The Null Prophecy
Page 30
As Hero zoomed ahead on autopilot, Calder concentrated on interpreting the various palpable sensations arising from her deft maneuvering through the deadly waters. There were slight pressures on his body—now right, now left—accompanied by periods of weightlessness. And jolts, one after the other, resulting from Hero’s skipping over clawing waves.
He flinched whenever the dark shape of an iceberg whizzed by in the gathering dusk. There was no choice but to trust their safety to Hero’s finely tuned electromechanical instincts and abilities.
Trust.
He thought of Allie.
Faith.
But he admonished himself to stay focused on their perilous situation.
Minutes later, with the last of the icebergs well behind them, he sat back and breathed easy. They were now safely on the leeward side of South America, in the wide open waters of the Atlantic. He kissed the pads of his fingers then laid them on the console. Hero’s collision avoidance system had survived its first supersonic trial by fire.
A moment later Allie began filing a report.
He shook his head.
Tireless.
He glanced at the speed log. Hero was holding steady at Mach 1.4. At this rate they were on track to reach the centroid in just under eight hours—still plenty of time.
TUESDAY, MAY 2 (8:40 A.M. CHINA STANDARD TIME)
SHANGHAI JIAO TONG UNIVERSITY; SHANGHAI, CHINA
ESTIMATED TIME TO IMPACT: 9 HOURS 8 MINUTES
Zhaohui Tang blinked when all the large wall screens went blank, surprised only by how long her hack-proof computer network had managed to hold up against the virus. She called out to her grad students, who quickly gathered around her.
The office lights fluttered nervously, danced to the inconstant current coming from the emergency generator. She knew the students were tired and hungry. The mood was unmistakably sullen.
“Listen, everybody,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I’m very grateful that you have all chosen to stay with me for so long. Practically everyone else in the university has left; I’m now giving you permission to leave as well. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
“What about you, professor?”
“I’m leaving too. But I am not quitting. I’m already thinking of ways to defeat the virus. We must all work together to neutralize it. But first we must protect ourselves.”
“But how do we get home now?” one student whined. “The streets are jammed and looters are everywhere. We’re safer here!”
She looked at them sternly. “Soon the fuel for the generator will run out, plus there is no food here. No, it is better for you to go home and find shelter in your basements. The CME will be hitting tonight.”
“Is there no way to get more fuel or food so we can stay here?” said Zhang Wei, her most prized student.
“Believe me, Zhang, I’ve tried everything. Pulled every string, called in every favor. It’s hard now even to get anyone on the phone. Shanghai’s like a ghost town.”
The students relented and quickly began telling each other what they were going to do—stay or leave. She remained silent, looking blankly at the talking heads all around her. A minute later she felt a queasiness stir within her.
The room began to quiver.
“Duck, everybody!” she shouted.
“Earthquake!” someone yelled.
Zhaohui jumped up from her chair. Feeling lightheaded, she froze and swayed on her feet. A chorus of plaintive, panicky cries arose from the students.
She staggered toward the nearest door frame, but she stumbled and fell. Her hands flew out just in time to keep her nose from crashing into the tile floor.
Several moments later the room stopped quaking. But when she tried to lift herself, inexplicably, her muscles did not obey. Every move she tried making ended up being exaggerated. Every intention led to an overreaction.
Lying on the cold tile, feeling as uncoordinated as an infant, she looked around in confusion. Everyone in the room was either sprawled on the floor or tripping over their own two feet, dropping heavily, like so many bowling pins.
TUESDAY, MAY 2 (2:40 A.M. CENTRAL EUROPEAN SUMMER TIME)
POOR CLARES’ SACRED HEART CONVENT; SEVILLE, SPAIN
ESTIMATED TIME TO IMPACT: 9 HOURS 8 MINUTES
Mother Yolanda, ensconced in her small, stone-walled cell, was at the radio twisting the tuning knob this way and that, chortling with glee. The world was at her fingertips—the babble of rapidly changing channels like music to her ears.
Abruptly, she became conscious of an indistinct voice shrieking above the noisy electronic rapids. She concentrated on it. Tried to understand what it was saying.
When the task became too difficult, her eyes flew open. It took her a moment to realize she had been dreaming.
But not entirely.
Her radio was actually on, hissing and babbling quietly. She must have forgotten to turn it off last evening after unsuccessfully trying to broadcast her thanks to the world.
She lifted her head from the pillow and stared in the direction of the staticky din, which sounded unusually chaotic. The young sisters would probably blame it on the mischievous sun. But knowing the enemy, she doubted it.
Lying back down, she picked up on the loud chugging sounds of the portable generators outside and prayed the racket was not disturbing the children’s sleep. The sisters told her the electrical blackout too was caused by the sun—but none of these disruptions were a coincidence, of that she was sure.
For many minutes she tried unsuccessfully to fall back asleep. At last, sitting up, she reached out in the darkness for the bedside lamp.
It was not there.
Odd.
She tried over and over again but her groping hand found nothing but air. She stopped, closed her eyes, and gave herself a moment to wake up more fully. Then she tried again, but the problem persisted.
Is it my hands?
My mind?
She rebuked the enemy and prayed for help. When she tried again, at last her hand met the lamp and switched it on.
Thank you, Father.
Sliding out of bed, she felt strangely out of control. Her legs, arms—they were not working quite right.
Am I dying?
She heard a scream from somewhere and tumbled onto the stone floor. Her frail body shivered, unable to rise.
The babbling from the radio grew more boisterous and quickly filled the small cell. It no longer sounded like music to her ears, but like pleas from anguished souls on the other side of the grave.
Lying helpless and frightened on the hard, chilly ground, Mother Yolanda crossed herself and prayed.
TUESDAY, MAY 2 (10:10 A.M. AUSTRALIAN CENTRAL STANDARD TIME)
CHARLES DARWIN UNIVERSITY; CASUARINA, AUSTRALIA
ESTIMATED TIME TO IMPACT: 9 HOURS 8 MINUTES
Sara arrived at Lulu’s tank wheeling a large tub of squid.
“Breakfast!” she sang out.
Sara leaned into the tank and stroked Lulu’s nano-rough skin. Sara’s academic advisor had explained that a pilot whale’s skin secreted a unique anti-microbial gel, which he hoped to replicate in order to create a line of mildew-resistant paint.
“Hungry, girl?” she laughed. “Of course you are.” The meds being used to keep the baby whale calm were also stimulating a voracious appetite.
She took a fistful of squid and held it out to Lulu, but her hand overshot the mark. Sara thought nothing of it and simply adjusted her aim. But when it kept happening she felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle.
Lulu crashed against the side of the tank. Soon the entire warehouse-sized rescue center was alive with the unmistakable sounds of distress—and not just the animals this time. People everywhere were collapsing, as if they were drunk.
“Sara!”
She turned to the voice. It was Dirk. He was lurching toward her from one holding tank to another.
“Dirk! What’s happening?”
She took a step forward but tripp
ed over Lulu’s feed tub, face-planting into its slimy contents.
TUESDAY, MAY 2 (3:40 A.M. ISRAEL DAYLIGHT TIME)
MOUNT OF OLIVES; JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
ESTIMATED TIME TO IMPACT: 9 HOURS 8 MINUTES
Lorena, huddled under a vast dome of stars and a night sky roiling with swirling currents of red dye, was unable to sleep. Drowsily, she lifted her head and gazed across the Kidron Valley at the warm lights of Old Jerusalem.
Hidden by tall landscaping behind the Mount of Olives Hotel, she felt extremely tempted to take a room and sleep in a warm, comfortable bed. But her name and photograph were all over the local news. She couldn’t risk being caught, not now.
Lorena had spent the day touring many of the sacred sites blanketing the Mount of Olives—starting with the Garden of Gethsemane. She strolled its cobbled walkways through a small grove of gnarled, ancient olive trees—amongst which Jews of Jesus’ day used to sleep al fresco.
She loved the garden’s magnificent Church of All Nations, with its breathtaking Corinthian columns and mosaic pediment depicting Jesus as mediator between man and God the Father. Inside, she meditated over the enshrined patch of bedrock on which Jesus had reportedly kneeled, prayed, and sweated blood the night before his crucifixion.
After grabbing a shawarma from a street vendor—not as good as Myra’s—she visited the Church of the Assumption, the Church of Mary Magdalene, the Benedictine monastery, the Carmelite monastery, and finally the Pater Noster Church.
Now she wished desperately for sleep, but her swelling spiritual excitement kept her wide awake.
She heard screams.
Drunkards.
Even here!
The screaming didn’t stop. Nor did it, on careful hearing, sound like revelry. Wearily, she stood up to investigate; but her legs wouldn’t support her. With dogged effort she crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the bushes, and then, craning her neck, peeked out at what was happening.
People everywhere were collapsing like pillars of salt!
Instantly, she raised her eyes to the rubicund heavens and gave thanks.
The end—it’s finally happening!
MONDAY, MAY 1 (6:40 P.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME)
SPACE WEATHER PREDICTION CENTER; BOULDER, COLORADO
ESTIMATED TIME TO IMPACT: 9 HOURS 8 MINUTES
Dallan, his head resting on crossed arms atop the desk, was awakened by a computer alarm designed to signal changes in the CME. He heard a chorus of shouts outside his closed door.
That bad?
He sat up and began typing on the keyboard.
What the—?!
His fingers were refusing to obey him; they kept hitting the wrong keys. At last, with enormous effort—the shouts outside growing louder—he managed to type a simple command. Matrices of numbers flashed on the screen.
No!
The CME was speeding up.
He reached for the intercom, but his hand missed the call button. Something or someone crashed against the outside of his office door. Agog, he leapt out of his chair and—whoa!—his feet left the ground.
A moment later he crashed to the floor like a collapsing stick figure.
CHAPTER 46
POWER OF FAITH
TUESDAY, MAY 2 (TIME ZONE UNCERTAIN)
LOCATION UNCERTAIN
ESTIMATED TIME TO IMPACT: UNCERTAIN
Calder, out of ideas and fighting a rising sense of helplessness, looked out the windshield at the suffocating duskiness and saw nothing to give him any clue as to their exact whereabouts. All he knew for certain was Hero was barreling forward—presumably eastward—at some unknown, breakneck speed.
He conjectured they were somewhere in the South Atlantic but couldn’t know for sure until daybreak. Even then, given they were probably in open ocean, there was no guarantee of seeing any landmarks.
The crisis began hours earlier, when it became clear the nav system was taking Hero farther east than originally planned. At first he chose not to interfere, guessing the computer was optimizing their bearings on the fly and, for that reason, was delaying their turn northward. But when Hero continued heading in the direction of the Cape of Good Hope, he knew there was a serious problem.
Over and over he pressed the manual override button. But Hero kept streaking toward the southern tip of Africa. He tried other things as well: engaging the emergency brakes, pulling back on the throttle, switching off the ignition, even—and he held his breath when doing this—cycling the computer on and off. All to no avail. Inexplicably, nearly every one of Hero’s systems, even the radio, was frozen.
Desperate now, he flirted with the idea of ejecting. But what would that accomplish? The mission, all of his cleverness and hard work, would end in utter failure. He and Allie would land in the ocean—in all probability, in the middle of absolute nowhere—far from any rescue operation and totally at the mercy of the CME.
He rubbed his forehead.
I won’t let it end this way.
The curse will not win!
Miraculously, mercifully, Hero’s collision avoidance system was still doing its job. Calder could tell from the unremitting parade of evasive moves.
“Any luck?” Allie shouted.
Even the intercom was dead.
“No!”
Calder kept staring at the control panel for signs of life. Its stalled display incorrectly showed them dead in the water just southwest of Cape Town.
“Aaiy!” Allie yelled. “What was that?”
Instantly, their speed plummeted—as though some gigantic hand had seized Hero by the tail. Calder’s body snapped forward; the six-point harness pressed against his lungs and nearly suffocated him. He gasped for air and battled to maintain consciousness, while hastily scanning the dashboard for any explanation of what was happening.
A red warning light appeared on the dashboard, indicating a failure of the supersonic booster.
Damn it, nooo!
“Allie! Allie!” he shouted between gasps, his vision darkening. “Get ready to eject!”
No response.
Hero was shuddering severely now, in the grips of an insanely powerful force threatening to break her apart. On the precipice of passing out, he shouted more loudly, “ALLIE! SPEAK TO ME! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!”
Still nothing.
A frisson of fear, like a whiff of smelling salts, crystallized his panicky thoughts.
We’re going to die.
“Damn you!” Calder snarled at fate. “Damn you to hell!” Then he shouted, “Allie! Allie!”
He called to her again and again.
But there was no answer.
She was aboard a helicopter, the same one she used the last time she visited her mom at the nursing home. It was gently touching down on the roof of the adjoining hospital.
She jumped out and looked around.
How did I get to Los Angeles so fast?
She dashed into the church.
“Hey, everybody, it’s me, Allie. I’m home!
But no one was inside the main sanctuary.
¿Dónde están?
She couldn’t wait to tell them about Phil—they were finally getting married! She wanted Carlos to officiate.
She quickly searched the church offices—nobody!
“Carlos! Apa! Where are you guys?”
She bounded down to the basement, two steps at a time. At the bottom, she took hold of the doorknob—but it was locked!
“Open up, guys!” she said, banging on the steel-clad door. “It’s me, Allie. I’ve come home. I quit the network so I could be with you. C’mon, open up!”
For what seemed like many minutes she kept rapping the door with her knuckles until they bled. Then the stairwell filled with a maroon light.
Ay, Dios, no!
She pounded harder, weeping uncontrollably.
Oh, please, God, no, don’t let me be too late!
“Mamá, Apá, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Por favor, perdónenme.”
Finally, the door ga
ve way and she tumbled into the dark room, landing face down on its familiar worn, wooden floor. Before she could pick herself up she was blinded by a flash of brilliant white light and deafened by a chorus of desperate, deathly pleadings. She shut her eyes tightly, covered her ears with both hands, and screamed. But the light and sound and smell of death defeated her puny defenses.
She scrambled to her feet. But when she opened her eyes to see where she was going, she froze at the ghastly scene.
Littered everywhere—prostrate on the floor, slouched at tables piled high with food, lying motionless on canvas cots—were the scorched bodies of her family. Her mom and dad, huddled in the far corner in one another’s embrace; her aunts, uncles, cousins, her familia—all of them dead.
I should’ve been here!
I should’ve been here with you!
Please forgive me!
She saw herself being overtaken by maroon light, drowning in a loudening choir of unearthly voices.
“Ay, Dios mio, no, nooooooo!” she shrieked. “Perdonenme! Perdonenme! Perdonenme!”
TUESDAY, MAY 2 (TIME ZONE UNCERTAIN)
At last Hero came to a screaming, trembling halt. Hastily, Calder unharnessed himself and threw open the windshield. Raising himself on shaky legs, he twisted round to check on Allie. It was dawn, so he could see well enough that she was slumped in her seat, eyes shut.
Oh, god, no!
The horizon resembled a dusky stage lit by colorful footlights: red, orange, yellow, and baby blue. The sky high overhead glowed faintly red, as if it were on fire—an inkling, he knew, of things to come.
He called to Allie, but she didn’t respond. He looked around for help, but of course there was none. In the far distance he could see land.
Where in the world . . . ?
He lifted his right foot, placed it onto the seat cushion, but quickly withdrew it. Hero swayed dangerously in the water.
A few moments later, having decided on a better course of action, he gingerly placed his hands on the rim of the cockpit. Then, holding his breath—hypersensitive to Hero’s every tetchy reaction—he pushed himself up and flopped onto the broad bulkhead that separated the pilot and passenger cabins. From this prone position he could reach Allie.