Whatever Gods May Be

by George P. Saunders

  Zolan grumbled to himself as he took in the sight. He could see throngs of people milling about rather quickly on Main Street; there was in fact a large crowd at the entrance of Grant's Market that Zolan found particularly displeasing. There was no guessing what was happening down in Five Corners today, or for that matter every city probably all over the world. He couldn't blame the panicked multitudes below; for wasn't he soon to become a running, frightened refugee of Earth's last war? Still, the thought that he would presently be forced to fight his way through the demanding crowds at Grant's place was not a pleasant one. Slamming his hands against the driver's wheel, he cursed and pushed a button on his wrist watch.

  "Rover," he said through grit teeth, "are you tracking me?" The radio-watch blinked red, then filled the pick-up cab with the spaceship's deep, mechanical voice.

  "Of course I'm tracking you Zolan."

  Zolan wiped his wet forehead and continued to stare out at the town.

  "Rover, this isn't going to work," Zolan insisted, "the town is being overrun. There must be several hundred people alone trying to get into old Grant's store. I'll never get the soda in time."

  The ship didn't miss a beat.

  "That is a disturbing estimate, Zolan, but I'm afraid you must continue in your efforts. The HS unit is under considerable strain as it is in restricting Hall spread, and its effectiveness can expect to diminish as the Hall becomes critical. The forced breach has already caused Hall opening to display uncharacteristic behavior."

  "Nothing you can't handle, I hope, Rover?" he said.

  "No, but I don't like it. I'm monitoring major fault activity in this hemisphere, along with tectonic deformation .

  "Which are all normal perturbations any planet will experience when the Hall appears. You can't blame me for that."

  The Rover remained silent. Zolan sighed.

  "I'll try Annie's Pub, Rover. If I get delayed, I suppose you can always pick me up on the way out. This late, it doesn't really matter who sees you."

  That much was true. The frightened masses in Five Corners were far too preoccupied in scrounging for whatever they could in the way of food and water, preparing for a nightmare none had believed could ever happen. The Rover could well have rolled down Main Street with a line of parade floats following it and still have attracted little notice.

  "Affirmative," the Rover answered equably, then beeped off.

  Zolan started up the truck, then crept over the ridge on the dirt road leading into town. Not even aiming for Main Street, Zolan steered towards the barn-like building of Annie's tavern. Cars still dominated the streets, and people rushed back and forth to and from Grant's place, but the general vicinity around Annie's bar was reasonably uncluttered.

  Zolan grinded to a halt in back of the bar, then got out and stumbled to the front porch. Across the street, the Desert Fill gas station was surrounded by an army of demanding vehicles. Zolan fiddled with his bispecs, trying to spot Bob Howe, the station's owner, but the mass of metal and people around the pumps made this task impossible.

  A shrill, resonant voice rang out, that made Zolan visibly jump.

  "I'll be dipped! The Town Beast is still here."

  Zolan looked up at Annie Robles, standing in the doorway with an empty beer mug in one hand. She looked genuinely pleased to see Zolan; probably the only person in Five Corners who did, considering his unsavory reputation. On the rare instances he ever came into the town, he was deliberately unpleasant to everyone he came into contact. He was especially surly to Annie, but the big, friendly woman had taken a liking to Zolan from the first moment she laid eyes on him. Too jovial to take offense, the more Zolan insulted her whenever he stopped in for a quick snort, the more Annie's adoration would grow for the man. Zolan always found this slightly irritating, but he had to admit that though he detested everyone in Five Corners, Annie was probably the least objectionable. He was convinced in any case that this was because she was always very generous with her liquor.

  Zolan gave her a look of disgust, then returned his attention to the busy street outside of Grant's market and the gas station. Annie waddled down beside him, and raised her mug towards Main Street.

  "Never seen anything like it, Zolan. Everyone's gettin' all steamed up over nothin'. Thought you must've took off long ago."

  Zolan snorted deeply. "Doesn't anything scare you, woman, aside from an empty shot glass?" Zolan asked nastily.

  Annie laughed heartily, slapping Zolan roughly on the back.

  "Ah Zolan, I havn't seen you in six months, but you're still a bastard," Annie said good-naturedly. "Come on inside, and I'll give you a freebie. You're the only business I've had all day."

  Zolan followed Annie into the darkened bar, and crawled onto one of the high stools.

  "Scotch?" Annie asked as she was already pouring the J&B into a tall glass of ice.

  Zolan grunted; Annie poured herself a drink as well, then offered a toast.

  "To doomsday," she said merrily, then chugged the contents down to the bottom. "So tell me," she said, wincing as the scotch burned her throat, "Are you takin' off too?"

  "Good choice of words," Zolan chuckled snidely, "I'm leaving as soon as I can. What about you?"

  "Nah," Annie waved the idea away, then reached for the J&B bottle again, "I'm stayin' right where I am. Gonna have myself a good laugh when I start seein' folks come back home all long faced and embarrassed. All this talk of war and such," Annie snickered, "Never heard so much stuff like it."

  "I always knew you were stupid, Annie, but now I know that you're crazy too."

  Another roar of laughter rattled the bar. "Think I'm wrong? Same thing happened with that Kennedy thing and the Cubans, right? Lots of chatter and big talk about war, and this and that, and what happens? Nothing! Meanwhile, everyone's building tunnels and shelters or headin' for the hills like mad coyotes. Suddenly, everythings back to normal again." Annie paused to take another drink, "You'll see, Zolan. In a few days, it'll be as if nothing happened'."

  Zolan finished his drink and stared at Annie. His head was beginning to spin again from the renewed onslaught of alcohol, and he almost forgot why he had even come into the bar in the first place.

  "Yeah, maybe," he said distractedly. "Uh, listen, Annie, I need to buy some soda from you. Think you can manage that?"

  "No problem," she said, "In fact, today you can have it free. You're lucky! Old Grant's probably sellin' everything for double price today, and gettin' away wish it."

  Two minutes with Annie, and Zolan was already anxious to get out of the bar as soon as possible. Outside , the honking and sporadic yelling from cars and people seemed to be diminishing. Annie reached under her bar, and produced two large bottles of bicarbonate. She crashed them onto the bar, then proceeded to offer Zolan another drink.

  "No, I got to get back to the house." Zolan said, already off the barstool, with both bottles under either arm.

  "You just got here, Zolan. Stick around and get drunk with me. We'll have a good laugh together." Annie said cheerfully.

  "No, gotta git," Zolan said, "thanks for the drink." Annie looked wounded for a few moments, then broke out into a wide, drunken smile.

  "So where are you plannin' to run to, Zolan? Ain't gonna get far on the freeways. Their jammed all the way back to LA and to Vegas. You're probably safer up there in that two bit shack of yours."

  For some reason, Zolan stopped and turned to look at Annie. "Close up the place, Annie. Get out of here while there's still time. If you stick to the back roads going north..."

  "Nah," Annie again waved a meaty hand in contempt, "Ain't gonna waste my time. You know how I am, Zolan. Stubborn as a mule! You have a good trip, though. I'll see you in a couple of days. That is of course if you decide to come down here more than every six months."

  Zolan stared for a moment longer at Annie, then gave her a sad, crooked smile.

  "Good Bye, Annie." he said, then got out of there fast.

  We are not sure of sorrow,
r />   And joy was never sure;

  Today will die tomorrow;

  Time stoops to no man's lure;

  And love, grown faint and fretful,

  With lips but half regretful Sighs,

  And with eyes forgetful

  Weeps that no loves endure.

  ELEVEN

  ALC-117

  The U.S. Shuttle Challenger II gently pulled away from the Space Lab platform it had been coupled to for ten months. A few minutes later and the Space Lab that had been John and Cathy Phillips' home for so long, shrunk to a pinpoint of light, before disappearing completely among the sea of stars.

  Though both astronauts had enjoyed previous missions to the International Space Station, and to this latest model of the Space Lab, this most recent visit would be especially memorable for them. For almost a year, they had been the first husband and wife team to ever live in space. There was no poignant regret about leaving the Lab; there was, instead, genuine sadness. It was a sadness born out of the possibility - and increasing likelihood - that they would never see the orbiting science station again.

  For Earth was at war. The missiles had not been launched yet, but it was only a matter of time. The fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 was supposed to have ended any threat of nuclear war. And for almost thirty years, that threat had dimmed. Yet within the course of days, old hatreds seemed to spring back into life – ancient fears from both the West and the East surfaced anew. Now, the unthinkable was about to happen - no, was technically already happening - and it appeared that the point of no return had already been passed.

  Helpless, the Phillips' had been given their last orders only moments before disengaging their Challenger shuttlecraft from the Space Lab. Until further notice, John and Cathy Phillips would have to stay in space a little while longer.

  The Phillips' had good reason to be anxious. For one thing, Cathy was extremely pregnant, and giving reliable indications that she would any moment go into labor. Because of this premature development, the Challenger had been instructed to return to Earth one month ahead of the historically scheduled 'space birth' the Phillips' had planned on nine months earlier. However, as of this morning, the shuttle and its crew had been refused permission to land, baby or not. This alone, had given the two astronauts sound reason to worry, but their excitement for the new day didn't stop there.

  A much larger problem was confronting them; one no less terrifying than the outbreak of nuclear war on the world below. For while the Phillips' were blind to the critical situation hundreds of miles beneath them, the source of their more immediate - and mystifying - concern, was staring at them glaringly through the windows directly ahead.

  An enormous, black maw gaped through the bow view ports.

  Wavy and fluctuating slowly in shape, the thing blocked out the stars as it moved. Since it was invisible through the protective atmosphere of Earth, few eyes had actually seen the phenomenon without the aid of powerful telescopes. It was generally agreed, however, that the thing floating just outside of the moon's orbit was more frightening than interesting, even from a purely scientific standpoint.

  John Phillips had made the official first sighting and NASA thereafter had named it the ALC-117 anomoly. Eight hours ago it had appeared just outside the orbit of the moon. After Space Lab had spotted it, verification came in from numerous ground telescope stations as well. For five hours, ALC-117 just hung stationary in space. Then, without warning - and without any satisfactory explanation as to how it could perform such a feat - ALC-117 launched itself forward from a dead stop at almost a hundred thousand miles per hour. Like some eerie, patient predator, it seemed to have been waiting for the right moment to strike (though guesses as to what that moment could have been were far and few between). Regardless, the new ALC-117 course was fast and deliberate - and frighteningly unmistakable.

  In two hours, ALC-117 would smash into Earth.

  The consequences of such an impact were embarrassingly difficult to determine. All spectroscopic and probe analyses indicated that ALC-117 wasn't even there at all. The thing absorbed light, but radiated no detectable energy whatsoever. And, amazingly, as far as Man and machine could effectively determine, ALC-117 possessed zero mass and density.

  The initial, exotic propositions that ALC-117 was a black hole or some wildly transient quasar were tacitly dismissed. Both phenomena emitted powerful electromagnetic readings, and were known to be at their closest points to Earth, at least one galaxy away. Furthermore, should even the bizarre appearance of such phenomena be registered nearby, they would both be easily identified by the output of energy they spit from their respective gravitational fields. Quasars, particularly were known to dispatch tremendous surges of x-ray frequencies throughout the known universe, with an occasional pulse that was sufficient to screw up the reception on a living room tv set on Earth.

  A big, black, bitch-of-a-thing, however, ALC-117 rudely defied every known law of astrophysics yet conjured up by science. Now, eight hours after its discovery, ALC-117 had succeeded in concealing its secrets from the uneasy eyes of those it was inexorably descending upon -- with only the promise of a certain rendezvous in less than two hours time.

  John Phillips ground his teeth together as he watched ALC-117 twitch and undulate above the curved horizon of Earth. A persistent, child-like terror stirred in his stomach as he stared at it. Once, when he was much younger, he had been told a story about the proverbial Gates of Hell. Much of the tale he had forgotten, but the nagging image of those cavernous maws to damnation stuck with him always.

  Cathy Phillips tore her tired gaze away from the bow windows and watched her husband. She looked younger than her thirty five years, even with the added poundage and ware from her pregnancy. But even during these off-days, Cathy looked like she could have passed for a semi-finalist in the Miss Universe pageants. She was, in a word, striking.

  "Stabilizing at 170 perigee. Terminating retro boost." she said smiling faintly, "I think you can give them a buzz now."

  John grunted an acknowledgement to his wife, then snapped a switch above his head.

  "Challenger II to Mission Control, do you copy? Come in, Control, this is Phillips."

  The radio snarled and hissed its electronic speech, then finally quieted as a response came through.

  "We read you, John. You're looking good. Nice job, both of you," the voice said a little wearily. Bud Scott, Mission director and good friend to the Phillips, did not sound his usual chipper self today. "That one's for the textbooks." Well, John thought morbidly, aside from that black bastard out there, who was feeling sprightly lately?

  "Uh, Buddy, we were wondering when we could bring this bird home?" John said, ignoring the compliment on the Lab separation, "We're on final approach, and Cathy's giving some thought to havin' a baby on me. I never did well on the obstetrics classes in astronaut school. Over."

  Though he tried to sound lighthearted, the cool edge in his voice told all that listened to it that he wanted to land his ship...now! He switched on the tv camera that linked the disembodied voice of Bud Scott to the face in front of it, while simultaneously activating the on-board monitor that allowed Mission personnel to view the Shuttle's flight deck. The screen oscillated momentarily, then crystallized into the fuzzy image of Bud Scott.

  "Roger, Challenger, we understand that. John, you've got to sit tight on this one. We'll bring you in as quick as we can."

  Scott's face looked tired and lined, but he was still able to muster a friendly, sympathetic smile. "How does ALC-117 look?"

  John's jaw tightened. "Charming. I've asked it to do lunch with us." he said sarcastically, then added, "Listen, Buddy, we can't..."

  Cathy put a hand on her husband's arm and shook her head. Turning to the camera, she asked in a sweet voice that made her the most well-loved astronaut in the fleet "How are things down there, Bud?"

  Scott looked as if he had wanted to lie for a moment, then thought better of it.

  "It's not good, Cathy. I know yo
u're having a rough time up there, but we can't risk a landing. Hang in there, sweetheart, and we'll do what we can," Scott then shifted his eyes towards Phillips. "John, we're on Red Alert down here. The Russians haven't made a peep since this morning, but you know they're itching to blow you out of the sky. They said as much, and damn me if I can't blame them. We'd do the same in their position. Things are going to hell in a hand basket as it is, we don't need you and Space Mama coming back to us as radioactive scrap metal."

  Cathy chuckled at the joke and even John offered a tight smile of understanding. Of course everything that could be done was being done to bring them home. John felt angry with himself for being so petulant.

  "Sorry, Buddy. I know you're doing your best." he said, then abruptly changed the subject. "Anything new on ALC-117?"

  "Negative, John. JPL doesn't have a clue what it is, and the think-boys here are just as stumped."

  "It'll be here in an hour," Cathy said, staring out the window.

  No one said anything for a moment. All eyes simply stared at ALC-117 merrily plowing towards Earth, wondering what, if anything, was going to happen once it arrived.

  Three hundred thousand miles away and it was already killing the world; at the present rate, it could save itself the trouble from even touching the planet to destroy it completely.

  "New York is gone, John. San Francisco was flooded about half an hour ago. Chicago, London...all gone," Scott seemed to be speaking more to himself than to the crew of Challenger. "Hell, we don't need a war -- ALC-117 is doing just fine --"

  "What's happening, Bud; what's being done?" John interrupted the directors reverie a little sharply.

  Though he didn't mean to, Bud Scott sounded as if he were addressing a baby with his answer. His voice was low, soft and infuriatingly innocent. "What can be done?"

  It was a question that John could not immediately answer. Nor could he imagine was it one that every head of state in the world could provide a satisfactory response for. Even if his country or Russia decided to blow ALC-117 out of space, to launch one missile skyward would be an instant interpretation of full scale attack. There was no doubt that the ALC-117 phenomena, while remaining top secret and privy to only the top echelons of global power, was being regarded with nervous confusion by world leaders. Yet, amidst the maddening fervor of war hysteria, both the United States and the Soviet Union were still too deeply immersed in their own ideological stalemate, to take joint action against ALC-117. Even the worldwide reports of earthquakes, tidal waves, and volcanic eruptions, which had been directly attributable to ALC-117's approach, was insufficient to turn the heads of the warmongering nations. Meanwhile, Earth was largely oblivious to the ALC-117 approach; however, had it even been informed, it probably wouldn't have cared. Terrified of being drowned in what appeared to be an imminent nuclear blood bath, the major population of the world wanted only to find a nice, safe place to hide. Consequently, ALC-117 was safe from any offensive that Earth could have offered.