by Paul Anlee
Greg looked at this hands. They were covered in blood, dust, and grease. He fought back his tears.
“There was an explosion...at the lab.”
“Oh, no! Are you okay?”
“Yes, but Kathy...Kathy’s gone.”
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“We were heading out for lunch to celebrate. I had to go to the washroom first, and I stopped at the lab window to take a look because, you know, I…I still couldn’t believe it. We were going to save the Earth. Literally, save the Earth. We were so excited.
“And then it exploded. I was just standing there, looking in, and it exploded right in front of me. Or imploded. I’m not sure which. When I got back up, everything was cloudy and there was debris blowing around. I yelled, but I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t see anything.
“I tried to get in there, but the wind was too strong, and everything was flying toward the chamber. It was insane! The Eater was sucking air through the hole in the tank as fast as it could. It was like being in a tornado. All I could do was hang on for my life. Debris was flying everywhere.
“I finally spotted her. She was unconscious, pinned against what was left of the tank. Then she was gone.
“I couldn’t help her,” he sobbed. “I couldn’t help her. There was nothing I could do. She’s gone.”
PM Hudson stared at him, horrified disbelief on her face.
“What about the Eater?”
“It’s out in the open. Growing. And we can’t stop it. It absorbed those chamber walls like they were nothing. Now that it’s got air and the building around it, hell, that whole damn mountain to eat, it’ll be growing faster than ever.
“What about your tractor beams? Can’t we get them going?” the PM asked.
“They were on the inside of the isolation chamber. They’re gone now. And there’s no way to arrange an alternative with the Eater growing so fast. In a little over a week, all the air and the oceans are going to be gone. In two weeks, the planet won’t exist anymore.”
The Prime Minister ran over to the door and stuck her head outside. The office was a beehive of activity.
“Oh, Madam Prime Minister,” her secretary said, “something terrible has happened. There’s been an explosion at SFU. The Eater is loose. According to Security, Drs. Liang and Mahajani are missing. They were logged into the lab where the containment tank is—where it was—and they haven’t been found.”
“She’s dead. He’s with me,” replied the PM, calmer than she believed possible. Her secretary was stunned speechless. “Get Sturton in here,” she ordered, referring to her Minister of Internal Security. She ducked back inside.
“Greg, what can we do?”
“Nothing. It’s over. The planet is done.”
“Can we get to Vesta?”
“You can’t,” he replied. “The Shifting Stations have been deactivated. There’s nothing you can do.”
“What do you mean, deactivated?”
Her secretary tapped twice and opened the door. “Minister Sturton is here.”
“Show him in.” The Prime Minister rose to greet her colleague. “Michael. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
“Madame Prime Minister,” he responded as he shook hands. “Francine, all hell is breaking loose out there. What happened at the university?”
She gestured for him to sit down. He noticed Greg’s shabby appearance with some surprise. “Dr. Mahajani?”
“This is all related, I’m afraid,” she replied. “There’s been an explosion at the labs and the Eater is free of its isolation chamber.”
“Oh, that’s not good,” Sturton muttered.
“Greg doesn’t think we can do anything to control it now. I’m not even sure we can get away.”
“What about our contingency plans?” asked Sturton. “We can take the chopper to the Blaine Shifting Station and be in Vesta within hours, a day at most.”
Hudson’s secretary tapped at the door and poked her head into the office.
“Madam Prime Minister, excuse me, but I think you need to see this.” In the second it took Hudson to nod, her Secretary had already crossed halfway to the credenza. She picked up television remote, and hit the power button. A screen rose from the credenza and the picture came to life.
“It’s a report from the launching pad near Blaine,” she explained, and turned up the volume.
A mob was gathering at the site, and they were blocking access from the main road.
“...reporting to you, live, from the main Project Vesta launching site near Blaine, Washington. As you can see, things are chaotic.
“If you’ve just tuned in, here’s what we know so far. At 12:20 this afternoon, there was an explosion at the Simon Fraser University Science Complex, after which a large gray dome appeared at the site of the blast. At least two people have been reported missing. It is still not apparent who or what caused the blast, or the nature of the gray object. No one has taken responsibility, and no explanation has been forthcoming from the university.
“This mysterious object appears to be absorbing everything it comes into contact with, and it’s growing.
“Today’s story is adding to the widespread panic that began earlier this afternoon with reports of millions of parishioners disappearing from Yeshua’s True Guard churches around the world.
“According to listeners, Alum, Head of Yeshua’s True Guard Church, declared in his morning sermon that Judgment Day is upon us.”
Cameras panned the scene, before zooming in on their reporter being jostled by the shouting crowd near the front gate of the rocket launch complex.
“There’s new activity at the main gate,” the reporter announced, and the cameraman panned the crowd.
A knot of people pushed past the small security contingent and terrified guards, opening the way for more to follow.
A distraught father clutching a curly-haired toddler yelled into the microphone, “The end of the world is here. I’m getting my family off the planet!” He followed the crowd as it broke through security and ran toward the rocket sitting majestically on its pad.
The guards stepped back and let them pass, eyeing the flow longingly. One young officer broke from his colleagues and joined the crowd. The older guard who’d been standing beside him straightened his posture and stood his ground.
PM Hudson was stunned. “What do they think they can accomplish? Do they believe they can pilot a rocket to Vesta? Do they think they can force the crew to take them?”
“People do stupid things when they panic,” muttered Greg. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter; the rockets were just a diversion. The Shifting Stations are what’s important, and they’re done. They’re totally useless now. I’m afraid you’re stuck here.”
“You said earlier they were deactivated. Can’t we reactivate them?” she asked.
“It’s not that easy. Somebody sabotaged every single one of them. They killed the technicians and stole the superconductors.”
“Can’t we just drop in a new one in and activate it?”
“No, its supply of entangled particles is gone with it. We’d need to generate a new supply, put half of them on a rocket, and ship them to Vesta.” He pointed to the television where the panicked crowd was circling the launch pad. “I don’t think they’re going to let us do that. There’s not enough time, anyway.”
“Okay, so what should we do then? Should we go to the bunker?” She looked at Sturton.
Greg shrugged. “That might give you an extra week before the entire planet is consumed. If it’s worth it to you to have an extra few days to spend with your family, go for it. Personally, I’d advise you to accept your fate and make your peace.”
“Accept our fate?” protested Sturton. “Just lie down and die? That’s what you recommend?”
“There really is nothing else you can do at this point,” answered Greg. He turned to the Prime Minister. “I just wanted to come by to say goodbye, and to tell you that it was an honor to work with you.”
He could see it finally sink in. PM Hudson’s shoulders fell for the briefest moment. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded. “Thank you. It has been a pleasure working with you, as well, Dr. Mahajani, and I’m very sorry for your loss.” She extended her hand.
Greg shook her hand, and tried to smile in a reassuring way. “This will all be over quickly enough,” he said. “Go to your bunker. That way you won’t just slowly asphyxiate. In six days, once the planet’s atmosphere is gone, throw open the doors to the vacuum. Or you can just wait there for the Eater to come.”
He placed his free hand tenderly over their clasped hands. “I’m really sorry,” he said, and then he was gone.
33
Greg materialized in a minor corridor of Pallas Service Tunnel 5. It was empty for the moment. Correction, it was empty of people.
Half a dozen Cybrids were working on the finishing touches. Judging by the tidy rows of livestock pens and garden beds being prepared a few hundred yards away, the tunnel was designated for farming.
The scientist staggered down a narrow road between fenced-in fields. The road ran straight as far as the eye could see. Looking right and left, he could just make out the sky-colored sidewalls of the tunnel a few kilometers away in either direction.
Okay, so that puts me heading either north or south—he reasoned. Without knowing the direction of spin, he wasn’t sure which. They’d started rotating the asteroid years earlier, providing the habitats with a comfortable 0.8G of artificial gravity. It was a bit higher in the service tunnel, which was closer to the surface and experienced a greater centrifugal force.
Greg’s steps fell heavier than 0.8G could account for.
Alum stages a coup, colonists who aren’t members of the YTG Church are forcibly returned to Earth to their certain death, and the best I can do is save myself?
He left the Cybrids to their work and searched for an elevator to take him to the colony level.
“Pardon me, sir.” One of the Cybrids had noticed him. “You shouldn’t be here yet.” It registered his condition. “Are you alright? Do you need help?”
Greg attempted to brush by. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine. I just got lost, and I stumbled and fell. I’m okay, though. Could you please direct me back to the nearest elevator shaft?”
“Of course, sir,” replied the Cybrid. “You’ll want to catch up on the events on Earth, I would imagine. Things have gotten rather crazy there. Thank God, we’re safe.”
“Yeah, thank God,” Greg said with no enthusiasm. “The elevator shaft?”
“The nearest one is four-hundred, seventy-eight meters that way, on the east side,” the Cybrid answered. A metallic tentacle snaked out of its body and pointed back the way Greg had come.
He thanked the Cybrid and started walking. The elevator entrance was easy to find. It took him “up” toward the colony tube nearer the center of the asteroid.
Greg focused on the mundane details of navigating within the asteroid habitats. It took his mind off feeling lost, out of place. He’d never felt so detached and dislocated in his life.
He had no idea what he was doing or how he’d survive. He was on the official list for Vesta so he probably should’ve gone there, but Alum’s coup had changed everything. His instincts screamed, “Hide!” He would try to stay incognito for as long as possible while he figured things out.
The elevator released him into the colony tunnel. It was the first time he’d ever stood in the middle of any habitat city. The engineering was impressive. Stunning concrete-and-steel-and-glass towers stretched as far as he could see along both sides of the pristine, tree-lined streets. It was a work of art.
It’ll be easier to hide in plain sight—he thought. He picked a busy boulevard and headed for the clusters of people gathered around public viewing stations scattered down the street and in the decorative plazas. There was a quiet group huddled in front of the nearest screen, and he joined it to see what the excitement was about.
News stations were broadcasting live images of the Eater absorbing SFU’s Shrum Science Centre and starting to bite into the Academic Quadrangle. The monstrosity grew while they watched.
The colonists following the events on the video screens shared their observations in nervous sidelong whispers, as if afraid to turn away for more than an instant.
Greg’s disheveled appearance drew a few curious glances but he smiled and shrugged, and was politely ignored. He stared at the screen for a few minutes, watching the beginning of the end for civilization on Earth.
Someone chewing a sandwich walked past him; he realized he hadn’t eaten in hours. He was about to ask for directions to a food dispensary when a commotion at one end of the street caught his eye. Curious, he wandered toward the source. He was half a block away when yelling and shoving broke out. Oh, great. Now what?
A police squad in riot gear banged their batons against plexiglass shields. They were pushing people away from the broadcast screens and hustling them toward an open town square.
When did Vesta’s Security forces acquire riot gear? That was never part of the plan.
The police let some people through their cordon but not everyone. Only those few wearing a white bracelet–Greg noted. He’d seen the bracelets being handed out at the Diamond Cathedral but had no idea of their significance. Now it was obvious. Us and them. Divide and conquer—the oldest strategy in the book.
This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen in the colonies. They’d designed Security to maintain the peace, not disrupt it.
Another group of riot police herded people his way from a side street. He found himself caught up with the crowd. He moved toward the edge, but the riot shield of a frightened young officer pushed him firmly back into the fold. Greg struggled to stay on his feet and move with the flow.
Threatened by batons, tear gas, and guns, he and the crowd had no choice but to shuffle and bump along wherever the police herded them.
Guns? How did those get here? Project Vesta hadn’t authorized any guns. They’d specifically decided against it.
By the time his group reached the town square, it had grown to over a hundred. The police merged them with other groups that had been similarly forced in from adjacent streets.
Greg jostled his way through the crowd and over to a cluster of trees. He’d had enough; he was getting out of here until he better understood his situation.
When he thought no one was watching, he shifted from the cover of the trees to an apartment ten stories up in an adjacent tower. He peered down at the people being manhandled in the square. At some signal he couldn’t see, police all around the square took four big steps back from the crowd they’d pushed into the middle.
And with good reason. Right before his eyes, a few hundred people disappeared, and then another few hundred. One second they were there. The next second, they were gone. Shortly after, about the same number appeared in their places. The new arrivals were all wearing white bracelets.
More replacement colonists from the YTG Church.
Many of the newcomers carried small suitcases and walked with confidence, their backs straight and their heads held high. Some looked understandably confused, but they gave an overall sense of being calm and happy. Eager. They gazed upon their new world with joyous wonder.
The police cordon dissolved, and he could just make out an announcement over a loudspeaker.
“Children of Yeshua, welcome to Pallas!”
He wasn’t surprised; it was logical the Church would have taken over all three of the asteroid colonies, not just Vesta. Alum always was thorough.
The announcer spelled out organizational details to the crowd, how they would be registered with the local authorities, and be assigned housing and new jobs. They were given an overview of the geography of the colony and introduced to their local representative.
Could Alum’s people have subverted the entire organizational structure of the Vesta Project? Infiltrated the colonist selection process to fav
or adherents of the True Guard Church? Planted his own police force? It was hard to imagine.
Greg clutched the windowsill to steady himself. How long had this been going on, and how could he and Kathy not have known anything about it? It must run deep. Just how far had Alum gone to achieve all this?
He thought back to the mysterious deaths of several world leaders long before the Eater escaped. Had that been Alum all along, eliminating anyone who didn’t believe as he did just to secure his own political position?
Had Alum disrupted their plan to save Earth so he could create a world—three worlds—occupied by his own followers? Surely, no one could be that evil. What kind of person would do that?
He felt sick.
Following the announcements, the crowd broke up and formed neat lines in front of some hastily erected tables bearing the first letter of their last names.
The whole situation was surreal. The scene below looked more like a cruise ship welcome party than disaster refugees fleeing to an asteroid colony in outer space.
How can you all be so calm?—he wondered. Earth and everyone you left behind is doomed, not just in some theoretical unknown future, but doomed to be obliterated from existence within a couple of weeks at most.
He couldn’t believe they knew what was really happening. Are they complicit, or just sheeple blindly doing as their Church leader tells them?
The lines advanced. When people reached the front, they presented a card to the bureaucrats behind the table. The light from the sun tube high above the plaza glinted off the embedded gold-colored chips in the cards. The clerks waved the cards over a tablet and consulted the screen. They tapped something in and printed out several sheets of paper.
Most everyone smiled cheerfully, thanked the bureaucrat, and hurried off, consulting one of the printouts, trailing family members behind them. A map to their new homes?
The notion of having to fake membership in Yeshua’s True Guard Church or any other just to be housed and fed was abhorrent to Greg. I can’t be part of this group; there has to be another way. Maybe it’s only here. Maybe Vesta or Ceres are still safe—he told himself.
