The War of Immensities

by Barry Klemm

  “But he sure as hell is up to something, ain’t he?”

  “Harley wants to be the greatest human being ever. Bigger than Buddha, Caesar, Shakespeare, Einstein. He reckons exploiting Project Earthshaker and us will get him there. He is a complete and utter megalomaniac.”

  “I thought I had ego problems.”

  “Not like Harley.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I don’t care about him or anybody,” Jami said adamantly.

  *

  All through the night before, Chrissie remained in the convent chapel, deep in prayer.

  Tomorrow the pilgrimage would begin and everything was ready, and even if she knew it was something of a ploy entirely set up by Thyssen, still she knew it was really the hand of God. For Harley was no exception—God could work through him as readily as any other man, and if it was a certainty that the pilgrims would follow her tomorrow, was it impossible that from time to time, God rigged the odds in his own favour?

  But her prayers did not concern such thoughts anymore. She could be realistic about this when appropriate, even join in their jokes at her expense, but now it was the serious time. These people would follow her rather than make their own way to the focal point, and she needed to cleanse her soul and make herself worthy of them. She now must rid herself of all the cynicism that she had tolerated these past weeks, even gone along with, even participated in.

  Without the skeptical jokes, they would never have assisted her on her course whereas because they all believed in Harley rather more than they believed in God, so they had co-operated. They took her seriously because it was couched in terms they could accept—for them faith and belief have to follow later.

  In the end, they had all helped her. Joe the Communist had happily provided the funding; Lorna the great sinner had promoted her on television; Wagner, the unbeliever in everything except his own superiority, had trained guards from within the ranks of the pilgrims to protect them along the way; as they journeyed they would sing songs made popular by Andromeda the false goddess; they would ride in transportation provided by Brian the atheist. Each of them had risen above their lack of faith to help her. It was of them, too, that she needed to be worthy.

  When midday passed, the expected linkage of the pilgrims was only hours away and Chrissie went out and found Brian Carrick waiting by the truck. It was a battered old Fiat tray truck, rusted and noisy, but she had chosen it herself. Brian had offered to have a Popemobile built for her, but she knew this was the appropriate way to go. Christ had ridden to the Holy City on a donkey, and this wreck of a truck was certainly the modern equivalent of that.

  “We got her running as well as she ever will,” Brian said kindly. She knew he had been working on the engine himself, surrounded by a team of Italian mechanics. “Dropped a new donk in her. All new brake system. Reconditioned the transmission. She’ll get you there.”

  “I have no doubt of it, Brian,” Chrissie smiled thankfully.

  “We also installed a radio and the driver will be in direct contact with Kevin who will be sitting over the top of you in a helicopter.”

  “A daunting thought, Brian.”

  “Come and have a gander at the chair.”

  There was a plain solid wooden chair that they had bolted to the floor of the tray, facing backwards. All about, cushions were scattered for the children, a group of orphans created by the disaster who would travel gathered at her feet. There was a clear plastic tarpaulin that could be pulled over the top of it all if it rained but the sides and back of the tray remained open. Loudspeakers, also facing backwards, had been installed on the roof of the cabin.

  “Yer can see the mike attached to the side of the chair. Okay.”

  “All absolutely wonderful, Brian. I’m so pleased.”

  There was an experienced driver, also a pilgrim, and another man who Kevin had provided and was called Fabrini, with sorrowful eyes, a drooping moustache and an automatic weapon constantly nestled in his armpit.

  “I’d be thankful if you’d keep that out of sight, Mr. Fabrini.”

  “Yes sister,” Fabrini murmured reverently.

  The route was carefully planned. They would travel by road in a close convoy across the Apennines to Potenza and then on to Massafra where tracks would allow them to bypass Taranto and into Brindisi. There Brian had arranged for a recently decommissioned ocean-going ferry to convey them, vehicles and all, across the Adriatic Sea to Greece, and into the Gulf of Corinth. They would briefly take to the road again, into Athens after which it was tentatively planned that they would pick up another steamer at Piraeus which would complete the journey to Tel Aviv and inland to Jerusalem.

  There were difficulties. They might have flown, but the Israelis had denied them permission to land. They had also prohibited the ship from docking but that didn’t matter because the thirty-six hours would have expired long before they reached the Middle East. The bit of the pilgrimage that mattered most was the first stage anyway, and when it was realised that it would be all over somewhere off the coast of Greece, it was decided to land them in Corinth and allow it all to continue into Athens, giving them someplace to arrive. The Greek authorities had reached no opinion on the subject and continued to argue and it was assumed would still be undecided when it was over. Since the pilgrimage could never reach its destination, it was decided that it was better to culminate in a place where there could be local interest and media coverage, rather than some obscure spot in the middle of the Mediterranean.

  All of this, Chrissie absorbed stoically. She wasn’t about to believe that her pilgrimage had nowhere to go. Something would happen to change things, she was sure. There would be a point to it all—God would see to that. And if not God then Harley, who had plainly gone to a lot of trouble to organise it this way.

  Brian had got out his map of the world and showed it to her the night before. There were three points on the globe—Italy where they were, Russia where the still quarantined Buryats remained, and the control group, presently in Melbourne. You drew a circle such that its circumference passed through each point and the centre of that circle was the focal point. Move any one of the groups before the linkage and the focal point changed. A wildcard was Andromeda in Las Vegas but during the night she had flown over them and landed in Athens where she would meet them at the end of the pilgrimage. So all they had to do was reposition the control group so that the direct line from Italy to the focal point passed through Jerusalem.

  It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. The control group needed to be repositioned far out in the Indian Ocean, 1800 kilometres south of the island of Mauritius, whereby the focal point was caused to be at Meshed, a town in north east Iran. No one could get there, even if they wanted to, but the line from the marshalling point in Italy to Meshed ran straight through Athens and Jerusalem. Not only wouldn’t the pilgrims arrive, the Holy City wasn’t really where they were going anyway.

  “I think I’m asking more questions than I need to know the answers to,” Chrissie smiled sadly.

  Not far away was a hill beside the road which could be seen from some distance around. They positioned the truck there and waited as the sun rose on the day. Chrissie continued in prayer. Throughout the region, Brian and other men were positioned with buses and vans, ready to pick up those pilgrims who would not be able to provide their own transport, which, beyond a few bicycles and Vespas, was most of them. The orphaned children were brought in and Chrissie led them in prayer and song. The time drew nearer.

  “We shoulda got one of them brain monitors so we’d know when to start,” Kevin said. He had landed his helicopter nearby.

  “I’ll know when,” Chrissie told him.

  And she did. She was deep in prayer and suddenly her mind flowed out into all humanity—it was so intense a sensation that she reacted physically. “It begins now,” she told them.

  She climbed onto the truck and stood on her chair and below her, everywhere, the people came. Along the road, they formed
into a convoy. Along the flanks, helpers rushed with clipboards, checking off names.

  “Only about 300 have gathered,” Fabrini informed her.

  “That’s enough,” Chrissie said. “We will begin slowly. The others will follow.”

  She took her seat and fitted the safety belt Brian had thoughtfully provided and they drove down onto the road, took the head of the convoy and started at six kilometres an hour. As they went, people were calling.

  “Bless you, sister. Bless you sister.”

  Inside, Chrissie could feel her heart swelling. The children looked up at her with shining credulous eyes. The logistics and bureaucracy slipped away and she knew only her faith and that the true journey had begun.

  *

  Pierre Duclos declared himself the boldest pilot in the world, both in person and on the sign that advertised his profession—joy flights over the islands at 530 Francs an hour. He had no idea that his claims were about to be fully tested.

  “How much per day?” Jami had asked him—his English was better than her schoolgirl French.

  “Ten hours of daylight. How many of them do you actually want to fly?”

  “All of them.”

  “The plane must land every four hours to refuel.”

  “Sure. As long as we go straight up again.”

  “But where will we be going?”

  Jami, in reply, drew circles in the air. The Frenchman gave a shrug and stated a price. Jami immediately shook his hand in agreement. “You’ll fly around the crest of Orohena, just below the height of the summit, as close to the ground as you can get.”

  “Just around and around.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When do we start?”

  “An hour before sunset. Don’t be late.”

  Duclos eyed her bleakly.

  “I will not. Until when?”

  “Believe me. You’ll know when to stop.”

  “I need to know when. Other people wish to make bookings to fly with me.”

  “There won’t be any other bookings,” Jami told him.

  Then she invited him to have lunch with her, but he looked her over and refused in such a blatant way that Jami decided not to explain any further.

  Instead she ate with Felicity.

  “Evacuated anybody yet?” Jami asked.

  Felicity pulled a face and offered feeble gestures. “A few wimps have run away. Some luxury cruisers have sought sheltered harbours. But really, no. The French authorities refuse to co-operate. They won’t even put it over the radio.”

  “But everyone knows.”

  “And they all think it a joke.”

  Jami put on a bad French accent. “Madame, none of the volcanoes here have erupted for a thousand years.”

  “Ignorant pigs. In a sense, I’ll be glad when today is over and I won’t have to argue with them anymore. I’ve given up already anyway.” Felicity lifted her champagne in a toast. “Until tonight, huh?”

  They drank champagne and studied the menu, but it wasn’t time to order yet. Jami eyed her companion thoughtfully. “Will you be staying, Felicity?”

  “Well, since you gave up your seat in the Orion, I’ll grab it and go for a ride. I’ll be up there somewhere between here and Raratonga. Unless you want it back?”

  Jami shook her head—up in the Orion at 20,000 feet was the safest possible place to be in the region but she had never really considered it a possibility. “There won’t be anything to see out there over the ocean. I’ll be taking joy flights around Orohena.”

  Grave concern crossed the face of her companion. “Truly. Is that safe?”

  Jami could laugh at her concern. “I think I’ll know when to make a run for it.”

  “Be careful you don’t get yourself Shastri-ed.”

  Jami laughed all the more. “That would be ironic, wouldn’t it. But no chance. The zone will be far out in the Pacific.”

  “If Harley’s right…”

  “Yeah.”

  “But what will you see from up there?”

  “I’ll see it happen,” Jami said, sparking with enthusiasm again. “There’s nothing else for me to do. My people and those from the Geo Survey have put all the sensors and monitoring equipment all over the volcanic islands, and they won’t tell us anything new anyway. I want to actually see a volcano in the first moment of eruption.”

  “I hope it’s not the last thing you see,” Felicity said grimly.

  “I won’t mind if it is,” Jami said harshly. Both women shivered at that thought.

  As she spoke, she only had to turn in her chair and see the mountain in question. In fact the entire island of Tahiti was the slopes of Orohena, which was at the centre and towered 7000 feet. It was a gigantic, sharp pinnacle of rock, as exotic in form as the Matterhorn, and every river ran through gorges that were steep fissures in its sides to the coral reefs around the island. Here, in this hotel restaurant at Venus Point, Orohena’s sabre-point stood out plainly against the red sky of sunset.

  “Are you sure it will blow?” Felicity asked.

  “Of all the mountains in the affected zone, it is the most likely. It is the most unstable structure of all of them. That pinnacle is really just a volcanic plug, and when the pressure is on, it’ll pop.”

  It was Felicity’s turn to try a bad French accent. “And if it pops, the champagne flows, as one French Administrator put it to me.”

  “And I shall be there to drink it,” Jami said, again raising her glass in a toast.

  Felicity clinked her dubiously. “How bad will it be, Jami?”

  “Hard to say,” Jami said grimly. “But that magma will have to come to the surface and it will be moving one hell of a lot of rock to do so. If it gives easily, there will probably only be minor earthquake damage and landslides. But if it resists and holds for a time, it’ll go with a hell of a bang, and all the rock you see there will go up in the air and come down on Papeete and all the surrounding terrain. That will be terrible.”

  “Fools.”

  “I hate talking like this,” Jami said, feeling again that sadness well within her. “You know, there was a time when I wished for this. I got sick of all those remote locations and wanted it to happen somewhere civilised, somewhere exotic. Well, I got my wish in Italy and I’ll get it again tomorrow evening. I feel so awful about it.”

  Felicity reached and patted the back of Jami’s hand. “Jami, you can’t hold yourself responsible.”

  But she did. She was. “Why not? It carries my name. These disasters are the way I’ll always be remembered.”

  “These are forces beyond your control. Beyond any control.”

  “Still, sometimes I think it’s me doing it.”

  “We all feel like that. Everyone does. If I get out of bed on the other side, or avoid black cats, or say my prayers, maybe it won’t happen. Foolish superstitions, Jami.”

  Jami nodded. Even she thought she was becoming too maudlin over this. “Still, like you say, everyone feels it. It’s just I feel it a little bit more than most.”

  “No. You feel it exactly the same as everyone else. It’s just human nature. Whatever is the matter with you?”

  “Are you asking as a doctor?”

  “No. As a friend.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Except a sudden strange recklessness.”

  “It’s what Harley would do.”

  “Most people would think that a poor example to follow.”

  Jami offered her a smile of encouragement, as if it was Felicity and not herself that was taking the risks. “It’ll be safe tomorrow, really. I know the risks.”

  “Are you sure it’s not a death wish?”

  “Of course not. I’m just a bit depressed, that’s all. I’m not planning to commit suicide.”

  Felicity looked at her as if she was a specimen under a microscope.

  “But you are suffering depression.”

  “It’s just marginal.”

  “Which is not a good t
ime to be judging risks.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Fee. Volcanoes I understand. It’s men that fuck me up.”

  “Oh I see. Men.”

  “Yes, it’s just men. You know?”

  “Only too well. I could give you something.”

  “I should think, Fee, that the exhilaration of actually seeing a mountain erupt will be all the tonic I need.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Stick to mountains. Forget about men.”

  *

  They grabbed the last few hours of sleep that they would get for some time, and then as the sun descended toward the Pacific, they shared a taxi to the airport and flew their separate ways. Felicity flew in the Orion with a team of analysts to be ready to fly immediately to wherever new sleepers might be found. None were expected, since the effected area would be entirely in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, but still they wished to be sure, just in case there was an error and one of the islands might be engulfed.

  Jami flew with Pierre Duclos, in circles around the towering peak of Orohena.

  “The sunset is very beautiful from up here,” Pierre suggested.

  But Jami didn’t answer and didn’t look at the sunset.

  “I know what you are looking for,” Pierre said over the intercom—it was a twin engine plane with a sealed cabin but it was still rather noisy and rattled rather more than Jami was happy with. “You are one of those fools who think Orohena will become a volcano tonight.”

  “It will,” Jami said sharply. “And I am the very fool who said it would.”

  “This is nonsense. It has been extinct for thousands of years.”

  “Until tonight.”

  “Look for yourself. Extinct. Quiet. No earthquakes. Nothing.”

  “Expert on volcanoes, are you?”

  “Enough to know there would be some fore-warning.”

  “So you really don’t think it will erupt?”

  “If I did, we would be flying out to sea, not around and around with the trees dusting our bottom.”

  “There’ll be more than trees dusting our respective bottoms in a moment.”