The Harvest

“She’s one of them,” Miriam Flett a

The twelve-year-old focused her eyes on Miriam before Matt could frame an answer. “I won’t stay if you don’t want me to, Miss Flett. I came so that someone could speak for us.” The collective, the inclusive, the universal us. She turned to Matt. “Dr. Wheeler, it’s probably sensible, what you’re doing here. But Mr. Jacopetti is wrong. We’re not a threat to you.”

“Cindy,” Matt said, “are you speaking for everyone? All the Contactees?”

She remained in the doorway, a small silhouette. “Yes.”

“How is that possible?”

She shrugged.

“Cindy, if you really know what’s going to happen—next month, next year—I wish you’d tell us.”

“I can’t. It hasn’t been decided yet, Dr. Wheeler.”

Paul Jacopetti had turned a shade of-brick red that caused Matt to speculate about hypertension. “Who is this kid? And how does she know my name?” To Cindy: “What were you doing, listening through the door?”

“She’s a patient of mine,” Matt said. “She—”

“They know everything” Miriam interrupted. “Haven’t you figured that out? We don’t have any secrets from them.”

Jacopetti stood up. “I vote to have her removed. She’s a spy, obviously.”

“I’ll go,” Cindy Rhee said.

“No,” Matt said. Lacking a gavel, he slapped shut his notebook. “I was about to declare a coffee break. Cindy, please stay until we reconvene. Twenty minutes.”

He asked Cindy to sit in one of the boardroom chairs and pulled up a second chair in front of her. He felt he should take the opportunity to examine the child, though he couldn’t say what moved him—sympathy, curiosity, dread. He took a penlight from his shirt pocket and shone it into her eyes.

The others had crowded around the coffee urn, talking in low voices and sparing an occasional glance at Matt and Cindy. He hoped he hadn’t jeopardized his credibility by talking to the girl.

Tom Kindle sat apart, thoughtful in his wheelchair.

Cindy’s pupils still seemed slow to contract, but their reaction was equivalent and otherwise normal. She tracked the penlight adequately when he moved it right to left, up and down.

He touched her forehead; the skin was cool.

“Thank you for being worried about me, Dr. Wheeler. I’m all right.”

“I’m glad, Cindy. It’s good to see you walking.”

“But you think it’s strange.”

“I’m happy about it. But yes, it seems strange to me.”

More than that. He wondered what kind of miracle it really was. He wondered what was inside her skull right now. Normal brain tissue, somehow regenerated? Or something else? Something fed by blood like dark molasses?

She seemed to sense the thought. “They had to work on me before Contact, Dr. Wheeler, because I was so sick. So I’m a little farther on than most people.”

“That’s why you came here?”

“Partly. Partly because even Mr. Jacopetti can’t be too scared of a twelve-year-old.” She suppressed a smile. The smile looked authentic. It was the way she had smiled last year, before the neuroblastoma put an end to all her smiling. “We aren’t dangerous to you. It’s important to understand that. You’re right about the future. It might be difficult. But we’re not the danger.”

She was still woefully thin.

“You mean to help,” Matt said. “I appreciate that. But it would be better if you didn’t stay.”

“I know. Thank you for the examination.”

She stood up and seemed ready to leave, then frowned and tugged at his sleeve. “Dr. Wheeler…”

“Yes?”

“It’s about your daughter.…” He felt a deep interior chill. “Rachel? What about her?”

“You should talk to her. You haven’t really talked to her since Contact. She misses you.”

“How do you know that?”

It had become the great unanswerable question. Cindy just shrugged—sadly.

“Talk to Rachel, Dr. Wheeler.”

There wasn’t much more meeting. Chuck Makepeace said they should invest in a few copies of Robert’s Rules of Order and elect a chairman at the next meeting. Matt agreed. Tim Belanger volunteered to take minutes next time. Abby Cushman said they would need a name—“You can’t have us just be nameless.”—and were there any suggestions? Abby herself thought “Committee of the Last True Human Beings” would be good.

“Too confrontational,” Makepeace said. “That’s not what we’re about.”

Jacopetti raised his hand. “Committee of Cockeyed Optimists. Council of Lost Causes.”

Matt said he thought it could be the “Emergency Pla

It was past ten o’clock and people were eager to leave. Matt asked them to write their names, addresses, and phone numbers on a piece of paper, which he would photocopy and distribute to everyone on the list along with an a

Tom Kindle wheeled himself to the door. “Care to push me as far as the elevator? Jeez, I hate this fuckin’ chair.”

“You’ll be walking before long.” Matt guided the chair down the semidarkened corridor. The walls were painted a shade of green that was supposed to be soothing but looked, under the ceiling fluorescents, unearthly. Kindle wouldn’t be alone in this cavernous building—there was still a skeleton night staff on duty—but in some other sense he would be very alone, and Matt felt sorry for him.

“So,” Kindle said, “are you going to take the girl’s advice?”

“You heard that?”

“A little. None of my business, of course. Didn’t know you had a daughter.”

“I used to.” He rang for the elevator and worked to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I’m not sure I do anymore.”

Chapter 16

The Battle of U.S. 95

The problem, John Tyler thought, was that all the armies had gone home, all the factories had closed their doors, all the Congressional committees had adjourned forever—and where did that leave him?

Sidelined. Down, in other words. But not out.

Tyler lived alone in a two-story Georgian-style townhouse in Arlington, Virginia. He had equipped the spare bedroom with a formidable array of Nautilus exercise equipment, and in the days after his unproductive conversation with the Chief Executive he spent a great deal of time working out.

Tyler was a month away from his fifty-second birthday, and though he was in fairly good civilian trim, he wanted more: He wanted to be in fighting shape. At his age, it was a difficult proposition. Not that it couldn’t be done. But he was paying for the effort. The token of exchange in this bargain was pain. First the obvious pain of a hard workout, the pain he took to a certain brink and backed away from. Then the stealthy pain that crept up in the night—the aching tendons, the protesting spine, the humiliating discomforts that sent him to the drugstore in search of Ben-Gay, Tylenol, something to help him sleep, something to help him move his bowels.

But there came a time when he was able to look at himself in the full-length bedroom mirror without flinching. Taut chest, lean belly tapering into the waistband of his Jockey shorts, firm legs. Gray stubble hair on his head and a down of gray hair on chest and limbs. It seemed to Tyler that he had created something good here, a reflection he could take some pride in. Appearances had always mattered to Tyler a great deal.

But the important thing was that he was fit for duty.

If anyone could be fit for the kind of duty he had in mind.