Lucifer's Hammer

Alim Nassor gasped for breath and couldn’t find it. He sat propped up in the truck bed; if he lay down, he would drown. His lungs were filling anyway, and it wouldn’t be long. They had failed. The Brotherhood was defeated, and Alim Nassor was a dead man.

Swan was dead. Jackie was dead. Most of his band, dead in the valley of the Tule River, killed by choking clouds of yellow gas that stung like fire. He felt Erika’s hands moving a cloth over his face, but he couldn’t focus his eyes on her. She was a good woman. White woman, but she stayed with Alim, got him out when the others ran away. He wanted to tell her so. If he could speak…

He felt the truck slow, and heard someone call a challenge. They had reached the new camp, and somebody had organized sentries. Hooker? Alim thought the Hook had lived. He hadn’t crossed the river; he was directing the mortars, and that should have been safe unless he was caught by the pursuit. Alim wondered if he wanted Hooker to have lived. Nothing really mattered anymore. The Hammer had killed Alim Nassor.

The truck stopped near a campfire, and he felt himself being lifted out. They put him near the fire, and that felt good.

Erika stayed by him, and someone brought him a cup of hot soup. It was too much trouble to tell them they were wasting good broth; that he wouldn’t live past the next time he fell asleep. He’d drown in his own phlegm. He coughed, hard, to try to clear his lungs so he could talk, but that hurt too bad, and he stopped.

Gradually he heard a voice.

“And ye have defied the Lord God of Hosts! Ye placed your faith in armies, ye Angels of the Lord. Strategy! What do the Angels need of strategy! Place your trust in the Lord God Jehovah! Do His work! Work His will, o my people. Destroy the Citadel of Satan as God wills it, and then can ye conquer!”

The voice of the prophet lashed over him. “Weep not for the fallen, for they have fallen in the service of the Lord! Great shall be their reward. O ye Angels and Archangels, hear me! This is no time for sorrow! This is a time to go forth in the Name of the Lord!”

“No,” Alim gasped, but no one heard.

“We can do it,” a voice said nearby. It took Alim a moment to recognize it. Jerry Owen. “They don’t have any poison gas in the power plant. Even if they do, it won’t matter. We take all the mortars and recoilless rifles out on the barge and blow up the turbines. That’ll end that power plant.”

“Strike in the Name of God!” Armitage was shouting. There were some answers now. “Hallelujah!” someone called. “Amen!” another said. Tentative at first, but as Armitage continued, the responses became more enthusiastic.

“Shee-it.” That had to be Sergeant Hooker. Alim couldn’t turn his head to look at him. “Alim, you hear me?”

Alim nodded slightly.

“He says he hears,” Erika said. “Leave him alone. He’s got to rest. I wish he’d get some sleep.”

Sleep! That would kill him for sure. Every breath was a fight, something to struggle for, an effort of will. If he relaxed for a moment he’d stop breathing.

“What the hell do I do now?” Hooker was asking. “You the only brother left I can rap with.”

Words formed on Alim’s lips. Erika translated. “He asks how many brothers are left.”

“Ten,” Hooker said.

Ten blacks. Were they the last blacks in the world? Of course not. Africa was still there. Wasn’t it? They hadn’t seen any black faces among their enemies, though. Maybe there weren’t any more in California. He whispered again. “He says ten is not enough,” Erika said.

“Yeah.” Hooker bent low, to speak into Alim’s ear. No one else could hear. “I got to stay with this preacher,” he said. “Alim, is he crazy? Is he right? I can’t think no more.”

Alim shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about that. Armitage was speaking again, of the paradise that waited for the fallen. The words blended into the vague, slow thoughts that crept into Alim’s consciousness. Paradise. Maybe it was true. Maybe that crazy preacher was right. It was better to think so. “He knows the truth,” Alim gasped.

The fire’s warmth was almost pleasant. Darkness gathered in his head despite the glimpses of morning sunshine he thought he’d seen earlier. The preacher’s words sank through the dark. “Strike now, ye Angels! This very day, this very hour! It is the will of God!”

The last thing Alim heard was Sergeant Hooker shouting “Amen!”

When Maureen reached the hospital, Leonilla Malik took her and led her firmly into a front room.

“I came to help,” Maureen said. “But I wanted to talk to the wounded. One of the Tallifsen boys was in my group, and he—”

“He’s dead,” Leonilla said. There was no emotion in her voice. “I could use some help. Did you ever use a microscope?”

“Not since college biology class.”

“You don’t forget how,” Leonilla said. “First I want a blood sample. Please sit down here.” She took a hypodermic needle from a pressure cooker. “My autoclave,” she said. “Not very pretty, but it works.”

Maureen had wondered what happened to the pressure cookers from the ranch house. She winced as the needle went into her arm. It was dull. Leonilla drew out the blood sample and carefully squirted it into a test tube that had come from a child’s chemistry set.

The tube went into a sock; a piece of parachute cord was attached to the sock, and Leonilla used that to whirl the test tube around and around her head. “Centrifuging,” she said. “I show you how to do this, and then you can do some of the work. We need more help in the lab.” She continued to swing the test tube.

“There,” she said. “We have separated the cells from the fluid. Now we draw off the fluid, so, and wash the cells with saline.” She worked rapidly. “Here on the shelf we have cells and fluid from the patients who need blood. I will test yours against theirs.”

“Don’t you want to know my blood type?” Maureen asked.

“Yes. In a moment. But I must make the tests anyway. I do not know the patient blood types and I have no way to find out, and this is more certain. It is merely very inconvenient.”

The room had been an office. The walls had been painted not long ago and were well scrubbed. The office table where Leonilla worked was Formica, and very clean. “Now,” Leonilla said, “I put samples of your cells into a sample of the patient’s serum, and the patient’s cells in yours, so, and we look in the microscope.”

The microscope had also come from a child’s collection. Someone had burned the local high school before Hardy had thought to send an expedition for its science equipment.

“This is very difficult to work with,” Leonilla said. “But it will work. You must be very careful with the focus.” She peered into the microscope. “Ah. Rouleaux cells. You ca

Maureen looked into the microscope. At first she saw nothing, but she worked the focus, the feel of it coming back to her fingers… Leonilla was right, she thought. You don’t really forget how. She remembered that you weren’t supposed to close the other eye, but she did anyway. When the instrument was properly focused she saw blood cells. “You mean the little stacks like poker chips?” she asked.

“Poker chips?”

“Like saucers—”

“Yes. Those are rouleaux formations. They indicate clumping. Now, what was your blood type?”

“A,” Maureen said.

“Good. I will mark that down. We must use these file cards, one for every person. I note on your card that your blood clumps that of Jacob Vinge, and note the same on his card. Now we try yours with others.” She went through the procedure again, and once more. “Ah. You can be a donor for Bill Darden. I will note that on your card and his. Now. You know the procedure. Here are the samples, clearly labeled. Each must be tested against the others, donors against patients. When that is done we must test donors against each other, although this is not so critical; then we will know, in case we must someday give one of you a transfusion…”