by Hammond, Ray
He paused once more to ensure they were all keeping up.
‘Currently, only eleven per cent of our planet’s surface is under cultivation and we are expecting our population to continue to grow – perhaps to ten billion or more in the coming decades. We cannot support such a population with the present biocapital resources this planet has to offer. We are already seeing chronic water shortages affecting thirty per cent of the world’s population. Over the next thirty to forty years, the climatic re-engineering we are undertaking will add fifty per cent productive land and will add an entirely new hydrological resource. Today, most of the Siberian permafrost is at minus thirty degrees Celsius. Just lifting that to temperate levels and covering that much of the white tundra and taiga with vegetation and crops will reduce solar reflective radiation in the region by thirty-six per cent. That will reduce the warmth pumped back into the atmosphere by the same amount. That is the only way we can feed and clothe the people of the future and do so without exhausting current resources. We have no choice, ladies and gentlemen. Humankind is like a household living giddily off vanishing capital. There is no choice.’
Tye looked for, and found, nods of agreement. Suddenly he thought of his son, then of Calypso. The words he wanted flashed into his mind.
‘Remember: “Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven.”’
He glanced around the table. He guessed he wouldn’t have to identify his reference in such a Shakespeare-mad culture.
‘And I look to you, the Russian Federation, to be our partners in providing these remedies for the world’s people.’
He saw more, increasingly vigorous nods around the table.
‘The Phoebus Project represents a new age for humanity and this planet. After centuries of prosthetic technologies designed to extract greater and greater resources from the Earth to satisfy the ever-increasing material needs of humans, we have found a way to harness the vast pool of energy that streams past our planet only to be wasted. It is truly a new beginning. But there will be some small costs. I seem to recall one of your most famous countrymen declared that to make omelettes, you have to . . .’ He tailed off lest this reference should cause offence.
‘It will produce a fundamental shift in this planet’s ecology: the biological equivalent of the Triassic Age giving way to the Jurassic. We will take control of our environment and apply energy carefully and thoughtfully where it will provide the most benefit while causing the least harm. And remember, none of this would be possible without the pioneering efforts, creativity and imagination of late-twentieth-century Russian enterprise.’
That got them. Broad grins and nods greeted his reminder.
‘We shall not, repeat NOT, be melting the northern ice cap nor any of the major ice flows of these latitudes. We shall be eliminating seasonal ice in the Sea of Okhotsk and on the western edge of the Baring Sea, but we know this will have a negligible effect on global sea levels. All of you here will know that only ten per cent of polar ice is found in the Arctic. The great mass is at the Antarctic and we have no plans to modify any polar environments in the Southern Hemisphere. As we are all aware, eighty per cent of the world’s wealth is generated north of the equator.’
Tye didn’t wait for the environment minister to butt in again about the indigenous species. In particular he didn’t want the topic of native nocturnal life forms brought up in open session. Their sperm too would be frozen but their habitat would no longer exist. They would have to be completely relocated.
‘We shall be warming the atmosphere,’ he conceded. ‘But our energy will render over forty-six coal-fired power stations obsolete inside four months. A further two hundred can be decommissioned in the following year. The cities of East and West Siberia will never again need street lighting. In all, our ecologists and environmental economists have calculated that we will be adding the equivalent of two hundred and forty-four parts per million of CO2 to the atmosphere over Eastern Siberia and replacing the need for nearly six hundred PPM of man-made emissions. That will produce a net reduction in CO2 concentrations of over three hundred and fifty PPM.’
He paused to allow the delegation to complete their note-taking. He had every statistic in memory. He even knew what was likely to happen to all the little creatures caught up in these changes, but he didn’t want to discuss that here. The plan was to take samples of each of the important genus groups, clone sufficient for genetic diversity and then offer the clone bank to the Moscow Institute for breeding elsewhere.
‘We are also ensuring that there will be no climate re-engineering anywhere in the western quadrant of this hemisphere – there will be no activity over Greenland, for example. We intend to ensure that the deep-sea current continues to sink vigorously and that the CO2 absorption properties of the Northern Atlantic remain undisturbed.’
This was all so tedious. The corporation’s ecologists had provided over 2,000 gigabytes of data on the ecological impact of the project in readiness for the inevitable questions and objections of the global community.
‘I also want to refer you to our agricultural strategy. Over forty per cent of our plantations will consist of crops specially modified to absorb large amounts of CO2 – at the type of inhalation levels currently found in tropical regions. Our new forests will also be both diurnal and pseudo-nocturnal and thus will absorb carbon dioxide twenty-four hours a day.
‘We are going to extend the tree line of this planet eight hundred kilometres to the north and we believe the overall effect will be a significant improvement in evapotranspiration and a reduction in the build-up of the so-called greenhouse gases in our atmosphere. After all, we are harnessing–’ he evoked a theomagical metaphor he knew would still have meaning for a society that had re-embraced religion only a generation ago ‘– God’s own energy in this project.
Tye waited as translation was received by those few who required it. He then lifted his arms again and gazed directly at the E&E minister as if daring him to make another challenge.
‘Take care of our planet – you hear!’
‘We hear,’ responded the well-rehearsed Tye delegation, the English-speaking Russians hastening to join in.
He watched as the translation was received and more heads on the Russian side of the table nodded.
‘I propose that we should form a new collegium to review our plans for the wildlife of the region. Perhaps the minister could delegate one of his team to act as Chair. It can then review the plans we have made and report back to us jointly in due course.’
The minister nodded his head.
‘Now, I would like to move on to one subject that is of crucial importance to all of us.’
This was Tye’s biggest worry, the one thing that could completely wreck plans and developments that had been over ten years in gestation. He would have to have their complete understanding on these issues. He turned to a large map that stood behind him.
‘We cannot expect our friends in the People’s Republic of China to remain unmoved by the creation of a new region of opportunity so near their northern border,’ he began, choosing his words carefully. ‘Our agreement calls for the Russian government to maintain a corridor two hundred miles wide along the entire southern border with the People’s Republic of China. It will be Russia’s responsibility to maintain an adequate military force in this region at all times to deter any thoughts of an advance by the People’s Liberation Army or any other form of incursion towards our areas of investment. I would be grateful if General Padorin could provide more detail of the forces and equipment that will be permanently stationed along this corridor.’
This was the crunch. The Tye Corporation had to have the protection of the Russian Army against the Chinese hordes. Envy was the most powerful of political motivations, even if the coveted territory could be devalued at the turn of a switch. The army in the People’s Republic had grown to over one hundred million men and women and it would take a deployment of Russian armour and, most
importantly, Russian tactical nuclear weapons along the northern border to provide a clear and demonstrable guarantee of security for the Tye Corporation shareholders and the many new investors who were eager to take sub-leases on land in the new province. Tye knew, of course, that if things ever became really difficult he now had an awesome weapons capacity of his own, but that was not to be spoken of – ever.
*
Jack surfaced a mile offshore and trod water. In the distance, to the south-west, he could see the dark outline of Hope Island and its myriad twinkling lights. There was a clear sky and the bursts of laser communications added a canopy of intermittent illuminations. There was also a full moon. That would require extra caution. He had blacked his face for the mission – recalling, as he did so, that the last time he had used camouflage in such a way had been over fifteen years ago, when he had been preparing for his final active-service mission. Then he had been aboard a submarine that was rolling viciously in a large surface swell fourteen miles off the coast of North Korea.
He had drawn an automatic pistol from Security’s stores but had refused the box of ammunition the armourer had pushed across the counter. Then, to add to the man’s confusion, he had also declined to complete the electronic identification and registration procedure to confirm him as the authorized user. Only this would have given him access to the internal microprocessor that controlled the laser-sighted weapon. He had then requisitioned lightweight scuba equipment, once again without explanation. He had signed for the useless gun and the diving equipment and taken them back to his apartment where he had run a full safety test on the scuba gear in the bath. His security review was under way and his people had been told to expect incursions and similar tests of their defences. All his team were on edge. He intended to keep them that way.
He had reviewed Pierre’s security plans for the Moscow trip and had found them both detailed and thorough. Having once occupied a top slot in the league table of cities regarded as most dangerous for Tye executives, the Russian capital had improved over the years to the point where it was little more dangerous that any Western European city. The only real point of concern had been the motorcade to which they had insisted subjecting Tom on the day he arrived but that had passed off without event. Pierre reported that the entire corporate team was now ensconced in the Kremlin and was likely to remain there for several days. Jack had already seen one of the three Tye-Lears that had carried the Tye diplomatic mission returning for fresh supplies of Hope Island produce.
Jack had been able to meet with his boss in person for eleven minutes shortly before Tom had left for Moscow and he found the tycoon rested and relaxed. The media frenzy over the Los Angeles traffic crisis had receded: Tye had appeared totally focused on the deal about to be struck in Moscow and on the forthcoming One Weekend conference.
‘You do whatever you need, Jack,’ Tye had agreed with a wave as the corporation’s vice-president of security explained his plans for a radical review of protection procedures on the island and the need for more regular refugee sweeps. Since the Cuban navy had now been witnessed shooting at their own people as they tried to escape the country, Tom had agreed that any refugees and escaping rebels found in Hope Island waters would be brought ashore before being forwarded to one of the other countries prepared to accept them. Jack had warned Tom that with such an exalted guest list, the weekend conference would be a major trial of Hope Island’s state security procedures and he wanted to go over the plans and test them to ensure everything worked smoothly.
He checked his old analog wrist-compass and made sure of his heading. His LifeWatch with its sophisticated GPS locator was beneath the duvet back in his apartment overlooking the marina in Hope Town. He blew out his mask, released some air from his buoyancy jacket, sank to three metres and began the trudge for the shore. He was heading for the north-eastern tip of the island, aware that his patrols on the beaches and clifftops would be constantly scanning the water – as instructed by their standing orders. Low-level radar swept the surface for early warnings of approaching craft while drone sonars were deployed at every mile around the island’s perimeter in wait for the sound of propellors. The system was even sensitive enough to detect and identify the sound and rhythm of splashy swimmers.
He doubted whether either of the two patrol craft would be inshore. Their standing orders were now to patrol the edge of the exclusion zone with Cuba, over to the west.
Jack felt the increasing warmth of the water as he arrived in the shallows and he became aware of rocks rising up to meet him. He paused again and slowly rose to the surface. To his left was the tiny crescent bay that had been blasted out of the sheer rock face to provide a private beach for the main house. It was now floodlit for the benefit of the security cameras. The only landward approach to that patch of imported white sand was the silver funicular railway that rose from the rear of the beach up to the pool terrace one hundred and fifty feet above. The car was now at the top, inside its winch-house.
Getting his bearings, he submerged again and set off northwards. If the engineers had chosen the shortest route for the tunnel the outlet should be just below the surface, a further two hundred yards along the sheer cliff face that fell almost vertically into the sea. He had located several articles about its design on the networks. Various architects and engineering consultancies were so proud of their work on Thomas Tye’s mansion that they encouraged specialist journals and architectural magazines to print stories and diagrams of their various designs. None was permitted to publish pictures or plans of the house itself of course, but Jack had gathered more information than he needed and for this particular exercise it was important that he only used information that was generally available.
He checked his depth gauge and released air from his buoyancy jacket until the instrument registered two metres. Then he swam slowly along the rock wall. He was weighing the risks of having to use his main flashlight when he felt the current slightly above him. He stopped and allowed himself to rise into the stream. His pencil-light revealed the grating and he felt the gentle warmth of the current pushing against his wetsuit.
First he examined the bolts that secured the outlet cover to the rock face. As expected, they were too deeply embedded to yield to the unaided strength of a single swimmer, so he opened his tool bag and unclipped the diamond-tipped micro-saw that UNISA’s Technical Services had provided. The hand-held circular saw was driven by a tiny but enormously powerful electric motor and in two minutes Jack had cut a hole a yard square in the grille.
He returned the saw to its clip, refastened his tool bag and swam into the wide opening. Inside the seclusion of the steel tunnel, Jack was finally able to switch on his main flashlight. He could see that the bore continued level for about ten yards and then began its slow curve upwards into darkness. He wondered how the construction engineers had drilled such a tunnel through solid rock.
After four or five minutes of vigorous swimming Jack felt himself tiring against the opposing current and, despite his fitness, he began to think he might not make it. He checked his air: he had twenty minutes left and that immediately reassured him. Then he saw a dim light ahead that meant he had arrived under the large baffle and filter housing at the bottom of the pool.
*
Professor Sir Oliver Morton, Knight Bachelor of England and one of the world’s most distinguished genetic biologists, had thrown himself into practical work in a way that he hadn’t since he had been a PhD student thirty-one years before. Reluctantly, and only after a series of blazing family rows, he had relocated to Hope Island as his company’s new chairman had insisted. His wife, a professor of comparative philosophy at the University of Cambridge, had refused to join him in the move. Morton had faced a stark choice: resign and give up all realistic claim on future share options and the capital he had invested in Moleculture plc – all the liquid capital he possessed – or move with the company and endure separation from his wife and family. They had agreed to try living apart for six months.
Lucy Morton understood that to be fifty-five years old without any savings was an uncomfortable position, no matter how philosophical one might be.
At the same moment that Jack Hendriksen was arriving at the bottom of Thomas Tye’s swimming pool, Morton was rechecking an observation he had already rechecked eight times, under four different electron microscopes. He was in the company’s laboratory in Hope Island’s Science Park and he had been working all night, as had become his custom since arriving on the island. There could be no doubt about what he was seeing, but he would need other eyes to see the living cells, the photographs and computer images he was collecting.
The cells that had grown in the latest batch of Triticum spelta – a new strain of pseudo-nocturnal wheat – were right-handed.
Right-handed, not left-handed. ‘Left-handed’ was the biologists’ term for the universal polarity of all life on earth. Since the beginning of the earliest form of life on the planet, every cell, vegetable or animal, had selected only left-handed amino acids to make proteins. It had long been surmised that it was the polarity of the Earth’s own magnetic force – created by the inner metal core of the planet revolving more rapidly than the outer – that causes all living things to be so.
But these cells had a polarity that was the reverse of all other life that had been observed and they had evolved naturally, without intervention from Morton or any of the researchers on his team.
