The Colonel Read Online Free PDF Page B

be alive , Helen. Can’t you put aside your hatred long enough to take any hope at all from that?”
    She hovers before him like an avenging angel, but her sword arm is stayed for the moment. She’s beautiful—more so than she ever was in the flesh—although the Colonel has a pretty good idea of what her physical corpus must look like, after so many years spent pickling in the catacombs. He tries to squeeze a little vindictive satisfaction from that knowledge, and fails.
    â€œThank you for telling me,” she says at last.
    â€œNothing’s certain—”
    â€œBut there’s a chance. Yes, of course.” She leans forward. “Do you expect—that is, when will you have a better idea of what it says? The signal?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m— pursuing options. I’ll tell you the moment I learn anything.”
    â€œThank you,” the angel says, already beginning to dissipate—then recongeals at a sudden thought. “Of course you won’t let me share this, will you?”
    â€œHelen, you know —”
    â€œYou’ve already security-locked my domain. The wall goes up the moment I try to tell anyone my son could be alive. Doesn’t it?”
    He sighs. “It’s not my call.”
    â€œIt’s an intrusion. That’s what it is. It’s a form of bullying.”
    â€œWould you rather I just didn’t tell you?” But he knows, as Helen disconnects and Heaven dissolves and the barren walls of his apartment reappear around him, that it’s all just part of the dance. The steps never change: he mans the barricades, she rages against them, energy flows downhill to the same empty equilibrium. It probably doesn’t even matter whether the security locks are in place or not. Who would she tell, after all?
    Down in Heaven, all her friends are imaginary.
    *   *   *
    â€œThis is Jim Moore.”
    The Colonel stands at the edge of the desert. The Nissan idles at his side like a faithful pet.
    â€œI will be unavailable for the foreseeable future. I can’t tell you where I’m going.”
    He’s been effectively naked for the past twenty-four hours: no springsoles, no sidearm, no dog tags. No watch: window to the Noosphere, keeper of secrets, hub and booster and event coordinator for all those everyday pieces of smartwear he left behind. He’s even shut down his cortical inlays, thrown away his vision along with his garments. All that’s left is this last-minute voicemail, to be held in abeyance until he is beyond reach.
    â€œI hope to provide a full debriefing upon my return. I don’t know exactly when that might be.”
    He stands there, weighing costs, weighing risks. The threat of greater gods, the hazards of beatific indifference. The threat posed by aliens from another world; the threat posed by aliens from this one. The delusional arrogance in the thought that some puny caveman, scarcely climbed down from the trees, might be able to use one against the other.
    The cost of a son.
    â€œI believe that my service record has earned me some leeway. I’m asking you to refrain from investigating my whereabouts during my absence.”
    He’s not trusting them to do that, though. The Nissan is stolen, logs doctored, all traces of truancy erased. His own vehicle tours the Olympic Peninsula on its own recognizance, laying a trail of bread crumbs for any forensic algos that happen by after the fact.
    â€œI’m—aware of the breach this represents. You know I’d never do such a thing unless I thought it absolutely vital.”
    Maybe you really do feel safe, sleeping with your giants. They haven’t rolled over and crushed you in your sleep; maybe you think that’s some kind of guarantee they never will. I will never be that reckless.
    Again.
    It doesn’t take a hive to grasp the simple, straightforward ease with which he’s been manipulated.