The voices from the exterior pickup were faint but clear, " -whoever they are, they're transmitting over the local phone bands, sir." It was an enlisted man talking to the New Mexican major. The major nodded and stepped toward the van.
This was it. No time left to think. Wil stabbed blindly at the directory. The Topeka Met Customer Relations "expert" disappeared and the screen began blinking a ring pattern.
"All right, Mr. Strong," the major was shouting again, loudly enough so that he could be heard through the hull of the van as well as over the pickup. The officer held a communications headset. "The President is on this line, sir. He wishes to speak with you... right now." There was a grim smile on the New Mexican's face.
Wil's fingers flick across the control board; the van's exterior mike gave a loud squawk and was silent. With one part of his mind, he heard the enlisted man say, "They're still transmitting, Major."
And then the ring pattern vanished from the phone display. Last chance. Even an auto answerer might be enough. The screen lit up, and Wil found himself staring at - a five year-old girl.
"Trask residence," she looked a little intimidated by Wil's hulking, scowling image. But she spoke clearly, as one who has been coached in the proper response to strangers. Those serious brown eyes reminded Brierson of his own sister. Bounded by what she knew and what she understood, she would try to do what was right.
It took a great effort to relax his face and smile at the girl. "Hello. Do you know how to record my call, Miss?"
She nodded.
"Would you do that and show it to your parents, please?"
"Okay." She reached offscreen. The recording telltale gleamed at the corner of the flat, and Wil began talking. Fast.
The major's voice came over the external pickup: "Open it up, Sergeant." There were quick footsteps and something slapped against the hatch.
"Will" Big Al grabbed his shoulder. "Get down. Away from the hatch. Those are slug guns they have out there!"
But Brierson couldn't stop now. He pushed Al away, waved for him to get down among the fallen New Mexicans.
The explosion was a sharp cracking sound that rocked the van sideways. The phone connection held, and Wil kept talking. Then the door fell - or was pulled - outward and daylight splashed across him.
"Get away from that phone!"
On the display, the little girl seemed to look past Wil. Her eyes widened. She was the last thing W. W. Brierson saw.
There were dreams. In some he could only see. In others, he was blind, yet hearing and smell were present, all mixed together. And some were pure pain, winding up and up while all around him torturers twisted screws and needles to squeeze the last bit of hurt from his shredded flesh. But he also sensed his parents and sister Beth, quiet and near. And sometimes when he could see and the pain was gone, there were flowers - almost a jungle of them - dipping near his eyes, smelling of violin music.
Snow. Smooth, pristine, as far as his eyes could see. Trees glazed in ice that sparkled against cloudless blue sky. Wil raised his hand to rub his eyes and felt faint surprise to see the hand obey, to feel hand touch face as he willed it.
"Wili, Wili! You're really back!" Someone warm and dark rushed in from the side. Tiny arms laced around his neck. "We knew you'd come back. But it's been so long." His five year-old sister snuggled her face against him.
As he lowered his arm to pat her head, a technician came around from behind him. "Wait a minute, honey. Just because his eyes are open doesn't mean he's back. We've gotten that far before." Then he saw the grin on Wil's face, and his eyes widened a bit. "L-Lieutenant Brierson! Can you understand me?" Wil nodded, and the tech glanced over his head - probably at some diagnostic display. Then he smiled, too. "You do understand me! Just a minute, I'm going to get my supervisor. Don't touch anything." He rushed out of the room, his last words more an unbelieving mumbling to himself than anything else: "I was beginning to wonder if we'd ever get past protocol rejection."
Beth Brierson looked up at her brother. "Are you okay, now, Wili?"
Wil wiggled his toes, and felt them wiggle. He certainly felt okay. He nodded. Beth stepped back from the bed. "I want to go get Mom and Dad."
Wil smiled again. "I'll be right here waiting."
Then she was gone, too. Brierson glanced around the room and recognized the locale of several of his nightmares.
But it was an ordinary hospital room, perhaps a little heavy on electronics.
.. and still he was not alone in it. Alvin Swensen, dressed as offensively as ever, sat in the shadows next to the window. Now he stood up and crossed the room to shake hands.
Wil grunted. "My own parents aren't here to greet me, yet Big Al is."
"Your bad luck. If you'd had the courtesy to come around the first time they tried to bring you back, you would have had your family, and half MSP waiting for you. You were a hero."
"Were?"
"Oh, you still are, Wil. But it's been a while, you know." There was a crooked smile on his face.
Brierson looked through the window at the bright winter's day. The land was familiar. He was back in Michigan, probably at Okemos Central Medical. But Beth didn't look much older. "Around six months, I'd guess."
Big Al nodded. "And, no, I haven't been sitting here every day watching your face for some sign of life. I happened to be in East Lansing today. My Protection Racket still has some insurance claims against your company. MSP paid off all the big items quick, but some of the little things - bullet holes in outbuildings, stuff like that - they're dragging their heels on. Anyway, I thought I'd drop by and... see how you're doing."
"Hmm. So you're not saluting the New Mexican flag down there in Manhattan?"
"What? Hell no, we're not!" Then Al seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Look, Wil, in a few minutes you're gonna have the medical staff in here patting themselves on the back for pulling off another medical miracle, and your family will be right on top of that. And after that, your Colonel Potts will fill you in again on everything that's happened. Do you really want Al Swensen s Three Minute History of the Great Plains War?"
Wil nodded.
"Okay." Big Al moved his chair close to the bed. "The New
Mexicans pulled back from the ungoverned lands less than three days after they grabbed you and me and Jim Turner...." The official Republic view was that the Great plains Action was a victory for the decisive and restrained use o f military force. The "roving gangster bands" of the ungoverned wastes had been punished for their abuse of New Mexican settlers, and one W. W. Brierson, the ringleader of the northern criminals, had been killed. q 1m, dead?" said Wil.
"Dead enough for their purposes." Big Al seemed momentarily uneasy. "I don't know whether I should tell a sick man how much sicker he once was - but you got hit in the back of the head with a five-millimeter exploder. The Newmex didn't hurt me or Jim, so I don't think it was vengeance. But when they blew in the door, there you were, doing something with their command equipment. They were already hurting, and they didn't have any stun guns, I guess."
A five-millimeter exploder. Wil knew what they could do. He should be dead. If it hit near the neck, there might be some forebrain tissue left, but the front of his face would have been blown out. He touched his nose wonderingly.
Al saw the motion. "Don't worry. You're as beautiful as ever. But at the time, you looked very dead - even to their best medics. They popped you into stasis. The three of us spent nearly a month in detention in Oklahoma. When we were `repatriated,' the people at Okemos Central didn't have any trouble growing back the front of your face. Maybe even the New Mexicans could do that. The problem is, you're missing a chunk of brain," he made patted the back of his head. "That they couldn't grow back. So they replaced it with processing equipment, and tried to interface that with what was left."