ALSO BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE
“The Daimon” in Worlds That Weren’t
Ruled Britannia
In the Presence of Mine Enemies
Days of Infamy
End of the Beginning
Opening Atlantis
The United States of Atlantis
Liberating Atlantis
Atlantis and Other Places
Supervolcano: Eruption
BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE WRITING AS DAN CHERNENKO
The Chernagor Pirates
The Bastard King
The Scepter’s Return
SUPERVOLCANO
ALL FALL DOWN
HARRY TURTLEDOVE
A ROC BOOK
ROC
Published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Harry Turtledove, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Turtledove, Harry.
Supervolcano: all fall down/Harry Turtledove.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-61177-7
1. Volcanoes—Fiction. 2. Natural disasters—United States—Fiction.
3. Yellowstone National Park—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3570.U76S86 2012
813'.54—dc23 2012026814
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Contents
Also By Harry Turtledove
Title Page
Copyright Page
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
I
Colin Ferguson called upstairs to his wife: “You ready?”
“Just about—not even a minute,” Kelly answered.
“We need to get going,” he muttered discontentedly. He was punctual to a fault. A police lieutenant had to be. In his younger days, the Navy’d rammed being on time down his throat. To be fair, he hadn’t needed much ramming. He’d never been the kind of person who always ran fifteen minutes or half an hour behind schedule—unlike one poor sailor a pissed-off CPO finally tagged the late Seaman Kurowski.
And, to be fair, neither was Kelly. As quickly as she’d promised, she joined him by the front door. Patting at her honey-blond hair, she asked, “Do I look okay?”
“I’m the wrong guy for that question, babe,” he said. “You know you always look good to me.”
“You!” She shook her head, but she was smiling. Colin meant every word of it. He was happy the way only a man in his early fifties still pretty newly wed to a damned fine-looking woman in her late thirties can be: happier than he figured he had any business being, in other words. After Louise walked out the door on him, after she and the lawyers got through with him, he’d never dreamt he could be this happy this way again.
One never knows, do one? he thought. Which, like his earlier woolgathering, was beside the point. “Let’s head on out,” he said.
Kelly nodded. “Sounds good.”
Out they went. Colin locked the dead bolt. There’d been a break-in the next block over last week. You didn’t want to make things easy for burglars. They might get you anyway, but why help ’em along?
“Brr!” Kelly said, and buttoned her denim jacket. It didn’t exactly go with Colin’s blue wool suit and maroon tie, but she did what she liked while he dressed the way he did more from force of habit than for any other reason. San Atanasio was a South Bay town. The nearby Pacific and the good old sea breeze had always moderated its climate. It didn’t get as cold or as hot as downtown L.A., to say nothing of the San Fernando Valley (as far as Colin was concerned, the best thing you could say about the Valley).
But this was June. It was supposed to be mild, if not hot. The sun wasn’t supposed to shine palely from a sky more nearly gray than blue. This past winter—if winter was past—the L.A. basin had got its first all-over snowfall in more than sixty years . . . and then, a month later, its second.
“You and your supervolcano,” Colin said. If he and Kelly had been in an interrogation room, it would have done duty for an accusation.
“I was just studying it. I didn’t make it go off. And if the copter that got me out of Yellowstone had taken off fifteen minutes later, chances are I wouldn’t be here for you to complain to,” she replied in at least medium dudgeon.
“Well, I’m glad you are,” he admitted. Nothing much was left of Yellowstone. For that matter, nothing much was left of Wyoming, or of big chunks of Montana and Idaho. Most of the Rocky Mountain West and the Great Plains was pretty much screwed, too. When the supervolcano erupted—for the first time in close to seven hundred thousand years—he’d heard the roar and felt the quake here in San Atanasio, eight hundred and some odd miles away. Volcanic ash and dust had rained down here, too, but not the way they had closer to the eruption site.
As he and Kelly walked over to his silver Taurus, Wes Jones waved from across the street. Wes—an aerospace engineer, now retired—and his wife had been neighbors for more than twenty years. Colin waved back. Pointing to the Taurus, Wes called, “You got gas?”
“Darn right,” Colin said solemnly. “That kimchi I ate last night’d do it to anybody.”
Wes laughed more than the joke d
eserved. “Ah, you’re nutso,” he said—his word for anything out of the ordinary. After hearing it for so many years, Colin found himself using it, too. Wes went on, “Say congratulations to Marshall from Ida and me. We’ll have a little something for him when he gets back to town.”
“Thanks. Will do.” Colin didn’t bother telling Wes that his younger son was less than thrilled about finally graduating from UC Santa Barbara, and about the idea of coming back home to live. Marshall, in fact, had often seemed to try his best not to graduate. But accumulated time and units caught up with him at last. Like it or not—and he didn’t—he’d have to face the real world.
Colin used his key-ring control to open the car doors. He sat down behind the wheel. Kelly slid in on the passenger side. When he started the engine, the fuel gauge shot all the way up to the capital F. Kelly pointed to the gauge. “A year ago, we would have taken that for granted.”
“Uh-huh.” Colin nodded. Less crude was coming up out of the ground in the USA because of the supervolcano. The spasmodic nuclear war between Iran and Israel hadn’t done production any favors, either. Quite a bit less oil was getting refined into gasoline. And what did get refined had a devil of a time reaching L.A. Put it all together, and a full tank was something of a coup.
North on La Merced, the little street he lived on. The left onto Braxton Bragg Boulevard was easy: not much traffic these days. West on Braxton Bragg toward the ocean—and, more toward the point, toward the 405. Most of the gas stations flew red flags to show they were out of fuel. Cars queued up at the few that were open. The date was an odd number. So was the last digit of Colin’s license plate. If he had to, he could gas up today. He hoped he wouldn’t have to. North on the 405, past LAX, past UCLA, through the Sepulveda Pass, to the 101. West on the 101, even if the sign said north.
About 125 miles from San Atanasio to Santa Barbara. Two hours—likely less, with the freeways. Once they got out of the Valley and into Ventura County, the 101 came down close to the Pacific. It was a pretty drive, a hell of a lot prettier than if Marshall had chosen UC Riverside. Riverside was, or had been, as hot as the Valley. It was also where the sea breeze blew the smog from the L.A. basin.
“The hills are so green,” Kelly marveled. “It’s June. Everything is supposed to be brown by now.” She’d grown up in Torrance, not far from San Atanasio, though she’d gone to grad school up at Berkeley. She knew how things in Southern California worked, or had worked.
“Everything was supposed to be brown by now.” Colin remembered years when everything was brown and bare by April Fool’s Day. He remembered the horrendous brush fires that often followed in such years, too. No one hereabouts remembered a year where it snowed twice during the winter. There’d never been a year like that, not till the Yellowstone supervolcano blew. And things were just warming up—or rather, cooling down.
“Yeah, yeah. Los Angeles is the new Seattle.” Kelly quoted the new conventional wisdom.
“Sure it is.” Colin snorted. “And fifty is the new thirty. And the check is in the mail.” Fifty is the new thirty was part of the Baby Boom’s fanatical effort to deny the obvious: like it or not, the Boomers were getting older. Fifty might or might not be so bad. Thirty it wasn’t. Colin had seen both, and he knew the difference. As far as he was concerned, anybody who didn’t was a goddamn fool.
Something with one hell of a wingspan floated over the freeway. Hawk? Eagle? Vulture? He didn’t get a good enough look to tell. He had to keep most of his attention on the asphalt ahead and the morons all around.
They were nearing Santa Barbara when Kelly suddenly said, “It’s cool with Marshall that I’m coming to his graduation and his mother isn’t?”
That kind of thing was and always would be a second wife’s worry. It probably got more acute when the second wife was closer in age to her husband’s children than she was to him. But Colin’s answer came quick and certain: “As far as I know, he’s fine with it.”
“Yes, but how far do you know?” Kelly persisted. “Marshall . . . doesn’t leave a lot of clues about what’s going on inside his head.”
“If anything is, with all the weed he smokes,” Colin said disgustedly. Here he was, a cop, and both his boys got wasted every chance they could. Rob, the older one, used his engineering degree to play bass in a band called Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles. They’d been stuck in the middle of Maine since winter came down. And winter there didn’t want to let up. If L.A. was—or was alleged to be—the new Seattle, Maine could double as the new Baffin Island.
Vanessa, who fit in between Rob and Marshall, didn’t do a lot of dope. Or if she did, it sure didn’t mellow her out. Colin wondered when, or if, she’d escape from that refugee camp somewhere near the Oklahoma-Arkansas border: just past the eastern edge of the ashfall from the supervolcano. She’d got out of Denver alive, which most people who’d lived there hadn’t, so he was inclined to count his blessings. Here most of a year after the eruption, nobody knew how many people it had killed, not to the nearest hundred thousand. Well up into seven figures, that was for sure.
Kelly clicked her tongue between her teeth. “He’s plenty smart,” she said. “And he knows what he thinks—he just doesn’t want to tell the rest of the world.”
“It could be, for most things,” Colin allowed. “But I’m as sure as I need to be that he doesn’t want to see Louise right now, not when she’s going to present him with a little half-brother or half-sister pretty soon.”
He also wasn’t exactly thrilled that his ex was pregnant again. For that matter, neither was Louise. Everything with the aerobics instructor for whom she’d left Colin had been all lovey-dovey—till Teo found out he’d knocked her up. Then, when she didn’t want to get rid of the baby right away, he’d dropped her like a live grenade.
“Why is she having it?” Kelly asked hesitantly.
Colin had known Louise for upwards of thirty years now. He shrugged anyway. “You tell me and you win the prize,” he said. “My best guess is because dear sweet Teo told her to lose it and then bailed. So she won’t do anything he would’ve wanted her to. But that’s only a WAG.” He didn’t like to cuss where women could hear him do it. The acronym didn’t seem to count, though.
“Wouldn’t be reason enough for me,” Kelly said. “When I have a baby, it’ll be because I want to, not because somebody I can’t even stand any more doesn’t want me to.”
“I feel the same way.” Having said that, Colin realized his wife wasn’t speaking hypothetically. When I have a baby, she’d said, not If I have a baby. When she had a baby, Colin figured he would be very much involved in the process. He wondered whether he was ready to be a dad again at his age. Fifty the new thirty? If only, with a newborn screaming in the house! He glanced over at Kelly. “When you do decide to, you’ll let me know first?”
“Oh, I suppose.” She sounded as much like him as a contralto was ever likely to. She sure sounded as dry as he ever did, which wasn’t easy. Had she had that tone before they started hanging out together? Colin was inclined to doubt it. But couples rubbed off on each other all kinds of ways they never would have expected before they hooked up.
Colin drove past the campus exit, and past the ones for Isla Vista beyond it. Most UCSB students lived in Isla Vista, just west of the university. It was a rowdy place, with bars everywhere and such quaint tribal rituals as couch-burnings to celebrate the end of spring quarter. It was full of college kids, in other words.
Marshall’s apartment was in Ellwood, farther west still. The part of Goleta called Ellwood housed plenty of students, too, but it wasn’t just kids and their amusements. A lot of the students who did live there were in grad school, which made them a little older and—with luck—a little more sensible. All things considered, Ellwood was more staid than Isla Vista. That was one of the reasons Colin had chosen that particular apartment building. Marshall needed more temptations the way h
e needed an extra set of ears.
Off the 101. South—toward the ocean here—to Hollister. Right on Hollister to the street excitingly called Entrance Road. Left at the light there. After making its entrance, the road divided, so that on a map it resembled a tuning fork. Marshall’s building, which looked an awful lot like apartments of 1970s vintage in San Atanasio, lay halfway down the right-hand tine.
Fewer buildings up here had underground garages than they did down there. That meant more people had to park on the street, so finding a space was always an adventure. Colin parallel-parked his way into one half a block down from his son’s place.
Kelly softly clapped her hands. “Very neat.”
“No big deal,” Colin said. He’d had to parallel-park, yeah, but he hadn’t really had to squeeze. “Trying to find somewhere to put the car within a mile of your place in Berkeley, that was combat parking.”
“You did it, though,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I had incentives.” He let his right hand drop to her denim-covered thigh.
“Incentives.” Kelly swatted the hand away. “Is that what they call it these days?”
“I dunno. All I know is, it’s what I just called it.” Colin opened the car door. “Come on. Let’s go round up the graduate. I haven’t been waiting for this forever—but it sure feels that way.”
The air was cool and moist. Morning air in Santa Barbara was apt to be cool and moist the year around. Still and all, this was cooler and moister than Colin would have looked for before the supervolcano erupted. A soft breeze blew mist—not quite fog, but close—in off the ocean. It carried with it the camphory smell of the eucalyptus grove in back of the beach.
Marshall’s apartment was on the second floor. The living-room window faced west, which gave him a terrific view of the gorgeously gaudy sunsets that had become the norm since the eruption filled the air all over the world with what people with high foreheads who wore lab coats called particulate matter. In plain English, that meant finely ground crud.
From what Kelly said, the Yellowstone supervolcano had belched out over six hundred cubic miles of rock—say, a hundred times as much as Krakatoa, which wasn’t east of Java. There’d been a couple of years of spectacular sunsets in the 1880s. They’d probably last longer yet this time around.
Supervolcano: All Fall Down Page 1
