By the time Corvallis reached the outskirts of Missoula, that passenger at LAX had sold his mushroom cloud footage to the highest-bidding network. While stopped at a red light, Corvallis watched it on the dashboard video. It had been taken from hundreds of miles away, so was pretty small in the original clip; the network had zoomed it in (“blown it up,” in the inartful phrase of an anchorwoman) and enhanced it.
They did not get to savor the exclusive for long. By the time Corvallis had reached the airport, another network had come through with even better imagery from a truck driver’s dashboard camera. Apparently the driver, having witnessed the mushroom cloud from twenty miles outside of Moab, had turned his vehicle around and driven back out to the next town where he could get Internet access.
Security waved Corvallis through to a private parking area, and he sat in his car and watched the trucker’s video while the flight crew took his baggage out of his trunk and stowed it in the jet’s luggage compartment. This footage was a lot better than the cell phone video but still left a certain amount to the imagination. The truck had not been pointed squarely at Moab when the bomb had detonated, and so about half of the mushroom cloud was cropped off the right edge of the frame. But it was very obviously a mushroom cloud and you could see its interaction with various layers of the atmosphere as it rose above Moab, and in otherwise dark parts of the frame you could see how Moab-facing hillsides and mountains were lit up by it.
He handed the Tesla off to one of the ground crew for parking, then walked about fifty feet to the jet. One of the pilots was already in the cockpit doing his piloty things while the other was getting the luggage hatch squared away. A flight attendant, whom Corvallis vaguely recognized as Bonnie, was standing at the top of the steps. He wasn’t sure where the jet company obtained people like Bonnie, but his working hypothesis was that they were fashion models who had turned thirty. They lived in a world that was as disjoint from his world as ancient Egypt, even though it coexisted in the same time and place. In rare moments, such as when Corvallis climbed the steps into his jet and greeted Bonnie or one of her colleagues, his world glanced off of hers, and if he wasn’t too distracted he might sneak a look at her and ponder the sheer differentness of their respective existences.
Today, her passenger just happened to be a tech geek who, while technically not a billionaire, might as well have been one. He happened to be wearing the tunic and cloak of a Roman legionary, but it might as well have been jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie.
Bonnie’s welcoming smile faltered a little when she saw how he was dressed, but she bore up well under the shock and seemed to have recovered her professionally mandated persona by the time his caligae crossed the plane’s threshold. His iron hobnails clacked on the exotic hardwood flooring until he reached the aisle of the main cabin, which was carpeted. He peeled off his woolen cloak and handed it to Bonnie, who ran her hand over it in an evaluative way, then took it forward to the little closet.
Perhaps her eye had been drawn to the embroidery that ran around the edge of the garment: a repeating pattern of crows’ heads. In reenactment groups it was customary for each participant to adopt a persona, or, at a bare minimum, a nickname that wouldn’t sound too jarringly anachronistic when called out in the heat of action. Corvallis had become Corvus, which was just the Latin word for “crow.” It was partly an obvious contraction of his real name and partly a reference to his coloration. One of his parents had been half Japanese, the other South Asian. Noticing this, and calling it out in a nickname, wouldn’t have been polite by modern standards. But there was no getting around the fact that, in a Roman legion, he’d have stood out as some sort of exotic from the Eastern provinces. The other Romans would have slapped some such name on him. Corvus it was. At first he’d been mildly uncomfortable with it, as he’d associated such birds with Edgar Allan Poe and goth culture in general. With time and repetition his thinking had adjusted. He now saw it through a hybrid of Pacific Northwest aboriginal myths and Roman aviomancy. The only birds you saw in Seattle were seagulls, crows, and eagles. Seagulls were ubiquitous, mindless consumers. Eagles were spectacular, huge, badass, but comparatively rare; people would actually stop what they were doing and look up when an eagle flew by. Crows, or ravens (the distinction was unclear), were set apart by their extreme intelligence, memory, and resourcefulness; but no matter how well they embodied those fine traits, no one appreciated them.
Of crows, people tended to predicate the same traits that they did of Asians when they had forgotten politically correct habits of speech, or never acquired them in the first place. Crows were commendably intelligent, and forever busy, but you couldn’t tell them apart and their motives were inscrutable. But living inside of his own head, Corvus well knew his own motives. There was nothing wrong with those motives and he didn’t need to justify them to anyone else.
When Richard Forthrast had been alive, Corvallis’s relationship to him had been like that of a raven to an eagle. Or so he had convinced himself in retrospect; and every time he looked out a window to see an eagle gliding above the lake, being harried by a dive-bombing crow, he thought of himself and Dodge. He’d become comfortable with the nickname Corvus. As he’d gone deeper into the reenactment world, and spent more money on clothing, armor, and weapons, he’d taken the trouble to personalize all of it with raven iconography. He’d found a graphic artist on Craigslist who had produced some convincingly classical-looking line art for him, and he’d found others willing to stitch that artwork onto his clothing or hammer it into his armor. You could get anything on the Miasma, including a whole alternate historical identity.
“Corvus” turned around and sank into his customary position on the front right and buckled the seat belt over his tunic, then pulled his laptop out of its bag and got it booted up as the jet was taxiing to the head of the runway. The laptop fell into a kind of stupor as umpteen different apps tried to synchronize themselves over an overloaded wireless connection. It wasn’t until the jet had taken off and climbed to an altitude where its onboard Wi-Fi system kicked in that Corvallis was able to get proper Internet. On the left side of his screen he set up an ordinary browser window so that he could see the world as other people saw it, and on the right he launched a couple of other apps that were connected directly to Lyke’s internal systems over an encrypted, secure connection. The former was sluggish. The latter showed why: Lyke’s systems were badly bogged down, and the same was presumably true of all the other social media platforms.
Weather forecasters, as a public service, had taken to posting maps based on current and projected wind patterns, showing the area likely to be contaminated by the fallout plume. A traffic jam had formed on I-70 near Grand Junction, Colorado, as residents fled and commenced banging into each other. Another kind of jam-up had materialized on the tarmac at Aspen as every private jet tried to get clearance for takeoff at once. Such images were played over and over again by networks lacking actual footage of Moab.
Suddenly the lidless eye of Breaking News swung around to Las Vegas. What looked like the entire Las Vegas Police Department was evacuating a high-rise casino/hotel, landing choppers on the roof, and (clearly visible to long-lensed cameras on drones, or simply aimed out the windows of surrounding high-rises) conducting a room-to-room search of a penthouse suite using sniffer dogs and Geiger counters. Military experts, watching the raid in real time on television, pointed out that the top of such a tower would be the optimal location to detonate a tactical nuke—much more devastating than a ground burst. By the time the official order went out to evacuate every building within a mile, the streets were jammed anyway with tourists who’d decided not to wait.
From Corvallis’s point of view—watching the feeds in one window while monitoring Lyke’s systems in another—the events in Vegas produced the social media equivalent of a nuclear chain reaction as seemingly everyone there tried to post pictures and videos at the same moment. The result was something approaching a blackout. Lyke’s server farms had been designed to handle hu
ge traffic surges, and the technology they’d acquired from Nubilant had made them even better at doing so. All of that stuff was working. But there were only so many computers and so much bandwidth to go around. When those had all been maxed out, there was nothing to do but wait for things to settle down.
So he waited, along with a billion other Miasma users staring at frozen screens. His mind went back to poor Moab. Remote, difficult to reach, cut off by roadblocks, radioactive, probably reduced to cinders, it had become something of an afterthought. He had been there, a few years ago, on a rafting trip, and thought it a nice little town, a Mecca for young, strenuous, happy-go-lucky dudes in cargo shorts and girls with sports bras and pigtails.
It occurred to him that this would be the best time to change out of his Roman legionary clothes and into the normal-guy clothing he’d brought with him. Yesterday, when he’d reached the site of the camp, he’d changed in the backseat of his Tesla and stashed the modern garb in a duffel bag in the trunk of his car. But that duffel bag was now in the plane’s luggage compartment, unreachable until they landed.
A meme cropped up claiming that Moab had actually gone off the grid two days earlier as most of its residents had fallen victim to an explosively contagious plague that had presumably escaped from a nearby bioweapons facility, and that the president had made the decision to sterilize the whole town with a nuke. The roadblocks on the surrounding highways weren’t there to prevent curiosity-seekers from getting in. They were to stop any infected survivors’ getting out. The call went out for all armed citizens living anywhere near Moab to set up watch posts on hills and rooftops and to report, or shoot, escaping zombies. This and other alternative versions of reality were shouted down by stentorian typists even as they were being embellished on fringe talk radio programs and fervently taken up by upstart networks of true believers.
The president, who’d been on a state visit to the Far East, made an appeal for calm, then canceled his engagements and boarded Air Force One, bound for home—though a leaked document, widely reblogged and reposted, showed a flight plan terminating at the U.S. nuclear command bunker in Colorado Springs.
Temporarily at a loss for anything useful to do, Corvallis reckoned that he could at least make some headway debunking the zombie hypothesis. Over the VPN that connected him to Lyke’s servers, he could search the colossal database in which was recorded every scrap of social media activity that had occurred since the company had first gone online. This was the sort of thing he had got rather good at during his tenure at Corporation 9592, where tracking the actions taken by the game’s millions of players had been essential to making it fun, successful, and profitable. Compared to that, it was a simple matter to run a query that would list all Lyke activity originating from users in Moab, Utah, during the last week.
Of course, Corvallis didn’t believe for a moment that a bioweapon plague had actually struck the town. This was clearly the work of trolls. The only open question was whether they were nihilistic trolls who just liked to see the world burn, or motivated trolls with some vested interest in gulling credulous millions into clicking on this or that link. But one of the Miasma’s perversities was that it made otherwise sane people like him—people who had better things they could have been doing—devote energy to arguing with completely random fuckwits, many of whom probably didn’t even believe in their own arguments, some of whom weren’t even humans. By making this database query, Corvallis was marshaling evidence for use in one of those pointless debates. If it really was the case that Moabites had suddenly begun getting sick in large numbers, they’d have posted complaints on social media. They’d have called in sick, canceled social engagements, sympathized with one another, exchanged harebrained home remedies, and searched for certain keywords like “high fever and rash” or what have you. Even if a government conspiracy had later severed the town’s links to the outside world, all prior activity would remain archived in Lyke’s servers, where it could be collated and analyzed by someone like Corvallis who had the requisite privileges.
Not surprisingly, the result of the query was a week’s worth of utterly normal social media traffic from the good people of Moab. Nothing whatsoever about mysterious deadly plagues. So the bioweapon narrative was easy to quash, at least if you were among the small minority of Miasma users who actually cared about logic and evidence.
Less out of curiosity than a mindless, OCD-ish compulsion to organize things, he sorted the results of his search by their time stamps, arranging them so that the most recent postings were at the top of the list. Now he could see every jot and tittle of social media traffic that had come out of Moab, Utah, in the days and hours leading up to the detonation.
Most of the entries now visible on his screen had come in last night, petering off into the wee hours as people went to bed. There was a drunken selfie from a party at 3:12 A.M., then nothing for almost two hours.
The item at the very top of the list—in other words, the last social media post to have made it out of Moab, Utah, before it had been nuked—was from an account owned by a company called Canyonland Adventures. Their profile indicated that they were based in Moab and that they were in the business of running white-water rafting trips down the Colorado River. Historically, their postings had comprised promotions, tidbits of news (the cat in their office had been in an altercation with a dog), photos of happy rafters in beautiful settings, and logistical updates for their customers.
The final pre-nuke posting was apparently one of the latter. It was text only, with no pictures or links. It read, “Jones party: your friendly guide Maeve here, up at the crack of dawn, chuffed for today’s adventure—looking forward to seeing y’allz at the sandbar at 6 am sharp—posting this from my phone since my wifi just went down! If you need to reach me, use my cell. And remember: SUNSCREEN AND HATS!!!”
The attached metadata indicated that the post had indeed been made from the mobile app using the SMS, or text messaging, system. The time stamp was 5:05 A.M. local, so about fifteen minutes before the nuke had detonated.
10
A few years earlier, Corvallis had been in a moderately serious car accident in stop-and-go traffic. He’d slowed down. The car behind him hadn’t—its driver was texting—and had rear-ended him hard enough to total Corvallis’s vehicle. Looking back on it later, the weird thing about it was how long it had taken for his brain to assemble anything like a correct picture of events. The first thing that had happened, as far as Corvallis’s mind-body system was concerned, was that his car’s headrest had struck him in the back of the skull hard enough that he could feel the little rivets in its frame. Then a bunch of other stuff had happened and he had been distracted for a while, but it wasn’t until maybe an hour later that he’d noticed his head hurting and reached up to find a bump on the back of his skull.
This was kind of like that. Reading the time stamp on Maeve’s message and her words my wifi just went down were the blow to the base of his skull, but it was a while before he really focused on it.
It was easy to find Maeve’s last name (Braden) and look up her address. She lived right in the middle of Moab, just a few blocks away from the offices of Canyonland Adventures. Whether she’d sent that text from her home or from the office, she’d probably been within a few hundred yards of ground zero.
He spent a while aimlessly clicking through Maeve’s various social media activities. On Lyke and other social media platforms, she had registered using variant spellings of her first name (Mab, Mabh, Madbh) and her last (Bradan, O Bradain). Apparently both names were Gaelic and so the spelling was all over the place. This was a common subterfuge used by people who didn’t want to sign up for social media accounts under their real names, but who understood that the fake name had to be convincing enough to pass an elementary screen by an algorithm somewhere; “Mickey Mouse” or “X Y” would be rejected, but “Mabh O Bradain” was fine. “Mab” was only one letter different from “Moab” and he wondered if Maeve had used it for that reason, as
a sort of pun on her adopted home.
She was Australian, living in the States because of some family complications only murkily hinted at on social media. She was a double amputee—one of those people who suffered from a congenital malformation of the lower legs that made it necessary to remove them, below the knee, during childhood. She had been pursuing rowing and paddling sports for much of her twenty-nine years. Verna, her older sister in Adelaide, had stage 3 melanoma; Maeve had a lot to say about the importance of sun protection for outdoorsy people.
He had been clicking on links for a while without reading them. He had gone down a rat hole and found himself reading a page on modern high-tech prosthetic legs. He knew a couple of other people who used them, and had once invested in a startup that was trying to make better ones. So as random as it might have seemed, it felt like a point of connection between him and Maeve.
The jet was over the Bitterroots, aimed south-southwest. Corvallis pulled up a map and zoomed it to the point where he could see San Jose in the bottom left, Moab in the bottom right, and Missoula up top.
He unbuckled his seat belt and walked forward past the little galley, where Bonnie was making coffee. She had kicked off her high-heeled pumps and switched to her sensible in-flight footwear. She looked up at him, moderately startled; the toilet was in the back, he had no particular reason for being up at this end of the plane.
Procedures on private jets were pretty relaxed. Cockpit doors weren’t armored, and frequently were left open so that curious passengers could look out the front. At the moment, this one was closed. Corvallis hesitated before knocking on it. He was hesitating because he was about to make a decision he couldn’t unmake, and he knew that everyone was going to be disconcerted by it, and he wasn’t good at that kind of thing—at the mere fact of making himself the center of attention. So before knocking he had to engage in a bit of mental prep that had become a habit in the last few years. He was visualizing Richard Forthrast, hale and healthy, standing exactly where Corvallis was standing right now, confidently knocking on the door. Hell, Dodge wouldn’t even knock, he would just open it. He would greet Frank and Lenny, the pilot and copilot, and he would say what he had to say.
Fall; or, Dodge in Hell Page 12
