Deep magic second coll.., p.62
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 62
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
A uniformed soldier nodded.
Haskie bent and picked the toy up, pulled a black marker from a jacket pocket and signed it. “I don’t want the man charged with a crime,” he said while walking to the steel rod fence. “I think we can all use a little more humor and take ourselves a little less seriously these days. Keep it as a souvenir from the day your First Amendment Rights were upheld by the U.S. Senate.” He tossed the toy over to the red-haired man.
The police looked at one another, but let the man go.
A whiny-sounding voice called out from the crowd, “The dog can fetch – let’s see what other tricks he knows.” Many people laughed in response.
Zonnie looked back at Haskie, who gave a subtle nod. Zonnie lowered his sun glasses to look at the tall, gangly man wearing a Hawaiian print shirt in the eye and said, “This hybrid canine was trained in the U.S. Marines as a Dog of War. Are you sure you want to see what ‘tricks’ he can do?”
Another man, thick of torso and balding with a sun-burned forehead, said, “Dogs should be kept on a leash, not let loose in Congress!”
Zonnie turned his focus to this man, walking to where only steel rods and one foot of space separated them. Zonnie displayed the bearing and intensity of a combat Marine, and he had enough size to back it up. “That Dog of War earned two of this country’s highest honors defending its borders and people countless times. The ground you’re standing on is American soil thanks to General Haskie’s command and service in the drug-line war. But if you want to try putting a leash on him? I’ll boost you over the fence and stand aside.”
“That’s enough, Agent Zonnie,” Haskie said. “I don’t want to pick a fight with any of these good people. Nor do they need a history lesson. I served this country in war and now in peace to defend their right to say whatever they want about me or anyone else.”
The crowd quieted noticeably after that. The man with the speaker even turned off the droning voice of Jackson Reynolds. Another man who had been brandishing a flea collar put it behind his back as the Senator and his Secret Service agents walked toward the entrance of the main building. Nine-foot-tall onyx statues of Anubis stood guard on either side of wide, bulletproof glass double doors.
As Haskie approached the entrance, two black-suited agents stepped out, quickly followed by the tall, sharp-eyed Coltrain Peters in khaki pants and a long-sleeved white Zebulon shirt. He strode toward Haskie with a warm smile, but something about the ambassador was different – he smelled different, though Haskie could not place how. Haskie began extending his hand for a shake, but Peters wrapped him in a hug. “Show a little warmth for the cameras, Senator,” Peters said jovially.
“You sound like Trentson, my publicist.” Haskie let the hug happen, ignoring instincts that flashed several ways to ground Peters when he had gotten within arm’s reach.
“I’m glad you wore your formals and medals – you wear them well,” Peters said as they separated, regarding Haskie with his eagle eyes. “You look like JFK – you were born to lead, son.”
“I was created to win a war. Did that, and now my reward is wearing suits and shaking hands.” Haskie made himself smile, remembering Trentson’s nasally voice in his mind.
“I expect much more out of you than that.” Peters’ eyes narrowed and the wrinkles around them showed. Yet, for a man nearing seventy, his skin was healthy and his wavy golden hair only showed gray at the temples.
“And I thought you just wanted to congratulate and wish me well.”
“I do.” Peters pointed toward a covered sidewalk leading around the western part of the building and started walking. His agents hurried out in front, and Haskie’s fell in behind.
Haskie wanted to ask what Peters’ objective was, but experience had taught him to let the man unfold his plan on his terms. His ears picked up a chant from a small number of people in the crowd behind them, “No more Moreau!” He turned and saw a sign with Peters’ face and the words from the chant printed below.
“Looks like you’re no more popular with the crowd than I am.” Haskie nodded back toward the sign. “Why do they call you Moreau?” The path curved under shade and started to slope up, taking them out of sight of the crowd.
“It’s from an H.G. Wells story in the late 1800’s featuring a doctor who made human-animal hybrids.”
“Seems appropriate enough.”
“The doctor in that story was less than noble in his methods and objectives. He did not create hybrids to win the post-Yellowstone wars nor to cure the cancer strains that followed.” Peters arched an eyebrow, which Haskie knew to be a sign that he did not want to discuss the matter further.
“So, I take it you did not invite the crowd.” Haskie winked at Peters.
“You’re the famous one now, son. I suppose a Senator’s schedule is public knowledge, so I imagine you are to blame for them being here.”
The walkway continued around the building. Peters stopped at a row of personal roller-ports docked to their right. He said, “Let’s each choose one of our agents to accompany us from here and let the rest wait behind.”
“Are you going to tell me where we are going?” Haskie asked.
“Not yet.”
Haskie shrugged. “I think you like secrets more than you like people.”
“I like giving pleasant surprises to the people I like.” Peters selected a blue roller-port with sleek black wheels and a wide stable bar. “Are you going to tell me where you disappeared for ten days before your swearing-in ceremony?” Peters smiled, but his eyes showed genuine curiosity.
Haskie smelled the oddness in the man once more, which almost triggered a growl. That was unusual. He rarely let his canine instincts manifest. Military training had been useful in that regard. “Not yet.” He returned Peters’ smile while stepping onto a green and silver roller-port with a reinforced gun-metal stable bar.
Zonnie approached a liquid black roller-port, but Haskie shook his head. Zonnie said, “You gotta be kidding me, boss.”
“If something goes wrong,” Haskie said, “I want the agent who coolly performed his task by my side – not the one who ducked for cover.” He grinned at his friend.
Jacoby hurried over to the roller-port Zonnie had begun de-docking and stepped onto the ergonomic deck.
“Fob,” Zonnie said, holding his hand out. “Might as well watch cartoons in the car if you are going to treat me like a child.” He winked at the senator.
Jacoby dug a piece of metal the size of a peach pit out of his pocket and ran a finger down a row of sensors to de-code before handing it to Zonnie.
Moments later, Haskie, Peters, Jacoby and another agent zoomed along an elevated track at 45 miles per hour, all of them wearing sunglasses and Kevlar helmets. The track circled around to the back of the compound, where the connected buildings stood five stories high. Haskie knew twice as many levels extended below ground, but he suspected they would not be going indoors. This path led to two other destinations, the rear compound auto lot filled with jeeps and other vehicles able to traverse the rugged thousand acres of the compound, and the heliport on the roof of the tallest building.
At the junction, Peters led them toward the heliport, and said to Haskie through the com. “You might want to have your agent bring your car to the parking garage adjacent to the Comstock Building.”
Haskie relayed the message to Zonnie.
As the name implied, the mountains to the east strongly resembled an organ – columns of rock in grays and reds rose like pipes toward the sun. No clouds marred the sky above; its blue-gray blotchy color was as close to true blue that Haskie had ever seen. Before the Yellowstone supervolcano erupted, the sky had been bright blue, according to those old enough to remember and as depicted in photos and movies. But, movies and pictures from that era were known to be digitally enhanced.
Haskie remembered a promise from the Hatalii to the youngsters that they would see the day when the sky would return to true blue. He had made many such promises, several of which had scared Haskie. Fear was an odd feeling, but one that invigorated him to the tips of his toes. Haskie had not considered himself a true believer in the old legends, but since he had participated in the Night Way ceremony, his faith had grown.
The enormous heliport, brightly painted in blues and reds, held three helicopters and two cavernous service bays. Haskie admired the War Hawk. Even painted corporate black and silver, it reminded him of the hundreds of times he had ridden in a similar bird loaded with artillery, missiles and bombs. They passed it and rolled toward the smallest – the Peregrine, named after the falcon for its unmatched speed. That explained why they were only taking one agent each.
Attendants in clean white coveralls secured panels over the twin engines and finished running diagnostics on the electronics. Haskie longed to see the report, having been meticulous in his flying days to double check service records of each aircraft he entered. Out of the thousands of flights he had taken, his attention to those details had saved his life twice. These birds were pampered, however; and without a war going on around them, Coltraine’s crew would have no problem keeping them safe.
“What would you like to drink?” the attendant at the lowered step asked Haskie as he approached.
“Water. Canadian Glacier if you have it.” Haskie stepped up and then crouched to slide across to the far seat on the front row. A glass panel separated the front two seats from the rear.
“You’re going to need to learn how to drink if you want to fit in with the Senate,” Peters joked as he sat next to Haskie.
“Not sure I want to fit in.” Haskie shrugged.
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. We can work the clean-living angle.” Peters secured his belt, helmet, com pieces and glass of champagne. “But we’re here to celebrate.”
Peters’ smile reminded Haskie of a red-tailed fox. Haskie often saw people as the animals they resembled. The hackles on his neck rose as he recalled one of the sand paintings in his Night Way ceremony was of a falcon diving toward a mountain. Haskie said, “I thought I was invited here to be lobbied by a friend – first class flight, classy drinks...”
“We will discuss business soon enough.” Peters nodded toward the back row as Jacoby and the other agent took their seats, and the attendants lowered the doors. Rotors whirred to life with a high-pitched hum, and the air pressure around them increased. Peters pushed several buttons, and the glass barrier between the rows clouded a dark gray. Then the door latched and noise from outside muted until it was quiet enough to talk.
“I have never liked flying in a bird with no pilot,” Haskie said as Peters took a drink.
“The safety records of remote piloted flights versus –” Peters began, but Haskie held up a hand.
“I know the data shows they are safer than manned flights. I just like to look my pilot in the eye before I put my life and the life of my agent into his hands.”
“I can pull up a vidcom with the pilots if you want to look them in the eye.”
Haskie shook his head. “Who has ears on us right now?”
“Ambassador’s privilege. No ears in this bird unless I turn them on.” Peters pointed at a series of symbols on the bottom of the vid screen. “We can connect to several offices at my base through these links, but otherwise, not even the back seat will hear us.” He cocked his head to the side as he looked at Haskie.
The senator waved a hand dismissively. “Just military-born paranoia. You ready to at least tell me where we are going?”
Peters took a moment to look him over. “Soon.”
The Peregrine pulled up so smoothly that Haskie did not immediately realize they had lifted. That took a truly gifted pilot. After they rose two hundred feet above the tallest building, the nose of the copter turned north and dipped. Booster jets growled to life, thrusting them forward faster than a competition dragster.
“To the dead states, eh?” Haskie said.
“To the dead states.” Coltrain Peters emptied the flute of champagne and poured himself another.
That was as close to a tell that Haskie had ever been able to uncover about Peters. When he finished his drink, he was ready to speak. When he poured himself a second drink, it meant he had something serious to say, and he wouldn’t take the drink until he had spoken.
“Ten states,” Coltrain began, “have remained under quarantine since Yellowstone. Of the seven major strains of cancer, six stemmed from those states, and the vast majority of the countless sub-strains can be traced back to them.”
“Thanks for the history lesson.” Haskie winked.
“We will reach the Colorado border in another twenty-five minutes. You won’t be so facetious when you see what I have planned.”
Haskie noticed the smell again. There was almost something feline about it. He inhaled slowly and perked an ear toward Coltrain. “You have started additional genetic splicing, haven’t you?”
“Always so perceptive, son. It made you an amazing soldier.” Coltrain fidgeted with his flute and almost took a sip.
“Not so much perception as smelling something that isn’t right.” Haskie looked at the back seat, but the glass separating them was dark. “You’ve changed your own DNA.”
“Had to.” Coltrain reached a hand out to Haskie and pulled back his sleeve. Bleached stains blotched the flesh on his forearm. “Spinevy’s cancer is among the three strains we have had little success even slowing. Stage two is a 60-day death sentence. I was stage three when diagnosed four months ago.”
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted to distract you while you were finishing your campaign.” Peters pushed his sleeve back down. “Dogs are resistant to Spinevy, but cats show the greatest tolerance. Our ability to isolate the immunity strands of DNA have advanced by orders of magnitudes in the hundreds in the past decade, and we are just scratching the surface. I have lived four months since diagnosis, with no progression of the cancer since the DNA infusion. My latest scans actually show signs of remission. It’s unheard of.”
“It’s illegal.” Haskie put a hand on his old friend’s arm. “That’s why you have brought me here, isn’t it?”
Coltrain nodded as he pulled out a thick stack of papers from a bin at his feet and handed it to the senator. “The Haskie Act will legalize genetic splicing of species under very controlled and limited terms.”
“Does this act that bears my name address the breeding restriction coding in the dog hybrid DNA for the soldiers you created for the war?”
Coltrain shook his head. “Not explicitly, although it implicitly lays the groundwork to further expand the rights I helped your people obtain.”
“That’s a pretty way to explain how you’ve written an act for me to propose that benefits only you. You would have me cash in my political momentum to peel away restrictions that stand in your way of genetic engineering, and leave idle a primary concern of the people who elected me.” Haskie’s veins pulsed faster and he had to resist a snarl.
Coltrain’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t forget the millions of dollars I delivered to your campaign fund, son. And, what I do benefits not only your constituents, but the entire world. My genetic engineering has cured or stalled more of the cancers that arose after Yellowstone than the rest of the medical scientific community combined.”
“Your budget was bigger than the rest of them combined, too.”
“My genetic engineering saved this country from a dozen lost wars - from without as well as within.” He leaned close to Haskie, “Without the hybrid dogs that I engineered to reach adult maturity in three years, our army would have failed. Our nation would not be. You would not be.”
There it was. The card Coltrain could only truly play once, and this was the hand he had chosen. Haskie looked down as they raced across New Mexico. Colorado was not far away now. The valleys were familiar, the mountains felt like home. These were images he had seen when he had traveled in spirit in the Night Way ceremony. His Hatalii had warned of the importance of this meeting, but did he mean that Haskie was supposed to support the act Peters was proposing? His instincts warned against it, but he was wise enough to consider important decisions thoroughly.
“Even with the momentum that carried me,” Haskie said, “this act would fall short of votes in the Senate, not to mention the House.”
Coltrain’s expression relaxed and he sipped from the flute. “You let me worry about the votes.”
Although Haskie could not see how Coltrain could gather the required votes, he knew enough about Coltrain Peters to accept that if he said he had a plan to gather them, he would get them. “Why are we flying toward Colorado?”
“A good question,” Coltrain said, swirling the last of his champagne in the bottom of the flute. “Let me save you a bit of reading.” He pointed to the Haskie Act. “We both know that after the Albuquerque debacle, DNA splicing of non-canine species will not be approved in the 40 states. However, I have identified two potential lab construction sites in the dead states – one in Colorado and the other in Southern Utah. We can construct lab pods in New Mexico and fly them to these sites that will be geographically contained near the edges of the dead states. Look down now.”
Haskie looked out his window and marveled at the lush valley below. A stream cascaded down a rocky hillside to his left, and the water looked clean. Gray and amber ash still gathered in drifts along the east side of the valley, but most of the ground was covered by thick grasses. Dead trees stood like an army of skeletons along the western slope, but among the white trunks aspen saplings with dappled leaves waved in the wind. Birds of several types flew from tree to tree and a red-tailed hawk glided down from the northern peak atop the valley. The copter slowed and circled around the rim to the northwest. Looking north triggered another memory – another sand painting, one of this valley with a wolf standing atop the ridge. Haskie looked closely at the ridge, almost expecting the wolf to emerge, but it did not. A chill swept over his body as he realized he was the wolf.
