The Long Mars

33

AFTER JOSHUA VALIENTÉ was released from custody by the cops who had apprehended Paul Spencer Wagoner and his companions, he told Lobsang what had happened.

And Lobsang asked another of his friends to help.

Nelson Azikiwe, who was once more assisting David Blessed at a Low Earth footprint of his old parish in England, quickly ascertained that Paul Spencer Wagoner, and his companions from Madison, had been part of a wider group of Next youngsters swept up without notice in a snap action coordinated by police, military and Homelands Security: an action that spa

Oddly, Nelson wasn’t very surprised to learn about the existence of the Next. After all, Lobsang had been anticipating the rise of something like these Next for many years, and he and Nelson had discussed such possibilities at length. Once, for example, five years ago, on a twain hovering over a living island, seven hundred thousand steps West of the Datum:

‘Humanity must progress,’ Lobsang had said. ‘This is the logic of our finite cosmos; ultimately we must rise up to meet its challenges if we are not to expire with it. You can see that. But, despite the Long Earth, we aren’t progressing; in this comfortable cradle we’re just becoming more numerous. Mainly because we have no real idea what to do with all this room. Maybe others will come who will know what to do.’

‘“Others”?. . . So you believe that the logic of the universe is that we must evolve beyond our present state, in order to be capable of such great programmes. Seriously? Do you really believe a brave new species can be expected sometime soon?’

‘Well, isn’t it at least possible? At least logical?’

Nelson remembered those conversations with Lobsang very well, on that living island. Where there had been a woman who wore a red flower in her hair, a woman called Cassie with whom Nelson had made sensational love – only once, but that had been enough. It had been one of the most vivid moments of his life – and one of the most incautious, given that neither of them had used any kind of protection. He wondered often how Cassie was, and berated himself as a coward for not going back again, and resolving that he would, just as soon as the latest crisis was over. But there was always another crisis, and another, and never a good time . . .

Even then, Lobsang had known they were coming, this race of superhumans. Of course he had – Lobsang was tuned in to the deeper currents of the whole world, of all the worlds of the Long Earth. And so, it appeared, it had come to pass. But in the end Homo superior turned out to be a bunch of scattered children who needed Nelson’s help, said Lobsang.

So be it.

The island state of Hawaii, Nelson discovered, had been spared the effects of Yellowstone as much as had anywhere in the world.

The Navy facility itself had been built into an old bombproof shelter near the base. Though now shared with the Air Force, the facility was still the headquarters of the US Pacific Fleet, as well as serving as the base of USLONGCOM, the Long Earth military command under Admiral Hiram Davidson. To Nelson Azikiwe, when he flew in, the facility, flattened under heavy Pacific sunlight – a naval base swarming with military, an underground bunker proof against steppers (and even if you could step away into a Low Earth footprint you’d still be on Hawaii, you’d still find yourself on an island surrounded by thousands of miles of ocean) – could hardly have been more secure.

That is, a more secure prison.

It had taken a good deal of ingenuity for Nelson to concoct a story to get him inside this facility. His cover was that he had volunteered to serve as a kind of chaplain to the inmates. His background as a Church of England vicar helped make that a lot more plausible, of course.

And his network of online buddies known as the Quizmasters had been extremely helpful in setting up his cover – well, this kind of operation was their cup of tea, as his parishioners back in St John on the Water might once have said. Of course they were generally so bright that some of them might well be Next themselves. On the other hand, there was always a downside to the Quizmasters. Nelson found he had to work hard to distract them from their ongoing obsession of the last five years that Yellowstone had either been an act of war, directed against the Datum US government by its enemies, or set up by President Cowley’s administration for purposes of its own.

The military transport plane had begun its final approach. Nelson focused on the issues of the present.

Once off the plane, Nelson was led through a short blast of open-air heat that made him feel all of his fifty-three years, and into a surface building. He found himself in an anteroom with air conditioning, potted plants and a receptionist behind a desk: a room full of Pacific light. Save for the insignia of various command units on the wall, it was like the waiting room for an upmarket dentist.

An officer came out to meet him, a woman, forty-ish, in a crisp Navy uniform. ‘Reverend Azikiwe?’

‘Call me Nelson. I’m freelance these days.’

She smiled, pushed back a lock of greying blonde hair, and shook his hand. ‘I’m Louise Irwin. Lieutenant. I’m in operational control of the treatment of the patients here. We’ve corresponded, of course, but it’s good to meet you in person.’ She led him out of the room, nodding to the receptionist, and used a swipe card to guide him through a doorway. They walked down a narrow corridor with low polystyrene ceiling tiles, very mid-twentieth century. ‘How was your flight? Those military transports can be a little rough. The room we’ve assigned you is in a neighbouring block. If you need some time to freshen up—’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’d rather go straight to see our charges, wouldn’t you? It’s a very understandable reaction. There really isn’t any substitute for encountering them in person. That’s true of most psychiatric patients, of course. You’re going to need full security clearance but I can swipe you through for now.’

They came to an elevator that opened for Irwin’s card. It descended smoothly, if slowly.

Nelson asked, ‘Is that how you think of them? As patients? Not as prisoners?’

‘Well, that is my background. I trained as a psychiatrist, and found I needed a little more excitement in my life, and I joined the Navy. Now I’m a psychiatrist who travels.’ She smiled again.

‘I guess we’re all chameleons. We chop and change during our lives.’

‘As you have,’ she said, studying him with an evident insight that felt faintly disturbing to Nelson. ‘I read your file, of course. Anybody allowed in a facility like this has to have a biography as long as my arm – and you came with top personal recommendations, to serve as our inmates’ personal chaplain. A kid from the South African townships who got his chance through a Black Corporation scholarship; a respected archaeologist; a Church of England vicar . . . You’ve adopted many roles.’

Nelson knew all about the ‘personal recommendations’. His credentials for being allowed in had essentially been engineered by the Quizmasters, along with Lobsang, through a web of behind-the-scenes contacts – including a little help from Roberta Golding, he’d been surprised to discover, the rather glamorous, in-the-news White House staffer who’d taken some kind of personal interest in the inmates of this place since they’d been brought here, though for now Nelson had no idea what her co