The Forge of God tfog-1

by Greg Bear

  Disembarking from a shuttle bus at Los Angeles Inter: national Airport, on his way to Death Valley and then to Oregon for three days’ rest, Arthur entered a lounge area to await his taxi and heard the President’s voice. He sat before a color television with eleven other travelers, his face ashen. He’s jumping the gun.

  “Late last September, three young geologists discovered a hill in the desert not far from Death Valley, in California. The hill was not on their maps. Near this hill they found an extraterrestrial being, an individual in ill health. They brought this individual to a nearby desert town and notified authorities. The extraterrestrial being—”

  Trevor Hicks listened from his Washington hotel room, the remains of breakfast spread on a serving tray at the foot of the bed. Just yesterday, he had learned that Mrs. Crockerman had moved to her flat permanently. Later that afternoon, he had heard the first rumors of David Rotterjack’s resignation.

  The President-elect’s version of what happened in the Vandenberg laboratory was clear enough; he could find no fault so far.

  “…And as I spoke with this being, this visitor from another world, the story it told me was chilling. I have never been so deeply and emotionally affected in my life. It spoke of a journey across ages, of the death of its home world, and of the agency of this destruction — the very vehicle which had brought it to Earth, now landed in Death Valley and disguised as a volcanic cinder cone.”

  Ithaca called Harry in from the bathroom, where he had just finished taking his shower. She wrapped him in a thick terry robe as he stood before the television, feeling how warm his skin was. “Great fucking birds flapping in the air,” he breathed.

  “What?” Ithaca asked.

  “He’s making the announcement now. Listen to him. Just listen to him.”

  “When I asked the Guest if it believed in God, it replied in a steady, certain voice, ‘I believe in punishment.’” The President paused, staring across the fully attended house. “My dilemma, and the dilemma of all my advisors, military and civilian, and of all our scientists, was simple. Could we believe that our extraterrestrial visitor and the visitors in Australia were linked? They told such different stories …”

  There was a knock on Trevor’s door. He closed his robe and hurried to open it, hardly even seeing who was outside, his attention still focused on the television.

  “Hicks, I owe you an apology.” It was Carl McClennan, dressed in a raincoat and clutching a bottle of something wrapped in a brown paper bag. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, come in, come in.” Hicks didn’t bother to ask why McClennan was here.

  “I’ve resigned,” McClennan said. “I read his speech last night. The bastard wouldn’t listen to any of us.”

  “Shhh,” Hicks said, holding his finger to his lips.

  “I wish that I brought news of some comforting solution to all who listen to me today. But I do not. I have never been a faithful churchgoer. Still, within myself I have held my own faith, and thought it wise, as the leader of this nation, not to impose this faith on others who might disagree. Now, however, through these extraordinary events, I have had my faith altered, and I can no longer keep silent. I believe we face incontrovertible evidence, proof if you will, that our days are numbered, and that our time on Earth — the time of the Earth itself — will soon be at an end. I have sought advice from those with more spiritual experience than I, and they have counseled me. I now believe that we are facing the Apocalypse predicted in the Revelation of John, and that on Earth, the forces of good and evil have made themselves known. Whether these forces be angels and demons, or extraterrestrials, seems to be of no importance whatsoever. I could say that I have spoken with an angel, but that does not seem literally true—”

  “He’s even departing from his text. Damn him,” McClennan shouted, sitting with a bounce on the bed next to Hicks. “Doesn’t he understand what he’s unleashing? What social—”

  “Please,” Hicks admonished.

  “I can only conclude that in some fashion, our history on Earth has been judged, and we have been found inadequate. Whether the flaw lies in our bodies, or in our minds, it is clear that the history of human existence does not satisfy the Creator, and that He is working to wipe the slate clean, and begin again. To do this, He has sent mighty machines, mighty forces which could begin, at any moment, to heat this Earth in God’s forge, and beat it to pieces on a heavenly anvil.”

  The President paused again. Raised voices on the floor of Congress threatened to drown him out, and the Speaker had to rap his gavel many long minutes. The camera pulled back to show Crockerman surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service men, their faces grim, trying to look in all directions at once.

  “Please,” the President pleaded. “I must conclude.”

  The noise finally subsided. Sporadic shouts of anger and disbelief rose from the representatives.

  “I can only say to my people, and the inhabitants of Earth, that the time has come for us all to pray fervently for salvation, in whatever form it might come, whether we can expect it or not, or even whether we truly deserve salvation. The Forge of God cannot be appeased, but perhaps there is hope for each of us, in our private thoughts, to make peace with God, and find a way out from under the blows of His anger and disappointment.”

  Sitting in the airport lounge, a woman weeping softly beside him, several men loudly arguing with each other and the television screen, Arthur Gordon could only think of Francine and Martin.

  “All hell’s going to break loose,” a bulky middle-aged black man shouted as he stalked out of the lounge.

  “We’d better not fly now,” a young man told the pregnant girl, hardly more than a teenager, sitting next to him. “They should ground all flights.”

  Trying to stay calm, angry at how deeply the speech had affected him, Arthur made his way through the morning crowds to an airline counter to again check his reservations to Las Vegas.

  McClennan had stopped his tirade of swearing and now stood by the blank television, fumbling at a cigarette and lighter. He still wore his raincoat. Hicks had not moved from the edge of the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” McClennan said. “Christ, I haven’t smoked in five years. I’m a goddamned disgrace.”

  “What will you do, now that you’ve resigned?” Hicks asked. What an amazing situation. Straight inside line on this story.

  McClennan gave up on the cigarette in disgust. He flung it into the hotel ashtray, on top of an unused book of matches, and more gently lay his plastic lighter beside it. “I suppose the President will appoint replacements for David and myself. I imagine Schwartz will stay on. I imagine just about everybody will stay on.” McClennan looked at Hicks with suspicion. “And you’ll write about all of it, won’t you?”

  “I suppose I might, in the long run.”

  “Do you think he’s crazy?” McClennan asked, pointing at the blank screen.

  Hicks considered the question. “No.”

  “Do you think…” and here the rage returned, making McClennan’s hands tremble, “he’s violating his oath of office, to carry out the United States Constitution and promote the general welfare?”

  “He’s calling them as he sees them,” Hicks said. “He thinks the end of the world is at hand.”

  “Christ, even if it is…” McClennan pulled out the desk chair and sat down slowly. “He’s in trouble. He’s showing his weakness. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a move now to block the inauguration, or to impeach him.”

  “On what grounds?” Hicks asked.

  “Incompetence. Failure to promote the general welfare. Hell, I don’t know…”

  “Has he done anything illegal?”

  “We’ve never had a President go nuts in office. Not since Nixon, anyway. But then, you think he isn’t nuts.

  Listen, he disagreed with you, even after he brought you into the inner circle…What is he trying to do?”

  Hicks had already answered that question, after a fashion, and saw
no reason to do it again.

  “All right,” McClennan said. “What he’s doing, what it all comes down to, is he’s surrendering without a single shot being fired. We have no idea what these…bastards, these machines, these aliens, can do. We can’t even be sure they’re here to destroy the Earth. Is that even possible! Can you tear a world apart, or kill everything on its surface?”

  “We ourselves can kill all life on Earth, if we so choose,” Hicks reminded him.

  “Yes, but the Guest talked about leaving nothing but rubble behind. Is that possible?”

  “I suppose it is. You’d have to unleash enough energy to place most of the Earth’s mass into orbit about itself, so to speak, or to give it escape velocity. That’s an awful lot of energy.”

  “How much? Could we do it?”

  “I don’t think so. Not with all the nuclear weapons we have now. We couldn’t even begin to.”

  “How advanced would a…Jesus, a civilization have to be to do that?”

  Hicks shrugged. “If we posit a straight line of development from where we are now, with the rate of major breakthroughs increasing, perhaps a century, perhaps two.”

  “Could we fight them off? If they have that ability?”

  Hicks shook his head, uncertain. McClennan took the answer for a negative. “So he calls them as he sees them. No way out. What if they aren’t here to destroy the Earth, just to confuse us, set us back, keep us from competing…You know, like we might have done to the Japanese, if we’d known what they’d put us through, in the twentieth century…?”

  “The aliens are doing a good job of that, certainly.”

  “Right.” McClennan stood again.

  “What are you going to do?”

  The ex-national security advisor stared blankly at the window. His look reminded Hicks of the expression on Mrs. Crockerman’s face. Bleak, close to despair, beyond tears.

  “I’ll work in the background to save his ass,” McClennan said. “So will Rotterjack. Damn us all, we’re dedicated to that man.” He raised his fist. “By the time we’re done, that son of a bitch Ormandy won’t know what happened. He is going to be one dead albatross.”

  With three hours until his flight to Las Vegas, Arthur decided there would be time to take a taxi to Harry’s house in the Cheviot Hills.

  The cab took him up the San Diego Freeway and through a brightly decorated but impoverished Los Angeles barrio.

  “D’ya hear what the President said, man?” the driver asked, glancing over the seat at Arthur.

  “Yes,” Arthur said.

  “Isn’t that something, what he said? Scared the piss out of me. Wonder how much of it is true, or whether, you know, he’s gone off his nut.”

  “I don’t know,” Arthur replied. He felt strangely exhilarated. Everything was coming into focus now. He could actually see the problem laid out before him as if on a road map. His weariness and resignation had vanished. Now he was enriched by a deep, convicted fury, his distance and objectivity scorched away. The air through the cab window was sweet and intoxicating.

  Lieutenant Colonel Albert Rogers finished listening to the recording of the broadcast and sat in the back of the trailer for several minutes, numb. He felt betrayed. What the President had said could not possibly be true. The men at the Furnace had not yet heard the speech, but there was no way he was going to keep it from them. How could he soften it for them?

  “The bastard’s surrendered,” he murmured. “He’s just left us here.”

  Rogers stood in the rear door of the trailer and looked at the cinder cone, dark and nondescript in the full morning light. “I can take a nuke right up inside that son of a bitch,” he said quietly. “I can carry it in and stand over it until it goes off.”

  Not without the President’s authority.

  Actually, that wasn’t entirely true.

  But the President wouldn’t actually stop them from making an attempt to defend themselves…would he? He hadn’t said as much. He had simply stated that he thought it unlikely…what were his words? Rogers returned to the TV monitor and ran the tape back. “…The time has come for us all to pray fervently for salvation, in whatever form it might come, whether we can expect it or not…”

  What did that mean?

  And who would give Rogers his orders, the proper orders, now?

  “He’s feeling weak today. The trip to Washington didn’t help him any,” Ithaca said, leading Arthur to the bedroom. Harry lay back on thick white pillows, eyes closed. He looked worse than when they had parted a week ago. His facial flesh was sallow and blotchy. His breathing was regular, but when he opened his eyes, they seemed washed out, unenthusiastic. He smiled at Arthur and grasped his hand firmly.

  “I’m going to resign,” Harry said.

  Arthur started to protest, but Harry waved it off. “Not because of that speech. I’m not going to be much use. I’m still fighting, but…It’s getting worse very fast. I’m on a short rope. I can’t leave town anymore, and I’m going to be in a hospital all the time by next week. You don’t need that kind of grief now.”

  “I need you, Harry,” Arthur said.

  “Yeah. God knows I’m sorry. I’d much rather be up and about. You have a tough fight now, Arthur. What are you going to do?”

  Arthur shook his head slowly. “McClennan and Rotterjack have resigned. The President hasn’t given any orders to the task force.”

  “He wouldn’t dare disband the group now.”

  “No, he’ll keep us together, but I doubt he’ll let us do anything. I talked to Hicks a few hours ago, and from what he says, Crockerman’s even gone a step beyond Ormandy. Apocalypse. Get your papers in order. Here comes the auditor.”

  “He can’t be all that…” Harry shook his head. “Can he?”

  “I haven’t talked to him since we went into the Oval Office together. Now comes the media sideshow. We are going to be roasted alive over a slow fire. Since I have no specific orders, I’m going to check into the Furnace, and then go back to Oregon for a few days. Hide out.”

  “What about the people in detention? Why are we holding them? They’re healthy.”

  “They’re certainly no security risk,” Arthur agreed.

  “We have the authority to let them go, don’t we?”

  “We’re still ranked just below the President. I’ll call Fulton,” He still held Harry’s hand. He hadn’t let it go since sitting on the bed. “You’ve got to win this one, Harry.”

  “Feeling mortal yourself, huh?” Harry’s face was serious. “You know, even Ithaca…She cries openly sometimes now. We cried together last night after she drove me back from the tests.”

  “Nobody’s giving up on you,” Arthur said with surprising vehemence. “If your damned doctors can’t…we’ll find other doctors. I need you.”

  “I feel like a real shit, letting you down,” Harry said.

  “You know that’s a—”

  “I mean it. I am very sick now. I don’t feel it yet, but in a week or two they’ll start other treatments, and I’ll be a wreck. I won’t be able to think straight. So let me tell you now. We have to start fighting back.”

  “Fighting the Furnace, the Rock?”

  “They’ve got us confused. They’ve accomplished that much…whoever they are. Blowing up their emissaries. Jesus! What a masterstroke. Giving us two stories, then making both seem like lies. And we’ve been a real good audience. It’s time to do what we can.”

  “What is that?”

  “You haven’t been thinking about it?”

  “All right,” Arthur admitted. “I have.”

  “You have to reestablish your channels of communication with the President. Encourage McClennan and Rotterjack to stay on. If that’s out of the question—”

  “Too late now.”

  “—Then talk to Schwartz. He knows damn well what the public reaction is going to be. Americans won’t accept this easily.”

  “I’d hate to see the polls as to how many people believe anything i
s happening.”

  “Leadership,” Harry said, his voice husky. “He has to assert his leadership. And we have to fight back.”

  Arthur nodded abstractedly.

  “Killing Cook. Remember?”

  Arthur shook his head. “Only if they’re not omnipotent.”

  “If they are, why would they try to confuse us?” Harry asked, his face darkening. He gripped Arthur’s hand more tightly. There was a time when Harry’s grip could have ground knuckles. Now it was a steady, insistent pressure; no more. “They have to believe we can hurt them somehow.”

  Arthur nodded. Another conclusion had occurred to him, however, and it frightened him. He could hardly put it into words, and he certainly would not reveal it to Harry now. Poke a stick in the ants’ nest, he thought. Watch them scurry around. Learn about them. Then stomp the nest.

  “Have you thought about what will happen to me if you don’t pull through?” Arthur asked.

  “You’ll invite Ithaca up to Oregon, get her settled up there. Introduce her to friends. Find somebody promising who needs a good woman. Marry her off.”

  “Christ,” Arthur said, crying now.

  “See,” Harry said, tears running down his own cheeks. “You really care.”

  “You bastard.”

  Harry rolled his head aside and pulled up a pillow cover to wipe his eyes. “I’ve never been jealous of you. I could go for years without seeing you, because I knew you’d be there. But Ithaca. He’d better be a damned good fellow, the one you introduce her to. If anybody’s going to lie between her thighs but me, I’d better like him a hell of a lot.”

  “Stop this.”

  “All right. I’m tired. Can you stay around for dinner? I’m still able to eat. I won’t be able to keep it down much after next week. The old-fashioned treatments.”

  Arthur told him he had to catch a plane shortly. Dinner was out of the question.