiz kid with all the answers—"

"I don't have all the answers."

"But you can still see why a lot of us think it's too good to be true."

I said nothing.

"Do you feel good enough to walk?"

"Sure—" I stopped. "Do I look that bad?"

I saw her looking for a mild way to put it and said, "Never mind. I don't think I want to know. Yeah, I can walk fine. I hurt, but I probably look worse than I feel."

She smiled. "I sure hope so  .  .  . because you look
terrible
."

I stood suddenly. It hurt a lot. "Okay, where to, coach?"

"Rubber hoses and bright lights, I'm afraid." She saw my blank look. "Our council of war, so to speak. They want to turn you inside out."

"Figured they would, after I blew it last night."

Her look softened. "I guess that was understandable." She opened the door and gestured to the hallway outside.

"Well. 'Lay on, Macduff.'" I followed her through hallways and huge rooms packed with fragments of American history. The few people we met nodded politely—and curiously—toward me, but shot her wide grins and, without exception, a cheerful, "Hi, Mom!"

"What's with the 'Mom' bit?" I asked after the third person had greeted her this way.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, still hurrying her bulk through the maze of hallways. "My name's Maureen Redbone, but everyone here just calls me Mom. Come on, they're waiting."

"Right, Mom." It sounded funny. I hadn't called anybody that since  .  .  .  . I suppressed the memory. That's gone now, I thought. A different life. I tagged along behind Momma Redbone.