by A. G. Riddle
Grigory doesn’t flinch. “Don’t need them. We find nukes. We outfit them with battle drone AI, launch, let them scour the asteroid belt until they find the harvester; then they blow it to bits. Winter ends and we rebuild. Just like before.”
“That assumes the nukes will be effective.”
“They were last time,” Grigory snaps.
“Last time is no guarantee for this time.”
He lies there, stewing, staring at the ceiling.
I try to make my voice more even. “It also assumes we can find some nukes. Oscar knew where the Atlantic Union repositories were. They’re probably destroyed.”
“We can find nukes,” Grigory mutters. “Oscar didn’t know where the Caspians and Pac Alliance kept theirs. There are likely even more hidden. Some still in Russia too.”
“And what about rockets? And rocket fuel? We used most of what we had launching the drone fleet that destroyed the large asteroids.”
“We can find rocket fuel too. And if we can’t, we can’t leave Earth anyway.”
That’s a good point. One I’ve been turning over in my mind.
“Even assuming we find nukes and rocket fuel, it simply won’t work. We know this harvester is more advanced than the last. Far more advanced—”
“How do we know?”
“Grigory, it threw three asteroids the size of Texas at us. And thousands of smaller ones. This harvester can defeat us in battle. You know it. I’m certain that it’s watching the planet. Arthur said so, and I would bet on it. If we launch nukes, it will take them out and then expend the energy to mobilize another large asteroid at the planet.” I let the words hang in the air. “Game over. We have absolutely no way to defend against another asteroid strike. We have no major ground-based or orbital telescopes to detect another asteroid strike.”
“The Caspians or Pacs might still have them.”
“They might. But even if they do, we don’t have enough ordnance to reduce or redirect the asteroids. We’re sitting ducks. Our choices are very, very simple: hide or leave.”
Grigory doesn’t respond.
“Let’s say you’re right, Grigory. We shoot some nukes up there and win.”
He turns his head toward me.
“Then what?”
He shrugs, seeming confused.
“I’ll tell you what will happen: the grid will send another harvester. How bad do you think the next attack will be?”
“We don’t know it will send another.”
“Look at the energy it has already expended on our sun, the solar cells it has in the system already. Are you ready to bet the future of humanity on them cutting their losses? And that’s assuming we can destroy this harvester, and that its solar cells disperse again. None of that is certain.”
“It’s about as certain as them leading us to some imaginary paradise planet. Probably fly us into a star.”
“That’s our challenge, Grigory. To make sure they keep their bargain. To make sure we get to a new home safely. We need our best engineer working on that.”
He rolls away from me and exhales heavily.
“I want to fight too. Oscar meant—means—a lot to me. Every time I see Arthur it’s like facing someone who’s taken my child hostage and locked them away in a basement and is never going to let them out. And all they’re offering me is a chance to leave the house—the only home I’ve ever known—with my other child. And my wife. And the unborn child growing inside of her.”
Grigory faces me again, expression softening. “I didn’t know.”
“We just found out.”
“Congratulations,” he says, voice almost somber.
“I want to fight. But more than that, I want my children to survive. Or at least to have a chance. On Earth, they don’t have a chance.”
Grigory falls silent again.
“Will you think about it?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 34
Emma
In the bunker, the unrest seems to grow by the hour. Now that we’re out of the Citadel, the kids are beginning to ask questions—and they’re more insistent this time. They want answers. They’re scared. So are the adults. It’s not just the confined space. Uncertainty: that is what’s eating at all of us. That is the issue we must address—and soon.
After I say goodbye to James and watch his convoy pull away, I head to the situation room where Fowler, Harry, Charlotte, Colonel Earls, Min, and I sit down for our morning meeting.
“Census?” Fowler asks.
“One-sixty-two,” Min replies.
“It was—”
“One-sixty-six yesterday, sir.” Min glances at his tablet. “A surface survivor succumbed to injuries from the impact blast. He was brought in two weeks ago. Izumi was optimistic but he took a turn.”
“And the other?”
“Cause of death is… to be determined, sir.”
It’s unlikely Min doesn’t know what killed the person. ‘Cause of death to be determined’ has become code for suicide, an increasingly common problem for those people who have lost loved ones—in some cases, all of their loved ones. Despair is a virus spreading almost as fast as the rumors of our desperate situation. The combination of losing everything they were living for and knowing they’ve survived only to freeze to death is too much for some people.
“Okay,” Fowler says quietly. “Charlotte?”
“Getting access to the AtlanticNet backup has been quite helpful in starting up education initiatives. Thanks again, Harry.”
“My pleasure.”
“We’re using the standard AU curriculum,” Charlotte continues. “Obviously classroom size is small and there’s not much noise separation, so the kids are distracted, but it’s better than our situation in the Citadel. Curriculum-wise.”
“How about otherwise?” Fowler asks.
“Otherwise… the children aren’t doing great, frankly. They’re acting out. They’re asking questions. They’re angry and frustrated. And I think, deep down, they know. Kids are smarter than we give them credit. They sense that this isn’t just a temporary event.” Charlotte nods. “I think it was the right call to put them in the troop carriers when we transported them from the Citadel to here, to ensure that they didn’t see the camp. But I feel they should be told the truth soon.”
“I agree.” All eyes turn to me. “And I think we need to tell the adults that we have a plan. Or else we’re going to see more cause-of-death-unknown fatalities. People need hope. They need something to live for.”
“Do we have a plan?” Min asks.
I smile. “Sure. We plan to survive.”
“Survival is going to require a lot more specifics than that,” Min replies quietly.
“True. But we don’t have to share them now, with everyone. For now, I think we should tell them only that we have a plan and that we will be calling on them for help. That gives them hope. And a reason to live. They’ll believe it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because they want to.”
Fowler stands and paces in front of the bank of screens on the wall. “Let’s talk about that plan. It’s clear the two options are staying on Earth and leaving. I’ve given both a lot of thought. There’s not much for me to do but think. First, I want to hear where all of you are on the issue.”
No one speaks, but a few glance over at me, which I take as a silent prompt.
“James and I discussed it some. He believes that without a reliable power source, staying on Earth isn’t viable. Even if we could solve the power problem, we’d always be vulnerable to the harvester. He favors leaving. So do I.”
Harry nods. “That’s my analysis too. I’ve been trying to think through transforming the carriers into colony ships, but it’s way beyond our current capability. We’d have to rely on the grid—Arthur—a lot. To me, that’s the biggest risk.”
“I concur,” Min says. “If we can mitigate the risk of the grid sabotaging us, I favor the colony option.”
&nbs
p; Fowler focuses on Colonel Earls, who throws his hands up.
“Look, I’m a career army officer—the US, then the AU. My purview was the Citadel: its defense, maintenance, and provisioning. A decision like this is, frankly, way over my pay grade. I’ll support whatever is decided.”
“I actually hadn’t given the decision much thought,” Charlotte says carefully. “And, actually, my feelings are similar to Colonel Earls. The planning and technology are outside my area of expertise. But as an anthropologist, I’d like to raise another concern: what we’ll find on any new home world. Poisons. Pathogens. Adverse weather conditions. If we opt to leave, we should be prepared for any environment we find on the other side. Our new home could be every bit as hostile as the one we’re leaving.”
Fowler nods. “Good point. I’m of the same mind as Harry and Min. I’d like to form a working group to start thinking about all the issues that have been raised. The group could be the six of us, but, Charlotte and Colonel Earls, I understand if you two want to opt out.”
“That suits me, sir,” Earls says. “I’ve got my hands full conducting the search of the camp wreckage.”
“Same,” Charlotte says. “I’m needed at the school. And if it’s all right, I’d like to return to the issue of talking with the kids.”
“Of course,” Fowler says.
“I favor talking to them one-on-one, or in small groups. The child’s parents—or the person closest to them—should do it.” To Colonel Earls, she says, “Are you still looking for survivors?”
Earls shakes his head. “No, ma’am. There are no more life signs above ground. We’re looking for food and medicine. Dr. Sinclair has also given us a list of parts to look out for.” Earls glances at Harry. “I believe they’re for robots. Or drones, ma’am.”
Harry nods, and Charlotte continues. “I think the teams should spend some time looking for something for each child. A toy from their home. A picture of their parents. Anything that might comfort them when we tell them.”
Min throws his hands up, no doubt about to disagree, but Fowler cuts him off.
“It’s a good idea. Please make it happen, Colonel. Drones aren’t the only thing this camp needs to survive.”
That night, I’m in my cubicle, mentally preparing for the conversation I’ll have with Sam tomorrow when Harry sticks his head in.
“Hey Emma, one of our drones picked up something near warehouse four-one-two.”
My first thought is James, but he hasn’t been gone long enough to reach the warehouse.
I dash into the corridor, following him to the situation room as quickly as my aching leg allows. Fowler is already there, as is Colonel Earls. The rest of the team is right behind me.
On the large wall screen, three AU Army troop carriers are carving their way through the snow-covered terrain, kicking ice into the air as they go.
“Is that part of our convoy?” I ask.
“No,” Colonel Earls replies. “Plates match vehicles assigned to Camp Five. And they’re coming from Camp Five, moving toward warehouse four-one-two. The drone providing this telemetry was en route to Camp Five when it spotted the vehicles.”
The AU has several specialized camps, like Camp Seven, where citizens from several nations are pooled together, but for the most part, the camps are segregated by nation. At the time of the mass evacuations to the last habitable zones, it made sense to group people by a common language. It was also a negotiating demand: each of the member nations wanted to ensure that their resources and efforts were benefiting their own people. Camp Four is one of the British camps. I’m not sure about Camp Five.
“What’s the make-up of Camp Five?” I ask.
“It’s a French camp,” Earls replies.
“Theories about what we’re looking at?” Fowler asks.
“Could be a raiding party from Camp Five,” Earls says, studying the screen.
“Or a trading delegation,” Fowler adds. He turns to Harry. “Do we have telemetry for Camp Five?”
“No.”
“Even though the vehicles are from Camp Five, it could be a team from Camp Four returning,” Min says. “Maybe they’ve already been out to Camp Five, scavenged or fought for the troop carriers and they’re coming back with more loot. We know all the vehicles and weapons depots in Four were wiped out.”
Fowler leans back in his chair. “When’s the last time we tried our people on the radio?”
“Just before the drone found the convoy,” Harry says. “No response.”
That surprises me. “I thought the drones were establishing a radio network to allow the long-range devices to connect.”
“They are—and have for some camps,” Harry says. “But the drones deployed the repeaters to minimize the distance between devices. They’re aligned as the crow flies between the camps. The roads aren’t direct routes. They’re apparently somewhere on the road that’s out of range of the repeaters.”
I hadn’t anticipated that before James left. “Let’s keep trying him,” I say quietly, a new fear taking hold inside me.
“We will,” Harry says, making eye contact with me.
“Options?” Fowler asks.
“We can send back-up,” Earls says. “Use the ATVs to join up with the convoy. They can’t carry heavy ordnance, but plenty of personnel and ammo. The second team could alert James’s convoy to the new group approaching the warehouse and provide reinforcements.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know. The ATVs move much faster than the trucks in the convoy, but it’s anyone’s guess how quickly they’ll catch them—or if they’ll reach the convoy before it arrives at warehouse four-one-two.”
“Do it,” Fowler says.
“How many should I dispatch, sir?”
“What’s our total strength here?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Send them all.”
Earls squints at Fowler. “Sir? The bunker will be defenseless.”
“If we don’t get James back,” Fowler says, “it won’t matter anyway.”
Chapter 35
James
I wake feeling achy, throat dry and sore.
I try the radio but we’re out of contact with CENTCOM. Hopefully by the time we reach the warehouse we’ll be in range of a repeater.
The drive today feels endless, the truck bounding across the expanse of rolling white hills, the dim sun overhead. Grigory and I ride in the cab, neither of us bringing up the conversation from last night.
On the radio, Captain Brightwell’s British accent calls out, “Dr. Sinclair, do you copy?”
“I’m here.”
“Sir, estimated sunset is in T-minus two hours, sixteen minutes. If we drive the truck to fuel cell depletion, we will still be two K from the warehouse.”
“Kay?”
“Kilometers, sir. We’ll be out in the cold for the night. Advise we stop fifteen K out, and resume at first light. Over.”
“Received. I think we can do a two-kilometer hike in these circumstances. We’ll take minimal kit. Reaching the warehouse today gives us more time to inventory it and talk with the survivors. And spending the night in the warehouse is likely to be warmer and more restful. We might be able to move on to the next camp first thing in the morning. We’ll likely find transport inside the warehouse, maybe a spare solar array that’s compatible with the troop carriers. Izumi, are you up for the hike?”
“Definitely.”
“Captain?”
“We’ll be ready, sir. Over.”
“Received.”
An hour and a half later, our troop carrier rolls to a stop. Using the long-range radio, I try contacting CENTCOM one last time before we set out. We’re still out of reach of the repeater at Camp Four. I figure if we’d been able to drive the truck into the camp, it would work—assuming the repeater is working. It may not be operational in this weather. There simply wasn’t a lot of time to test the radio network before deploying it. We’ll sort that out tomorrow.
Grigory and I exit and put on our parkas and balaclavas and join the seven soldiers and Izumi. We look like a band of fur traders hiking through the Alaskan wilderness in search of shelter.
Snow falls around us. My voice comes out in white wisps of steam.
“I want to try to make contact with the warehouse survivors on the radio before we get there.”
Even through the face mask, I can instantly tell that Brightwell doesn’t like it. “Sir, that would give away our position and circumstances without knowing their disposition towards us. It puts us at a disadvantage.”
“Noted, Captain. We’re going to approach this as a humanitarian mission first. But I agree that we need to be ready for hostilities.”
I take the handheld radio and speak loudly. “To the survivors in Camp Four, my name is James Sinclair. I’m a survivor from Camp Seven. We’ve come to offer assistance. Do you copy?”
I wait, but there’s no response.
“We know some of you are in warehouse four-one-two. We’re proceeding to your position now in hopes of offering aid. Please respond.”
Brightwell looks at the ground, clearly frustrated. I’ve just given away our position and plans. But what do we have to lose?
When there’s no response, the soldier packs the radio away and we set off again, trudging through the snow single file.
It would have been better to drive through the camp. Walking gives us more time to see the carnage. The crumbled heaps of the habitats, covered in snow except for random pieces sticking out. The smell of death is ever-present, growing worse with each step as we venture deeper into the camp. Even as frozen as they are, the smell from the sheer number of bodies is sickening.
I had hoped to spot a vehicle, but they’re gone too, blown into the habitats or each other or clear of the camp, lying in mangled heaps.
Each time we stop for a break, I try the radio.
Each time, there’s no response.
