Ill Wind (68 page)

The musicians kept playing for an hour. Iris expected any moment for some fuse to blow, some component to fail, and the concert would be over. But the only pause occurred when the first band took a break to stand down while the second group came onstage.

The next lead singer had a softer, warbly voice—due in part from nervousness, Iris was sure. But the crowd received the music with full enthusiasm, almost growing too introspective with Crosby, Stills and Nash’s post-apocalyptic “Wooden Ships.”

Sitting on her blanket, Iris looked around at the crowd. Thousands and thousands had arrived, most from the local cities, but some had come all the way from the Monterey Peninsula to the south, others from Sacramento to the north. It seemed like a holy pilgrimage to them. They couldn’t believe what they were hearing.

She wished Todd could have been there to share it. Maybe seeing how the music affected all these people would get through his thick head and make him see what he was missing. Iris felt very isolated as she sat by herself, trying not to notice Jackson and Daphne Harris snuggling next to
her.
. . .

As darkness fell, everyone grew silent, stunned, as the stadium lights came on, flooding the stage and the abandoned racetrack.

Powered by the windmills, the incandescent lights blazed with a warm white light that dazzled the viewers; the lights flickered, but they kept up. After a breathless pause, a spontaneous wave of people stood up and applauded, cheering. The lights and the music made them feel as if they had come home again.

Up in the tower, the kid Harley ran the lights, standing by the controls like the captain of a spaceship. He had begged Jackson Harris for the job, and Harris had given it to him. Iris had never seen Harley look so proud or so determined to do something right.

When the audience finally fell silent after seeing the electric lights, the lead singer from Visual Purple took the stage again, accompanied by two Livermore engineers who had each crafted an electric guitar. Hooked up to the amplifiers and the speedway loudspeakers, they began to play.

The first chords came out, gentle but with a biting memory that sent a liquid tingle down Iris’s spine. People struggled to their feet again as the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner” echoed over the speakers; the crowd sang along but Iris felt a lump in her throat.

Many of the audience members sat back, sucking in a collective audible breath. As the darkness deepened, battered back and defeated by the brilliant stadium lights, the guitarists on stage played “Stairway to Heaven.”

In the bleachers, the crowd swayed and sang along with the lyrics they all knew by heart. On the grass, people got up and held hands, adding their voices in a swell of song that rang across the hills. Behind her, on one of the blankets, Iris heard two men arguing about what the lyrics really meant, but she ignored it—she had been hearing
that
discussion since her high school days.

To her left and down the slope, she noticed the teenaged couple from Oakland standing next to each other; the young father cradled the new baby in his arms, rocking it back and forth to the chorus. The young mother rubbed fingers across her boyfriend’s shoulder blades.

As the music and a flood of other memories poured into her, Iris felt tears brimming in her dark eyes. She had seen other people in the audience crying during the concert, but never as many as now. Many of their voices broke as they tried to sing along.

With barely a pause, the singer slid into “The Long and Winding Road” by the Beatles, which kept people standing and stunned, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Finally, continuing with the Beatles, he lightened the mood with the now-absurd song “Drive My Car.”

When the band finished, cheers pummelled them, and the singer turned to his two electric guitarists. “Are you ready to do what you came here for?”

Cranking up the volume, the trio, joined by the drummer and keyboardist, launched into the strangest mixture of music Iris could have imagined, Top 40, new rock, more folk songs, even a pair of Broadway showtunes. Everyone began moving, dancing, swaying, stomping. They seemed to care only that they were hearing music again, an icon of
their
lost civilization. Iris felt that the entire silent post-petroplague world must have been able to hear them.

The music continued late into the night. Iris was exhausted, but she never wanted it to stop. The people had shouted and chanted and sung until their voices were hoarse; they had clapped until their hands were sore. The magic in the air was intoxicating, and she felt in her heart that the dark ghosts from the previous violent concert at the Altamont must have been exorcised that day.

She saw Doog standing near the
stage,
his face tilted toward the stars in rapture, his round John Lennon glasses like shining coins in the stadium lights.

Iris looked around to see the hills glittering with a thousand yellow gems, tiny flames
raised
high. In another concert, the fans would be flicking their lighters, but this time they had brought candles, saving them until the very end in a gesture of their heartfelt appreciation.

“Nice touch, don’t you think?” Daphne Harris said, giving Iris a look that made it apparent
she
had been behind it.

A thousand points of light,
Iris thought.

Civilization might come to an end, but rock and roll would never die.

Chapter 76

In the aftermath of the desert battle, Bayclock’s expedition force broke into a confusion of smaller groups with different agendas.

Many of the soldiers and camp followers gathered to make preparations for the long trip back north to Albuquerque, this time without the general’s martial law. The consensus seemed to be that Mayor Reinski would be able to hold things together even without a reign of terror.

In the following days, others teamed up with some of the Alamogordo ranchers and dispersed, deciding to stay near the solar-power farm in the hope of eventually turning it into a bona fide settlement, an Atlantis out in the sparkling gypsum sands. Given the extra manpower, Spencer Lockwood told them they could lay new power lines and dig wells to the aquifer.

With Rita Fellenstein riding beside him, Bobby Carron fetched back the wagon and the ten precious solar-power satellites he had hidden in an arroyo. Spencer lightly touched the metal shells resting in the wagon bed, blinking back tears, as if he’d found the Holy Grail.

Already, Gilbert Hertoya limped among the remnants of Bayclock’s army, talking to some of the enthusiastic Air Force troops about taking a military contingent back to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory for the rest of the satellites. Some of the soldiers, anxious to atone for
their
forced attack against the scientists, were willing to go without delay. Armed with functional rifles, the new military escort would provide a much safer expedition than Todd’s crazy quest.

Ten more smallsats remained in Pasadena, and the parts for more were readily available. Someday, there might be enough to complete the orbital ring for uninterrupted electrical power from the antenna farm. Spencer was sure he could convince his old mentor, Dr. Seth Mansfield, to accompany the second mission back to White Sands.

Meanwhile, Todd Severyn felt at a loss, wandering among the blockhouse trailers and reluctantly relaxing. He felt the inner depression of having successfully completed a major goal and discovering that he had no idea what to do next.

Sitting in the noon shade, he watched Heather and Spencer chatting, walking to the aluminum water barrel. Spencer poured a cup for her; she drank most of it and, when he bent over to fill a cup for himself, she playfully trickled the rest down his back. Startled, Spencer dropped his cup and sputtered.

Just watching them together, Todd could see Heather had fallen for Spencer, though he didn’t know if they realized it themselves yet. He remembered when Heather had offered herself to him out by the stream in the hills. But Heather had made the offer out of desperation; and the memory of that one time was irrevocably stained with blood and violence. He and she could not look at each other without being haunted by the ghosts of Casey Jones and Henrietta Soo.

 
“Hey, Todd!” Gilbert Hertoya came around the corner of the blockhouse. “I want to talk to you about something.”

By the water barrel Heather looked up, suddenly aware that Todd had been watching. She flushed,
then
turned away to follow Spencer, who knew nothing about what had happened between her and Todd.

He cocked back his cowboy hat and looked up at the short, peppery-haired scientist who stood propped on a wooden crutch. “What do you want, Gilbert?”

Hertoya put one hand on his
hip,
covering a big leather belt that one of the ranchers had given him. “We’re going to go back to California in a few months to pick up the rest of the satellites, and I wanted you to come along. This time we’ll be armed, with plenty of help. What do you say?”

Todd looked west to the dim line of mountains. He had considered going along—it would be another major effort, an important quest, something to keep him busy. It would extinguish the restless indecision that had been bothering him.

But he slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve got to get going.” He sighed,
then
tried to put his reasons into words that made sense to himself. “I’m going to try saving the world in little ways from now on, not by meeting it head on.”

Hertoya scratched his head. His grizzled face plainly showed his disappointment. “What does that mean?”

Todd tipped back his cowboy hat. “I think I’m going to go back to the Altamont, to stay this time. I made a promise. And it’s the closest thing I have to home.”

#

Grateful for his help, Spencer gave Todd his pick of the horses for his journey back. Todd pondered the choices from the Alamogordo ranchers and the Air Force troops; finally, somewhat uneasily, he selected Bayclock’s black gelding.

He saddled up, took two of the working rifles and some ammunition, and as many supplies as he could cram into the
saddle bags
. The ride would be long and arduous, at least a month or so, but he didn’t care how long it took him—just the fact that he was returning made it worthwhile.

Spencer and Heather, Gilbert Hertoya, Juan Romero, Bobby Carron, and Rita Fellenstein watched him as he departed. He waved back at them, saying nothing special to Heather, then turned and guided the gelding westward, once again riding off in the direction of the sunset . .
. .

Over the following weeks, he rode across New Mexico and Arizona, stopping again at the ranch of the dead diabetic man. Todd took an extra few hours straightening up the house. He got a good night’s sleep, replenished his supplies,
then
set off again.

He had nothing to do but think as he sat astride the horse throughout the heat of the day and into the cooling evening.

Part of him wished he had never left Iris, but he also knew that wouldn’t have made him happy. If he had not gone to deliver the smallsats to White Sands, if he had not made some sort of tangible difference, Todd would never have been able to settle down for the rest of his life. Iris had reached a point where she wanted to put down roots, but Todd hadn’t been ready for that; he’d spurned her offer to share her bed. He couldn’t calmly accept the fate of the world without trying to make his mark. And he had succeeded.

But Todd didn’t need to
keep
seeking bigger dragons to slay, wilder gooses to chase. He’d had enough.

Would Iris have him back? He had left her without saying goodbye. She had no reason even to think he might return, despite the message he had transmitted from JPL. Had she waited for him? She was so intelligent, and so beautiful . . . someone else had probably claimed Iris the moment his bootprints faded from the dry grass in the Altamont hills.

Then Todd forced a bittersweet grin. Iris Shikozu did not allow herself to be
claimed!
She might have changed her mind, gone with somebody else because of her own decision—but she would not have been wooed away by a sweet talker. No way!

He passed into California and headed north, following abandoned highways and the line of the mountains. He came upon a former dude ranch in the Sierra Nevada where a tall man named Carlos Bettario had established thriving, comfortable quarters.

Bettario’s group of workers had managed to keep themselves supplied with cut firewood, fresh fish and game, as well as meat from a herd of beef cattle. They powered their equipment and lights with electricity generated by water wheels turning in a hydroelectric plant on a nearby dam. One of Bettario’s men, a grizzled old man named Dick Morgret, showed Todd the wild horses up in the mountains and how they had already begun to barter with people living not too far away.

Todd stayed there for a day, helping to repair a long fence to pay for his room and board, then set off again.

He pondered trying to find someplace where he could send a short-wave signal, to let Iris know he was coming. But he was afraid to. He didn’t want to know if she was with somebody else.

Crossing the Sierra Nevada well before the first snows, Todd rode up the flat Central Valley, living off the generosity of farmers who shared their produce with him. In exchange, he told them all the news he knew, entertaining them with stories about the battle for the solar-power farm, Casey Jones and his train, and crumbling Los Angeles.