Emergence Read online

  Have begun Adam’s training. Initial work revolves around exercises to enhance balance, flexibility, coordination, strength, reaction time, speed; aiding student to recognize feel of own ki; learning to concentrate flow; focus, direct through body to attain instantaneous, automatic (preferably correct!) reaction, counterreaction, striking power.

  Adam is, of course, quick study (suspect all hominems natural athletes, barring prohibitive physical defects). Mastered principles underlying balance in record time (yes, quicker than me here, too); same with footwork, physics governing striking power. Working now to establish basic group of hyperalert, hair-trigger reflexes which constitute foundation of martial art; “secret” of blindingly fast; shockingly violent, concentrated frightfulness:

  Competent, well-trained student reacts without thought. Interlocking, interdependent, multiplex daisy-chain of yes/no decisions, once programmed into subconscious, form automatic “combat computer.” Conditioned reflexes evaluate degree of threat, determine quality of response. All takes place too quickly for conscious thought, formation of don’t-hurt/hurt/hurt-lots/kill intent.

  (Which explains why throwing surprise mock punch at karate student, especially relative beginner, such folly: Newly keyed-in responses imperfectly integrated; subconscious misjudges seriousness of threat, overreacts. Before playful intent apparent to cerebrum, foolish acquaintance has paid price. Particularly risky game if done quickly — hurrying even most proficient of masters surefire ticket to own funeral.)

  At this stage, however, all proceeds with deliberation, precision. Though weak, am able to perform necessary instruction. And drilling with Adam of immeasurable benefit to own condition: Each day can feel strength returning; body ever more ready to respond to demands.

  And while lack even semblance of combat-readiness thus far, my response speed, accuracy, power have Adam’s complete attention. Demonstrated in beginning that, slowed and weakened as I am, he cannot land blow of any kind; can block anything he throws, hand or foot; don’t even look rushed. Yet can touch him anywhere, anytime, with any limb, despite his best efforts.

  Brooded initially about effect on Adam’s psyche (Momma Foster’s caution again) of revealing how far beyond him I am in combat skills, but proved needless concern: If sensitive about being bested by “mere female,” conceals it well; responds to challenge like Thoroughbred to touch of whip — most competitive soul have ever met! Uniform reaction to every demonstrated weakness (after eyes grow round) has been to knuckle down, do flat-out damnedest to match me.

  And know from own lessons: Demonstrated superiority necessary for effective teaching: Student’s appreciation of instructor’s prowess must approach level of awe. Progress in karate matter of conquering own frontiers. Regularly necessary to issue outrageous pronouncements calculated to hype student’s self-confidence (subliminal autosuggestion one of karate instructor’s most effective tools) to enable performance exceeding then-assumed limitations. For as each new threshold crossed, matters little whether task once impossible (as well may have been, without overstimulated neuromuscular responses): Karate, at journeyman levels, hinges at least as much on psychology as finely honed physiology.

  Felt good to get back into training. And better to have sparring partner. Doing us both good: Adam enjoying workouts; benefit to me simply incalculable.

  Of disadvantages, only two immediately apparent: One, believe it or not, appetite actually increased (compounding Adam’s awe!). And two, between meals, drills, sleep constantly…!

  Good night, Posterity.

  Preserve me from well-meaning innocents…! Naïveté on this scale cannot be coincidental: Creator Himself must have planted Adam in my path together with circumstances mandating adoption.

  Follow: “You know, Candy,” he began this evening as we finished dinner, “I’ve been thinking…” (and cosmos trembled) “…you’re going to be fit enough to travel pretty soon now.”

  “True.”

  “Well, I’ve been looking over your van…”

  “And…?”

  “It’s small. Three of us living in that little thing will go mad.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I assured him. “It’s certainly not as roomy and comfortable as living here, and it will be more crowded with you along; but it’s adequate, once you get the knack of how to use what space there is, and when to spill outside for cooking, dressing, bathing, and whatnot.”

  “If you say so.” Dubiously. “But,” — hopefully — “we do have an alternative, if you’re interested.”

  Was; so Adam led way to garage. First time there since coma. Impressive as rest of home. Could have stored Daddy’s house in there, too. Several times. With TV mast erected.

  Also much taken with contents: astonishing variety of automotive toys. Lamborghinis are neat. Especially in red. Especially that red. Ferraris not bad either. Nor Maseratis. Nor Porsches. Never had much use for Lincolns, Cadillacs, limousines generally (bulky, clumsy, inefficient things — besides, who wants to be driven everywhere?); on other hand, Rolls (es?) could grow on one (is such a thing as elegance, after all).

  But Adam brushed past four-wheel jewelry to far (perhaps “distant” more appropriate adjective) corner where stood what I took, at first glance, for garage wall. Wasn’t. Goodness…

  “This is how we traveled before,” he announced, with proud sweep of hand. “Neat, huh? It’s a converted Greyhound.” Surely was; large, economy size; obviously capable of sleeping, feeding, entertaining regiment. Vehicle was Adam’s mother’s solution to visiting constituents statewide without having to (shudder) sleep in motels. Appointments bordered on sybaritic.

  “And you have to see the kitchen,” he enthused. “It duplicates the one in the house, in miniature. Anything I can cook there, I can make here: It’s got everything!”

  Telling point; mouth started watering at mere thought of Adam’s cooking.

  However…

  Silly thing was 40 feet long! Twelve feet tall, not counting air-conditioners jutting from roof. Eight feet wide. Barely six inches ground clearance (got down, looked). And of three axles, obvious that only forward tandem driven; rearmost merely load-bearing idler; very front, steering only. Plus, GVW plate listed maximum weight at 16 tons!

  Cast about briefly for means to pop Adam’s bubble tactfully — was so proud of self, solution. Still merrily burbling on about juggernaut’s wonderful qualities; taking my silence for enthusiasm, no doubt. Pondered variety of alternate approaches without satisfying requirements.

  Finally concluded no help for it; might as well plunge ahead, rain on parade without sugar-coating — disappointments exist in present-day reality; must face sooner, later. Perhaps dose of disillusionment good thing; maybe yanking rug from under mobile Pleasure Dome’s apparent usefulness helpful in conveying rational perspective of real-world conditions.

  Opened with slow curve: “Boy, this is great!” Then fast break: “But something this size must have a really powerful winch to get across soft terrain. Where did they hide it?”

  Adam ground to halt; looked puzzled, also faintly offended. “They don’t put winches on a top-of-the-line land yacht,” he explained, with slightly exaggerated patience.

  “Oh, I see; all three axles powered then — must be just about unstoppable. Good thing; sure would hate to try to ford a stream otherwise — without a winch.”

  Adam hesitated, looked unsure for first time. So reminded him, while off balance, of tribulations set forth in Vol. II. Asked if cared to try balancing across railroad trestle in this, as I did van. Agreed was not enticing notion.

  And that was that. Adam nobody’s dummy. Chief failing consists of important gaps in background; ignorance of things obvious to anyone but cloistered genius reared amidst wealth, excess material advantages. Given hint, moves on quickly to grasp problem himself.

  But still not satisfied with prospect of three of us living in van; determined to find solution. (Hope successful — really will miss that kitchen…)

  He
llo again, Posterity. Please be patient; must proceed cautiously; maintain tight control lest emotional state bollix record through omission of pertinent, possibly vital, details.

  Something Important happened today: Found clue…!

  Happened like this:

  Feeling pretty good past few days. Thinking seriously about resuming search. However, work undone right here in Baltimore: On way to examine Harpers’ premises when originally bumped into Adam, got sidetracked. Logic dictated completing that before moving on.

  Told Adam intentions; asked if familiar with area. Was; volunteered to take me there — correction — take us there:

  (Terry so happy to have me healthy again; really bored during recuperation. Likes Adam lots but is my baby brother, knows it; expects to help me with daily chores, explorations, etc.)

  Found Harpers’ office easily; gained access (Adam as proficient at prybar locksmithing as self), commenced examination. I explained were looking for clues suggesting AAs’ final destination, explanation for uniform disappearance; tangible or intangible — anything found, or deduction based on identification of something missing. Then went at it.

  Adam proved quite good at fine-tooth search; was in fact he who found clue.

  Took it calmly when he said, “Is there likely to be more than one Soo Kim McDivott associated with these people?”

  “What? Where?” Adam tore sheet of paper from computer printer, held out. Snatched from hand, pored over it feverishly, and…

  …PAY DIRT!

  Fragment of message to Harpers — from Teacher…! Content ambiguous, due to apparent computer malfunction. But faded print on remaining portion read:

  …imple as it first appears… Telemetry… their “contingency solution”… already in place…

  …oblem not resolved when it’s “over.”

  The authorities still refuse… must be scrapped. Meet me… Palomar facility as soon as… and please bring everything!!!

  Love to all, and good luck getting here.

  Soo Kim McDivott

  That was all. But more than enough. To anyone who knew him, fragmentary missive shrieked starkest urgency. If had not seen with own eyes, would never have believed Teacher would end sentence with three exclamation points. Fabric of Universe hardly less flappable than Teacher.

  Heard him express urgency only once. Happened perhaps six months before World Ended:

  Though retired, Teacher still member in good standing of town’s medical “reserves.” Often baby-sat practices when Daddy, Jorgé Curaçao, G.P., (town’s “other” doctor) needed time off. On one such occasion (genuine “must” seminar for every physician) Teacher volunteered services to enable both to attend. Set up shop in Daddy’s office (front of our house).

  Both gone less than two hours before hysterical truck driver arrived with flat-bed trailer carpeted with casualties from high-school bus capsize (ran over hog — basic rural no-no). Forty-some injured; ten, twelve critical; balance varied between minor broken bones, cuts/scrapes/bruises, acute self-pity.

  And in keeping with rules governing such events (known in some quarters as Murphy’s Law), Yours Truly only semblance of nurse/medical assistant available. Flitted about office, trying to be three of me: diving in, out of rubber gloves to hand instruments, operate retraction, tie off; fetch, install bandages; mop blood, etc.

  But Teacher faster yet; moved quicker than ever saw outside dojo — seemed everywhere! Worked miracles: Sorted patients by degree of crisis; stabilized some critically wounded apparently by force of will while worked on others even more so. Somehow coped without losing anyone (and some critical really were) until reinforcements arrived from County General, 35 miles away in next town.

  Was busy hour. During course of which urgency such that Teacher omitted saying “please.” Twice.

  So three exclamation points…!

  “Important, huh?” Adam could hardly fail to note shaking hand holding paper.

  Nodded wordlessly, thoughts churning.

  He waited decent interval; then tried again, still gently: “I read it, but I don’t understand the significance. Is this McDivott your ‘Teacher’?”

  “Oh…” Returned to surroundings with a start. “Sorry. Yes. This is from Teacher, I’m sure; telling the Harpers to meet him somewhere; probably just prior to the attack, though maybe right after. And he’s worried about something — I don’t know what, but apparently something that will be a problem even after Mankind is gone — even after he’s gone himself, poor dear; Teacher was like that: Always worried more about others than himself.”

  “Any idea what ‘it’ he was talking about?”

  “No. And ‘Palomar’ is pretty vague, too — unless he could mean Mount Palomar, near San Diego. But I can’t imagine any connection between Teacher, the AAs, and an observatory. This doesn’t furnish much information.”

  “Enough to get your hopes up, but raising more questions than it answers…”

  “Exactly. Just enough to send us off on what will very likely end up a wild-goose chase and waste a lot of time.”

  “Not really; even if nothing turns up, there are plenty of AA addresses out there. You’ll just be revising the order in which you visit them. You’re looking at a potential gain, even if it’s a long-shot. You can’t lose, no matter what.” Smiled beatifically. “I don’t see the problem.”

  Adam never so irritating as when correctly stating obvious, particularly when I’m the one overlooking it (correctness always delivered with such cheerful assurance). However, took deep breath, swallowed retort poised on tip of tongue; agreed was little choice: Any course other than proceeding to check out “Palomar” manifest nonsense.

  Should, however, conclude sweep of Harpers’ office. No telling what else might surface.

  Did so. Predictably, without profit.

  And en route home afterward, Adam observed: “Seems an unlikely sort of coincidence. Are two of the Harpers married, and the other’s their son; or is it a husband/wife/brother thing, or what?”

  Glanced across at him. Engrossed in driving; expression devoid of clues usually accompanying deadpan teasing. Possible he didn’t know? Had read Vol. II, glanced through Tarzan File, but perhaps missed that. Decided to accept question at face value.

  “No, they’re married.”

  “Who?”

  “All of them.”

  “Oh,” he replied disinterestedly; drove on. Several minutes later head snapped around, eyes narrowed in good-natured suspicion. Demanded, “What?” Then relaxed. “Oh, I see. It really is a coincidence: All separately married; no relation?”

  “No, not related at all. Nor married separately. Married.” Couldn’t help smiling as watched Adam juggle possibilities. He noticed; grew truly suspicious.

  Easy to tell when figured it out: Jaw went slack, eyes round. “All three of them…?” Adam exerted manful effort to be debonair; but expression — indeed, total aspect from head to toe — very embodiment of shocked disapproval.

  (Naturally, have no idea whether men’s relationship extends beyond shared wife, but not about to let Adam off that easily.)

  Smiled. Added helpfully: “Sure. Of course they’re not the only ones; lots of AAs are involved in group marriages. You mean you didn’t know?”

  Didn’t. Tee-hee. Wolf in wolf’s clothing. Lecher, profligate, lady-killer, rake, debaucher, libertine, playboy. Swath-cutter amongst Baltimore’s fair sex. Any and all of above. Says he.

  Well, maybe. But just discovered mile-wide chink in macho armor: Adam dyed-in-wool, card-carrying, soapbox-standing, old-fashioned sexual conservative! Face-to-face encounter with evidence of honest-to-goodness ménage à trois leaves him breathless with scandalized, bluenosed shock.

  Hope exists for Adam after all. Gladder I found him by the day. Glad is coming with us…

  Adam not kidding about hating prospect of three of us living in small van. Nor about mechanical, electronic ingenuity, ability. Has been busy past few weeks; all to good.

  Exam
ple: Now attached to van’s rear by heavy-duty, load-equalizing hitch is lightweight, self-contained, 25-foot travel trailer. Clever notion: Enjoy luxuries without disadvantages intrinsic to vehicle unwieldy enough to carry them — in pinch, can drop trailer, proceed in van alone.

  Adam sprung it as surprise: Went through Yellow Pages, visited dealers, located suitable unit; found, mounted hitch; hooked up, brought home. Then installed kitchen equipment matching that in parents’ land yacht. (My taste buds thank you, my appetite thanks you, I thank you…!) Quiet, multikilowatt, 120/240-volt, engine-driven Honda alternator replaces LP tanks on trailer’s A-frame tongue; powers everything.

  Then he went through van with mad inventor’s eye, determined weaknesses, corrected. Rebuilt engine, replacing nearly every moving part; all with what described as “competition specs” (sounds impressive, but don’t ask me). Same for running gear.

  (Whatever… Bottom line, boy; don’t care how watch built — what time is it? Speak English! [Verbal inquiry worded more politely, of course. Some.])

  “Okay, okay,” he agreed. Tone impatient, but eyes alight; clearly pleased with self. “What I’ve done will make the engine and drivetrain more reliable under load, and shifts the power range downward, which gives it more torque — makes it more powerful at low RPMs, and gives it much more traction so it can pull the trailer more easily and climb steeper grades.

  “And it’s more efficient now; goes farther on the same fuel. Since we have to rely on finding cars to siphon from, which may or may not have enough to bother with, or a gas station whose tank caps we can force, that’s insurance.

  “Sounds as if it was a lot of work.”

  “It was.” He nodded. “But solving mechanical problems is fun; I’ve been doing it for years as a hobby — along with the electronic stuff.”