The Null Prophecy

by Michael Guillen

  She paused and sat back, picturing Eva safely ensconced inside the production truck.

  You were right, chica: this guy’s a cowboy.

  Nearly a minute later Allie resumed.

  AA: “What about these whales? What are your thoughts about them?”

  CS: “I love the water and all the creatures that live in it. I always have. I’ve tried to pass that love on to my daughter, who feels the same way. Whales are among the most intelligent creatures on the planet, you know. It breaks my heart to see them doing this—beaching themselves. If I can use Hero to save even one of them—that’s like the cherry on the sundae for me.”

  Hero continued racing up and down the coastline, speeding and slowing with equal abruptness, intercepting scores of animals. Remarkably, the craft was able to change direction on a dime, veering this way, then that way, seemingly without effort.

  “Any speedboat might be able to keep some whales away,” Allie explained to viewers. “But Hero’s incredible speed—let’s see, right now we’re averaging over 200 knots—her amazing speed and maneuverability make it possible to cover a much wider swath of ocean more quickly.”

  Just then, Hero turned extra sharply.

  “Whoa!” she cried out.

  “Sorry about that,” Calder said.

  “These animals are determined to beach themselves,” she continued. “So heading them off once is not enough. Hero has to keep at it two, three, four times and be super quick about it.”

  The cabin suddenly filled with the clicks, cries, and songs of whales and dolphins.

  “I’ve switched on Hero’s hydrophone so your viewers can hear the animals we’re trying to save,” Calder said.

  She and Eva were prepared.

  AA: “Thank you, that’s awesome. Standing by inside our studio in Los Angeles is Dr. John Leland, a marine biologist who knows more about interspecies communication than anyone alive. In the United States alone his pioneering studies of whale and dolphin languages helped lead to the signing of the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Good morning, sir, can you hear me?”

  JL: “Yes, I can. Good morning.”

  AA: “Dr. Leland, can you tell us something about the vocalizations we’re hearing? In particular, are you able to tell if we’re helping or hurting here?”

  JL: “Well, I certainly can tell your presence is being felt. Word is spreading throughout the various pods that an intruder has invaded their territories. As to hurting or he—it’s my impre—that the voi—hea—se—dicate . . .”

  Eva’s voice yelled through the IFB, “Hang in there, girlfriend! We’re losing the uplink.”

  “You gotta be kidding! Here we go again,” Allie protested. “What was Leland just saying? Are we helping or hurting?”

  “I don’t know,” Eva answered, her voice sounding harried. “All we heard is what you did. I’ll check with Los Angeles.”

  “What’s going on?” Calder asked.

  “Problems with the satellite.”

  Twenty minutes later the TV signal was still down.

  “I don’t know much about whale speak,” Calder said, “but my LIDAR tells me we’ve cleared the water of all the animals that were threatening to beach. We’ll hang around for a while longer, just to—”

  “Allie, can you hear me?”

  It was Eva.

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. It’s mishegoss here. Stu’s having a cow over the satellite problems. It’s like what happened with what’s-his-face up in Silicon Valley—some kind of magnetic storm. Anyway, I got your answer: Leland says that from what he can tell you guys are doing a good thing. The animals seem to be changing course and singing a different tune. So keep going.”

  Allie immediately forwarded the good news to Calder.

  “Okay, then, that’s all I wanted to hear,” he said brightly. “Next stop, Honolulu!”

  CHAPTER 13

  GUARDIAN ANGELS

  TUESDAY, APRIL 25 (2:45 P.M. CENTRAL EUROPEAN SUMMER TIME)

  POOR CLARES’ SACRED HEART CONVENT; SEVILLE, SPAIN

  Mother Abbess Yolanda had yet to hear from anyone regarding Francis, or whatever he was called now. A few of her many longtime radio interlocutors around the world offered advice but none of it paid off. That’s why she was cheered by the possibility God had brought to the orphanage a bona fide guardian angel.

  “Please come in, Señor Paez.”

  She led the tall, well-groomed man to the most comfortable accommodation in her unassuming office: an overstuffed chair upholstered in a repurposed eighteenth-century Andalusian tapestry. It was a Christmas gift from a local craftsman some ten years earlier.

  She smiled at the children peeking through the open door, then surreptitiously waved them away. Everyone at Sacred Heart was excited by this visit because the parish priest told them Sr. Paez was interested in helping to rescue the orphanage.

  “We’re honored that you’ve made the trip to our humble home all the way from Madrid,” she said, still standing. “May I offer you some refreshment? The boys and girls have made freshly squeezed lemonade from our own orchard. God bless them, they’re selling it to help raise monies.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Mother. Yes, I think I will.” He fanned himself. “I’m afraid I didn’t dress properly for Sevilla’s heat.”

  She eyed his tailored suit and wondered how much it cost.

  He must be quite rich.

  After the lemonade was served and their friendly chitchat ran its course the man sat up straight. “Well, Reverend Mother, I trust the padre has explained to you our plan for saving the orphanage.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Only that you have taken an interest in our predicament and are prepared to help. God bless you, señor. We would not be in this situation if the government hadn’t suddenly burdened us with many new rules and regulations. They’re requiring us to update the electrical and plumbing systems for the entire campus. They’re even demanding we have a resident physician, something we cannot possibly afford and that is not necessary anyway. In our 160 years the doctors of Sevilla have always taken very good care of the children.”

  He nodded empathetically. “Yes, that’s wonderful, very commendable. Now as to our plan, I represent a group of investors who are interested in seeing Sevilla grow and prosper, to see it catch up with the times.”

  It was common knowledge Sevilla remained underdeveloped compared to Madrid and Spain’s other big cities and she liked it that way. She cherished its small-city feel, family-friendly culture, and old traditions. But she could see things were changing: gated communities, giant chain stores, even the siesta—young people were no longer taking off the afternoon hours to eat and relax from their increasingly frantic lives.

  “To that end we’d like to build you a brand-new facility.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “A new orphanage?”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother. One that will more than satisfy the government.”

  She wanted to jump out of her chair and hug the man. “But that’s wonderful!”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother. And we’ve even found the perfect location; you and the children will love it.”

  For an awkward moment the two sat and looked at each other, she being thoroughly perplexed.

  “But I don’t understand . . .” she sputtered.

  The man squirmed, as if sitting on something uncomfortable, then cleared his throat. “Your current location here by the Guadalquivir River will be the site of a beautiful new outdoor shopping arcade. And no ordinary one, either. It will be what they call a ‘factory outlet,’ como los unos que los Americanos tienen. And it will be solar powered. We’ll use part of the land for a solar farm. The entire complex will be the first of its kind in all of Andalusia.”

  The man’s enthusiasm did nothing to lessen her shock. “But señor, I don’t understand. A shopping mall? Here? I thought you were going to save us.”

  “We are, Reverend Mother, we are! And it’s not a shoppi
ng mall, it’s a—”

  “Yes, yes, but—”

  “Look, Reverend Mother, I understand this is a lot for you to digest. But my investors and I believe that when you think and pray about it, you will see it’s your best option. Your only option, really. What we are proposing is not a bad thing. The land we’ve chosen for the orphanage is beautiful, out in the country. And it will enable you to keep your doors open for another 160 years!”

  “But the church, the history of this place . . .”

  “We’ve thought of that too, of course. We will not be demolishing any of the main historic structures. We’re hiring a very famous architect to renovate them in a respectful way. We’ve already heard from a major clothier interested in occupying the sanctuary—a very upscale brand name, very tasteful. And a sculpted monument to your ministry, which will include a permanent donation box, will be erected in a place of honor, at the very center of an elegant al fresco food court.”

  TUESDAY, APRIL 25 (9:32 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME)

  NEURONET FABRICATION PLANT; MOUNTAIN VIEW, CALIFORNIA

  “Where is she?” Jared muttered to himself. He looked again at his cell phone: 9:32 a.m. Maggie was two minutes late.

  He was standing just inside the entrance to NeuroNet’s main fab, a one-million-square-foot facility located ten miles from corporate headquarters. He breathed in deeply to calm himself, to remind himself of how good it felt to be free—to say sayonara to a lifetime of enforced confinement.

  Idly looking around at the fab’s cavernous space, he recalled his thirteenth birthday, when Maggie first spilled the beans about his incarcerated upbringing. She had learned the secret from her dad, his personal chauffeur.

  His parents, she told him that day, lived in deathly fear for his safety. They worried he’d suffer the fate of his older brother, Jack Jr., who was kidnapped for ransom and ultimately murdered. After supposedly a whole lot of soul-searching, they decided it would be safest if Jared were randomly shuttled from one secluded property to another, accompanied only by a small troupe of very trusted servants, which included Maggie and her dad.

  He scowled at the painful memory. It was like a perverted shell game!

  He glanced at his cell again: 9:34 a.m.

  She has some nerve keeping me waiting.

  He stared blankly at the fab and resumed his childhood recollections.

  He surely would’ve gone bonkers back then—even committed suicide, which he’d thought about more than once—if not for computers. His old man made sure there was one in every room of every mansion Jared ever lived in. The Web became his best friend, the only way he was able to learn about and interact with the world—after quickly learning to defeat the severe restrictions his overbearing father had placed on its use.

  He smiled at the memory then looked at his cell again: 9:35 a.m. “Damn!” he muttered.

  Jared wanted Maggie to revere computers as much as he did—to value their supreme importance to people’s lives. After all, his grand, altruistic vision for improving man’s lot—for making amends for his father’s insufferable greediness—depended on privatizing NeuroNet. And on the success of his first chip, Quantum I, which he had designed during those long, lonely years under virtual house arrest.

  “Hey there,” Maggie said, striding into the building. Her face looked tight, her eyes distracted.

  He glared at her. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, lots going on we need to discuss.”

  “Not yet. You’re my PR person now and you need to see how chips are made—it’s awesome.”

  “Jared—”

  But he wouldn’t take no for an answer and told her so. Ultimately she gave in and, following his lead, put on a hair net and white bunny suit. The plant needed to be kept totally spotless—thousands of times cleaner even than a hospital operating room—because microprocessors were ultrasensitive to contamination.

  He walked her into view of the vast assembly line, manned by both people and robots.

  “Ta-da!” He swept a hand across the busy scene. “The chips that’ll transform the world. That’ll transform NeuroNet into the world’s biggest philanthropist—bigger than Buffett or Gates. The chips that’ll make up for my old man’s sins.” He gave Maggie a big, proud smile.

  She answered him with an icy stare. “Jared, I’m not some TV camera so don’t talk to me that way, okay? I really need you to stop and listen. We have important business to discuss.”

  He hired Maggie to head up NeuroNet’s PR because there was no one on Earth he trusted more. But she could be a pain in the butt sometimes—like now.

  “More important than these chips? Ha!” He took her hand and pulled her further into the fab’s operation. “Did you know there are now more computer chips in the world than people? And they’re talking to each other all the time, 24/7, running the world in ways large and small.”

  She scowled. “They don’t run the world, Jared, people do. People tell your beloved chips what to do.”

  “True, true. But computer chips execute the orders—or not. And they chatter among themselves in a language all their own. When people are sleeping, chips are still awake, huddling, deciding, executing. And more and more we’re totally trusting them, letting them do what they think is best. So, yeah, in the end they do run the world.”

  She shook her head and said nothing.

  They came alongside the station where giant machines were spitting out small ingots of purified silicon, slicing them into ultrathin wafers. These were the foundations upon which miniature forty-story skyscrapers—Quantum I microprocessors—were built.

  “My old man’s first commercial chip, the thing that got him the Nobel Prize, went into the first-ever handheld calculator. Only geeks used them.” He picked up a handful of wafers and waved them in front of Maggie’s face. “But now these, these little slices of computer salami, control everything: military systems, Christmas ornaments, ATMs, cell phones, cars, spaceships—these guys have more clout than all the political leaders put together.”

  “Jared!” Maggie swiped at the wafers and missed. “Please, just listen to me for a moment.”

  He flung away the wafers and faced her. “What?!” he barked, swiveling his eyes skyward.

  “Sometimes I just wanna quit, you know? You’re like a baby. A willful, spoiled baby.”

  “You can’t quit; I just hired you.”

  Maggie stomped her foot. “Your mother is after me to change your mind about what you’re proposing to do, and I agree with her. It’s nuts. Buying out the stockholders? Giving away NeuroNet’s profits? Her lawyers are threatening to have you declared incompetent.”

  “Whatever!” He looked at her defiantly. “My mother is a control freak and now that my dad’s gone she wants to dig her claws into me too. Forget it! I’m calling the shots now. What I say goes. End of story. Next.”

  Maggie shook her head and breathed hard. “An editorial in this morning’s Wall Street Journal claims what you’re proposing is illegal. That NeuroNet’s bylaws—your dad’s written intentions for the company—forbid it. The Security Exchange Commission is investigating.”

  “The SEC! Let ‘em! Once we become a 501(c)(3) we won’t be playing by Wall Street’s greedy rules anymore.” He trained his eyes on her as though they were flamethrowers. “What else?”

  He softened his stare. Maggie was nearing the end of her rope—he could see that. He needed to be careful. He couldn’t imagine life without her.

  “That reporter woman, Allie Armendariz. Her assistant keeps bugging me about letting her interview you again. I’ve told her absolutely not. I don’t know why you didn’t hold a press conference in the first place, like I wanted. Now that you’ve singled her out it’s gone to her head—and trust me, she’s not going to leave us alone.”

  Jared hesitated and decided it was time to relent. “All right. No more interviews, unless you say so.” Then quickly he took Maggie’s hand. “Okay, Mommy? Can we get on with the tour?”

  C
HAPTER 14

  GOING DEEP

  TUESDAY, APRIL 25 (11:15 A.M. HAWAIIAN-ALEUTIAN STANDARD TIME)

  WAIKIKI BEACH; HONOLULU, HAWAII

  At an average cruising speed of 500 knots, Hero took roughly five hours to annihilate the 2,275 nautical miles from San Diego to Oahu. Calder steered her into the slip reserved for them in the fashionable Waikiki Marina Resort. Choppers circled overhead while gawking, bathing-suit-clad spectators lined the famous white sand beach.

  Allie, still on the air, made some hurried remarks about their arrival then quickly signed off. She had to pee badly.

  “You holding up okay?” he said.

  She was unstrapping herself as fast as possible. “Yeah, but I shouldn’t have drunk so much water. I’ll know better from now on.”

  The break lasted only long enough for them to freshen up and give interviews to local reporters. In the process they learned whales back in San Diego were still no longer beaching themselves, news that everyone hailed as encouraging.

  Once at sea again, bound for Nagasaki, she reminded Calder about his promise to explain his military connection.

  “We’re not on, right?”

  “No.” Then she added, “I’ll tell you whenever we are, trust me.”

  “I do, it’s just that—anyway, I do.”

  A moment passed before he began. “It happened four years ago, when my wife died. Nell. She was a marine biologist working at a polynya in the Arctic, between Ellesmere Island and Greenland. Her specialty was whales.”

  “Polynya?”

  “Yeah, I know, most people have never heard of one. It’s a place on the ice where warm water currents create a lagoon that attracts all kinds of animals. I visited it many times. It’s pretty amazing.”

  “So how did she die, your wife?”

  Silence.

  “They say it was a CME, a coronal mass ejection, or at least—”