by Andrew Dorn
Elijah33 was likewise a survival aficionado and an aggressive user of the forums. He posted his musings on the lack of readiness of the state of Maine and how dumb folks misunderstood his own efforts to prepare. Rutledge admired his skill at dropping key chunks of knowledge in his posts. Stuff on how to obtain rations online, how to set up makeshift shelters using only twigs, or even on how to make the most of low ammunition. The guy was a veritable wikipedia of knowledge on preparedness, someone she had vowed to meet IRL*.
She had seen a photograph, once, of his real, authentic self. It was a hunting pic of him holding up a dead turkey, all smiles and big hands. He had a plump face with longish hair buried underneath a dirty hat with the words ‘Force is our Profession’ emblazoned in gold broidery. She estimated he was her own age, with dark-brown eyes and a scar cutting across his right eyebrow. He looked to be the guy you could depend upon when the world around you fell by the wayside. She had a flair for sorting people out, for pruning the bad from the good, and she knew from the outset this was her Elijah33.
She wished he was sitting next to her, right now, with his crooked grin, wicked crossbow, and capabilities. Together, she knew, they could stop the stupid robots from taking over her job, and the world.
But he wasn’t at her side... and she had to get back to her station.
But soon, she knew, things would turn for the better.
Rutledge gunned the throttle, and the Polaris bounced down the bumpy trail running alongside the fence. She didn’t notice the blot of grey matter on the fence post, a few centimeters from the ground. If she had, she might have been confounded by the fact the goo was crawling up the post.
Bit by bit.
*In Real Life
3 Morning Meeting
SIMON WALKED INTO Frank’s office and took a seat near the end of the table. Gerry Patterson was going on about the snow forecasted for the night, even though it was late September and snow typically appeared in mid-November. He was blaming the unusual weather on climate change, a favorite topic of his. Patterson was a mining engineer, and a good one at that. Simon had come to appreciate his professionalism, even though the man’s off-kilter sense of humor was peculiar.
Simon gazed at the empty chair next to Gerry’s. Anna Curtis, Frank’s daughter and the assistant manager, was absent. Frank caught his interrogative stare.
“Anna is down with the flu, so I gave her the day off.”
Simon nodded. She wasn’t the only one fighting a disease, sometimes it seemed the entire personnel had been sick these last few weeks.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Curtis began. “I have called this meeting so we can go over what we’ve found on level 16.” He paced around the room, nodding to each man. “Simon, if you will...”
Simon reached for his notebook, flipped thru the first pages and set it aside.
“I suspect there is something stirring inside the strata,” he said with a glance at the data on Curtis’ e-board. “My readings concord with those collected by Gerry.”
The engineer grinned with a satisfied expression, pleased by Simon’s confirmation of his work. He glanced at Curtis as if to press the point but the older man didn’t move a muscle.
“Do you think we are faced with a vein of petroleum, or other kind of liquid?” Curtis asked.
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”
“How come?”
Simon approached the e-board and tapped a button. The board wiped itself clean under a millisecond, the surface now free of any vestiges from past meetings. He selected a blue marker then drew parallel lines stacked on top of each other, like layers of a thick chocolate cake. Pressing a tiny switch on the marker, he changed the color to red and traced a thin, vertical column. He finished his sketch with an arrow pointing upwards.
“The numbers suggest that a substance comparable to a thick ooze is surging upwards.” Simon cleared his throat before continuing. “In fact, if the temperature was hundreds of degrees hotter, it could be interpreted as magma.”
“It’s good Maine doesn’t have volcanoes,” Gerry said with a chuckle.
“Huh, that’s true in this day and age, but it wasn’t always the case,” Simon started. “There is a theory that 420 million of years ago, the proto-East coast was victim to a colossal supervolcano. Even today, traces of the super explosion are visible on Isle au Haut, 32 kilometers off the coast where volcanic rocks are more than 4 kilometers thick.”
“I hope you aren’t telling us we’ve been sitting on a dormant supervolcano all this time,” Frank said.
“No, Frank, you don’t have to worry about that. In fact, quite the contrary. The temperature I recorded is lower than what it should be. I got readings of a max temp of 35 degrees.”
“Wow! That’s above the freezing point but by a hair. How’s that even possible?”
Simon glanced at the others seated at the table. “I don’t know why. I’ve read about sulfur lava flowing at conditions as low as 112 degrees Celsius, low compared to the usual range of between 700 and 1200 degrees of typical lava, but even that figure is a measure beyond our readings. If I would make a rough analogy, it’s as if icy lava was moving between the layers.”
“Icy lava?” Frank mulled the statement over for a few moments then with a shrug resumed his line of thoughts. “What else can we do? How can we figure this thing out?”
“What we have is an anomaly, and we need to study it further. We need core samples, not just readings, and set up a full lab, the works.”
Curtis put down his mug and pressed a switch on his desk. The e-board flickered then a video feed popped into view. Simon recognized the LTI logo adorning the wall of an elaborate conference room. He realized with a start it was the main room of headquarters in Chicago. Seated at the polished, ostentatious conference table were a ring of people, clothed in the latest and most expensive business attire he had ever seen. Simon glanced sideways at the engineer. Gerry lifted an eyebrow, an interrogative look on his face.
“Simon, Gerry...,” Curtis said indicating a woman of about 50 years of age, with gray streaked auburn hair and an aura of seriousness, seated at the head of the table. “Meet Margaret Gould, LTI’s CEO.”
There was an uneasy exchange of nods.
“Mr. Macomber, it is my understanding that this anomaly you are describing is something abnormal. Is that correct?” Gould asked in a voice used to public talk. A voice modulated to be understood by everyone present in the board room, and in Curtis’ office.
“Yes, I have never observed anything like it,” Simon answered with a nod. He watched the well-dressed woman focus her eyes on him. He felt as if he was undergoing a full-body scan at airport security. Margaret Gould had an unwavering gaze, which could discern bullshit a mile away. He recognized she could either be an ally or an enemy. There would be no in-between with this person.
“Is it possible you missed something? That even if your scan points to an aberration, it could turn out to be something trivial?” Gould asked with an emphasis on the word ‘trivial’.
Curtis stepped up and answered before Simon could interject.
“I have total faith our scans are 100% accurate.”
“I am sure of that, Frank,” Gould said, her voice as silk. “The way the data has been interpreted is what I’m concerned about, where I have doubts.”
The team surrounding the CEO shifted in their chairs. Simon watched the management people tap their pens with nervous gestures, and it was clear to him they had significant apprehensions.
About his analysis.
About his experience.
About him.
They must have read his bio coming into the meeting. He reckoned it was succinct and to the point:
Simon Macomber, age 35. Single. Phd in Geology from Binghamton University. Professor at the University of British Columbia for 5 years before joining LTI two years ago. Chief Geologist at the Wachibou Mine for the last year. No outstanding issues with his employment.
He shook
his head. Of course they had doubts. He had not proven his worth yet. He was the new guy, with a rather narrow range of experience. He knew his stuff, that was a given, but the big question was his competence in the field; and it was a real issue to some members of the management team.
“Mr. Macomber, in layman terms, can you explain why this thing is an anomaly,” Gould said with an expansive glance to the six others at the table.
“Of course,” he replied with a smile. “The anomaly, as the term implies, is something that shouldn’t be there, that is not the norm.” He paused for a second to gather his thoughts. “We have no explanation for the numbers we recorded or, and this is perhaps even worse, why they are there in the first place.”
“What is your best guess on what we are dealing with?” An older man asked. He was of African American descent, about 50 years old with short cropped hair and a rigid stare. Simon wondered why the e-board identified him as ‘Visitor’. He must have special privileges to be privy to an upper management meeting, and to sit next to Gould.
“In truth, I don’t know what it is. I’ve never heard of anything in the history of Geology to explain this, and I used to teach Geology.”
“But you have a theory, no?” Visitor asked with a side glance at Gould. “We all would like to know.”
Simon stared at the people sitting around the table. They were all watching him, waiting for an answer, his answer. They wanted his professional opinion so they could make a better decision on how to proceed. But he didn’t have much to give them. He had searched the web for answers, cycling thru numerous explanations for the strange numbers.
His search had run the gamut from the ubiquitous milky fluid found in 10% of all flowering plants, latex, all the way to red cinnabar, the crystal from which mercury is extracted. He had explored even more exotic stuff like liquid helium, which only attained liquid form at a temperature of minus 452℉, but nothing had cropped up that matched the numbers. He had nothing of value but the profound certainty he had a mystery on his hands.
“Like I said before, my opinion is that we are confronted by something... novel,” Simon answered.
“That’s not the answer I wanted to hear, Mr. Macomber,” Gould said with her jaw clenched.
“If you are asking me to provide a more detailed answer, I don’t have one. It could be the blood of ancient dinosaurs or even a geyser of French perfume... I don’t know,” Simon said, eyes burning with defiance.
Curtis approached the geologist and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at the display and spread his arms in a gesture that everyone understood.
“What should we do now?”
4 Curve Ball
FUNNY HOW LIFE can throw a curve ball at you when you least expect it.
Emmeline Brochu snapped the laptop shut with a satisfied grin. Margaret Gould had confirmed her suspicions. There was a problem in one of the mining operations, the lithium mine in Northern Maine, and she was instructed to go in and help out the staff on hand. No surprise there... the mail she had received the day before had already provided her with the most important details, backed by Gould herself during the impromptu web meet.
The unexpected change of schedule had come at a hectic time in her life. The night before, she had been dining in a nice, quaint, French restaurant in Old Montreal, enjoying the evening with a trio of kind-minded souls in the sidelines of ClimaCon, a world-class conference on climate change. Fourteen hours later, she found herself aboard the Starwind, an airship built to ferry cargo over long distances.
Another one of life’s curve balls.
Not that what Gould had told her was reason to laugh. When one of the world’s most well-known CEO’s used terms like ‘Important’ and ‘Unexplained’, you listened with ears wide open.
“Enjoying the flight, Miss Brochu?”
The voice belonged to Phil Ballard, captain of the airship. He was looking back at her from the cockpit, at the front end of the compartment which was about the length of a subway car, cut in half. Emmeline could not help but be impressed by the man: elegant in his dark blue uniform, he had a white beard, cropped with precision, piercing aquamarine eyes and the lines etched into his face only managed to reinforce his authoritative air. He was a striking figure of authority and even though he was pushing 70, Emmeline knew she was flying with someone with a vast amount of experience.
“Yes, very much so,” she said, raising her voice to be understood.
“Why don’t you come and join us up front?”
Taken aback, she hesitated but for a fraction of second, set aside her computer on the unoccupied seat next to hers and unbuckled her belt. There was but a short aisle to navigate between the passenger area and the flight deck, and a minute later she was standing next to Ballard.
“Miss Brochu, have you met Declan Penney, my co-pilot?” Ballard said, without taking his eyes from the heads-up displays. The young man seated next to the captain turned his head and gave a quick nod.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Brochu.”
“Call me Emmeline, please.”
He was so young. Penney couldn’t be much older than 24 by the looks of him, and by the boyish exuberance he projected. Dark curled hair with matching beard, brown eyes behind black-rimmed sunglasses, Declan was like a much younger version of Phil Ballard, as if pilots were cloned from a common template.
Emmeline’s thoughts flashed to Jayden, her ex-boyfriend. He too, had been as handsome as they came... until he had taken off for a so-called pursuit of a simpler and more spiritual life, which happened to be in Costa Rica with a posse of surfer girls.
Ever since that breakup, Emmeline had compensated with building up her business, diving into the work like a sky diver without a parachute, her head in the clouds but her heart in pieces. The strain had etched worry lines around her gorgeous green-flecked eyes, which she referred to as the Costa Rica trenches. She had turned 32 years old a month afterward, the anniversary spent watching Dirty Dancing in her apartment right across the street from the massive castle-like Connecticut Street Armory in good old Buffalo, New York. She lived alone with a stack of books, Phd in Biology obliged, and her years working as a researcher for the USGS meant closets full of hiking gear and sporting equipment.
Turning 32 had made her ponder about the passage of time and its effects on relationships. The years with Jayden had been a whirlwind of school, adventures, trips to South America, and plenty of good times.
But had the good times left with him?
Emmeline had found herself at a loss, incapable of answering what should have been an easy question. Every morning the mirror in her small bathroom fogged up, and she had to wipe it clean. Every morning the reflection staring back at her seemed further and further away. It was as if the girl, the radiant girl she used to be, was holing up in the shadows, unwilling to come out and be hurt again.
Time. That’s all I need.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Emmeline realized with a start she had been grasping Ballard’s right shoulder.
“Captain, I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Never mind,” Ballard said with a shrug. He smiled back at her. “What do you think of our new bird?”
“I love it.”
It was true. Emmeline loved the airship’s quietness, the notion of flying among the birds instead of streaking across the sky at supersonic speeds where the only relevant factor was how much time you shaved off your hectic schedule. The whirr of the four electric engines was subdued in the quietude of the flight deck and she liked the fact they were flying at 10,000 feet instead of 60,000.
“You know what I love about this craft?”
Emmeline shook her head.
“Flying under and within the clouds, unencumbered by speed vectors and altitude requirements. Also, since we are harnessed, so to speak, to the underside of this huge hull filled with helium,” Ballard pointed a finger up to a windowed hatch over his head, “we don’t realize how big she is, her true size...
and I find that fascinating.”
“How big is your ship, Captain Ballard?” Emmeline said, acknowledging the captain’s tacit invitation to provide more technical information.
“She’s a big one all right: 80 meters long or 262 feet if you prefer those numbers by 40 meters wide, and 22 meters high. She is a 10-ton craft, meaning she can transport that much cargo.”
“What is her top speed?”
The captain turned to his co-pilot.
“She’s not a rocket, that’s for sure!”
Declan’s grin grew wide and he nodded in agreement.
“Top speed is 200 kilometers per hour, 125 mph. Like I said: not a rocket!” Ballard’s laugh echoed in the cramped cockpit. “But she can also hover on the spot, in suitable conditions, a feat no plane can carry out... at least not one this size.”
“All the while hauling 10 metric tons of cargo, that’s, huh...,” Declan interjected.
“44,100 pounds,” Emmeline said, with a gleam in her eye. “I have a built-in converter.”
Both men turned to her, in perfect synchronization, and nodded in tandem, impressed. Emmeline stifled a laugh and smiled back at them.
“What are you transporting in the cargo containers, Captain?”
“Gear for the mine. Machinery and parts for the SmartDozers.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “And one individual.”
It was true the way she had found her way onboard had been quite the circuitous affair. LTI leased the Starwind to ferry material from its base of operation, a huge hangar housed alongside an abandoned international airport north of Montreal. The flight plan had already been established for the 5 hours journey from Montreal to Deerbrook, Maine and it was a fortuitous coincidence that Emmeline had been in Montreal at the perfect time. She could have rented a car and drove, but the mine was in a vast territory of isolated country served only by a rough road used by the logging industry. Gould had proposed the Starwind as a convenient alternative and Emmeline had accepted with relief. She loved driving but much preferred flying, even if it wasn’t as fast as what she was used to.
