by Andrew Dorn
He smiled at the thought.
Then his thoughts whirled back to the cause of his insomnia.
The image.
An image he couldn’t get out of his head.
He had glimpsed something, an object, beyond the collapsed wall on 16, right before the tremors started.
There had been no time to speculate about what it was, or what it could be. It had only been a short glimpse, lasting for a few seconds at most, but it had etched itself indelibly in his mind.
Problem was, he would never learn more about it now that it lay buried under tons of dirt and debris.
It was disappointing in a sense.
Was it some kind of rock formation? A natural object? Or something else entirely?
The whirr of an engine snapped him back to reality, derailing his thoughts. He glanced through the window and saw with apprehension a familiar UV make its way to his front door. A minute later, the vehicle plowed to a halt, peppering the habitat with loose gravel. He opened the door with a jerk and saw Gwen Rutledge returning his stare with cold eyes.
“Mr. Macomber,” Rutledge said with deliberate politeness. “The army wants a word with you.”
17 Interrogations
“THIS IS THE moment,” thought Gwen Rutledge. Elijah Roy was about to change her life. The man was what she had hoped for, all her life. He was someone with a vision. Someone who would change the way things were, for the better, for those who followed him. He was about to change life on a monumental level. She had no idea how he would go about achieving that change but it was coming, she knew. Hadn’t the man been predicting this event all along? Hadn’t he prepared for it his whole life? Hadn’t he known this was the time?
She had the conviction of his own convictions. There was no internal questioning, no rationale to debate. She had a mission, at last, to follow through. When the sinkhole gobbled the mine, the wheel of change had begun to roll... and there was no stopping it.
She glanced at the man sitting next to her. Simon Macomber seemed even more disoriented than usual, his eyes puffy with lack of sleep and he appeared at a loss, absorbed in thought. She noticed he had foregone combing his hair as if his appearance had become a superfluous chore.
What a poor sap.
She considered him, and his friends, unworthy of their positions and hierarchical statuses. Be it that new scientific bitch, Brochu, or those dumb-asses Patterson and Vazquez, they were all small fry.
They all needed to be brought down.
And Roy would be the one to do it, she was sure of it.
She slammed on the brakes, jolting Macomber back to reality.
“What the hell?”
“Sorry, bad habit,” Rutledge said with a tight smile.
They had reached the mine’s outer fence, at the security checkpoint, the main entry point to the site since day one. Curtis had ordered the gate be locked with a padlock, obliging Rutledge to hop out and unlock it by hand. She flipped up the latch with a jerk then returned to the UV.
“Out you go, Mr. Macomber,” she said without further explanation.
“But?” Simon wondered out loud as he climbed down from the vehicle.
“I have other stuff to do than babysit you guys during a meeting,” Rutledge said with impatience.
Simon grabbed the door handle. He hesitated for a second then turned to her. “Where were you when the tremors started?”
The security chief shifted in her seat, eyes darting to the no man’s land encircling the area.
“I thought I had spotted an intruder on the Eastern perimeter,” she said, staring back at him. “So I went out to investigate. The tremor hit, and I came back but by then it was too late.” She jerked her head to the general direction of the hole. “I narrowly escaped the sinkhole.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that is so. Are you implying I didn’t do my job, Mr. Macomber?”
“No...” Simon said, getting out of the UV. “I guess it’s one of those coincidences that just seem to follow you around.”
Rutledge grinned in his direction. “Exactly... only a coincidence.”
“Simon! Over here!” a voice called from beyond the gate.
Rutledge raced off, leaving a cloud of dust and pine needles in her wake. Simon cursed her under his breath, wondering what to make of her.
Had there been an intruder out there, or was she flat out lying to him?
He began climbing the low hill up to the clearing. The airship hung in the sky and he craned his neck to gaze at the craft, it was the first time he had the chance to view these behemoths up close. The craft had been anchored with lengths of ropes to two vehicles placed on opposite sides of the clearing. Simon recognized Frank’s truck, a company pickup he drove for weekend fishing expeditions, and an autonomous SmartDozer. He reckoned that with the garage gone, gobbled up by the hole, those two vehicles were the last ones around, aside from Rutledge’s UV and the airship above him.
He walked over to where Emmeline stood, accompanied by two men he didn’t recognized.
“Simon Macomber, meet Captain Phil Ballard and co-pilot Declan Penney.”
“That’s quite the ship you have, Captain,” Simon said, clasping hands with both men.
“Yes, well thank you, but I just fly it, Mr. Macomber.”
“Please, call me Simon.”
Ballard nodded. “Miss Brochu has briefed us...” he shot a sideways glance to his co-pilot, “... about what happened the moment we got back from Bangor.”
“Then you know we lost people down there.”
The Captain shook his head. “Yes.” He stared at both Simon and Emmeline with earnestness. “I’m sorry.”
Simon nodded to himself, lost in thought. Talking about Frank in the past tense made his demise even more cruel, as if it was all a terrible mistake.
“Hello? Captain Ballard?”
The voice came from a display screen set up on a folding work table. Simon noted the equipment was plugged into an electrical extension cord dangling from the airship floating 30 meters above them.
“Hold on for a second, Major,” Ballard said. He glanced at Simon and Emmeline. “You guys ready?”
Emmeline nodded in acknowledgement.
“Simon?” Emmeline asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, I’m good,” he said, locking eyes with her. “Let’s do this.”
Major Jim Redding was the Commanding Officer of the National Guard CST unit, the Civil Support Team for the Northeast region. He wanted to know more about what had taken place at the mine; and the best way was to listen to Emmeline’s and Simon’s own versions of the events.
Redding had a stern yet sympathetic way of angling his questions. In the guise of an informal discussion, he could extract key elements of knowledge to better help with his decisions process. Simon thought the impromptu meeting was more like an interrogation session but grudgingly appreciated the Major’s approach as time went by.
There was no use bullshitting the Major, Simon learned straight off. Redding had an integrated BS detector, a skill Simon wished he possessed.
With a skill like that, I might be able to see through Rutledge’s opaqueness.
After a detailed introduction about the anomaly on level 16, and consequent attempt at determining what it was, Redding asked for a comprehensive account on what took place next.
Emmeline took over for Simon, recounting the events with thorough precision, her words honed and to the point. She had a keen, analytical mind, focused on the here and now. Redding listened in silence as she described the sludge’s onslaught, the astounding speed at which it overwhelmed the tunnel. She insisted on how everyone had been out of their depth, including Frank. She stared at the monitor, eyes straight ahead. Had they known what awaited below, they would never had gone down in the first place.
Redding wasn’t taking notes but his aide, Staff Sergeant Desmond Fox, a thick chested and beefy man with a shaved head, was scrawling every word on a thick notepad.
The discussion ev
entually turned to the sludge. Simon watched Fox’s pen fly on the paper as he listed the candidates he had dismissed: lava, petroleum, water, mud, and contaminants. The goo-like material was, according to his background in geology, unfamiliar in composition and activity. The Major kept asking if he was sure he had not overlooked a chemical or environmental reaction. Simon assured him he hadn’t but since the material had not been studied, he could be wrong.
“And you, Ms. Brochu?” Major Redding said. “Any theories on what we’re dealing with?”
Emmeline glanced at Simon, then back to Redding.
“Well, it’s just a theory,” she began. “And you might not like where I’m going with this.”
“Shoot anyway, Ms. Brochu,” Redding said, with a quick grin. “Sorry, we army folk often say that.”
Emmeline returned the Major’s grin, liking the commander at once. The man had a way of making people at ease, even though it was a means to an end, a method to get what he wanted. Emmeline had already decided she could trust this man. He was a man who would make certain his people were cared for. She fixed her gaze on each of the men.
“Have any of you gentlemen heard about the grey goo hypothesis?”
18 Hypothesis
“THE GREY GOO hypothesis was first introduced by Eric Drexler, an MIT engineer, in 1986.”
Emmeline closed her eyes for a second, marshaling her thoughts. She had caught Simon’s reaction, the way his jaw flexed, and wondered what it meant. Did he think the subject was total gobbledygook? She needed to go as wide as possible about the theory, so that Redding could make up his own mind on the matter.
“The hypothesis warns about self-replicating molecular nanotechnology that could one day self-replicate in an uncontrolled fashion.”
Emmeline saw that Fox was scribbling notes, a taut frown on his face.
“Am I going too fast, Staff Sergeant Fox?”
On the monitor, Emmeline saw Fox flinched, bewildered at being called out directly.
“No, Ma’am,” Fox replied, with a quick glance at Redding.
“What do you mean by self-replicating nanotechnology?” Redding said, repeating her words.
“The hypothesis goes something like this: say you have billions of nanobots that are released to clean up an oil spill off the coast of Maine. However, and this is where it gets interesting, due to a programming error, the nanobots devour all carbon-based objects, instead of just the hydrocarbons of the oil. As you know, carbon forms the key component for all known life on earth. The nanobots destroy everything, but, and this is crucial, all the while, they keep replicating themselves. Within days, the planet is turned to dust.”
“But self-replicating, uh, nanobots don’t exist yet, correct?” Redding asked, glancing at Fox’s notepad.
“Not that I know about, Commander.” Emmeline said.
“Then why do you think this sludge of yours, the one you encountered at the bottom of the mine, could be a so-called grey goo scenario?”
“Because even though nanobots don’t exist, as far as we know,” Emmeline said, staring at the monitor, “... nanoparticles do exist.”
Emmeline started walking back and forth in front of the monitor, sometimes off camera, but Redding kept silent, waiting for her to continue.
“Nanoparticles are everywhere and have been freely found in Nature since forever. They’ve been unknown to us until we developed electron microscopes powerful enough to scope them. They can be found in volcanic ash, ocean spray, fine sand and even viruses.”
Redding nodded in understanding, urging Emmeline on.
“Now aside from those occurring in nature, there are also synthetic nanoparticles. These are man-made nanoparticles. They are, and I’m summarizing here, either incidental or engineered.”
“What do you mean by incidental?” Redding said.
“Well, nanoparticles are present in activities like large-scale mining, the running of diesel engines, and even something as common as starting a fire.”
“And the engineered?”
“Those are designed and synthesized by humans. You might find it interesting to know that during the Bronze Age, alchemists prepared nanoparticle solutions of gold and other precious metals with precise control over particle size and composition that are in fact very similar to what we are doing today in laboratories. They had no idea, mind you, about the scientific implications of what they were doing since most of the time, the solutions were used for either jewelry or, oddly enough, the treatment of syphilis.”
“Syphilis?” Redding said, visibly perplexed.
Emmeline shook her head as if in wonder.
“Yes. Many people ingested these gold and silver solutions as health tonics. Even today, some people still use this folk remedy which, alas, has no proven results.”
“But it was the Bronze Age. How about today?”
“Today, there are thousands of nanoparticle-enabled products. Most of these are related to cosmetics and, yes, health care.”
Emmeline glanced up at the sun in the sky, blocked out by the omnipresent cloud cover.
“Do you use sun block, Major?”
Somewhat, taken aback, Redding hesitated for a second before answering.
“Of course.”
“Then you have used a product with nanoparticles. With sunblock, the particles absorb UV-light very strongly, preventing your skin from burning from the ultra-violet exposure.”
“So, correct me if I misunderstood, we are surrounded by these things,” Redding said.
“Yes. We inhale them in tiny amounts because of industry and volcanoes and we also use products that contain them. The question is Major: is this good for us?”
“Is it?”
“That’s difficult to answer. The ones that are the by-product of pollution are obviously bad, but those that protect us from skin cancer are good.”
“What is it you are fearing, Emmeline?”
Emmeline turned toward Simon.
“I fear that perhaps a different breed of nanoparticles have emerged, one which we have never known about before. A category of particles buried for eons and somehow awaken by our activity in the mine.”
Simon nodded and Emmeline realized he had been thinking about a similar explanation.
“If only we had an electronic microscope at hand, we could establish if the sludge is made up of nanoparticles. Unfortunately, all our equipment is now at the bottom of the hole.”
“That being said, Emmeline, even if we could prove there are nanoparticles in the sludge, we still wouldn’t know where it came from and more importantly, how to deal with it,” Simon said.
“True enough, but at least it would be a starting point. A way for us to find out what it is.”
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of Fox’s pen on the paper.
“So we have no real way of knowing what’s going on,” Redding said, adjusting his cap with a tired gesture.
“I’m afraid so,” Emmeline said.
Simon cleared his throat, then glanced at everyone around him.
“Unless, we go on a field trip.”
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of the wind whistling thru the leafless branches of the trees.
“Out of the question,” Redding said, staring ahead with authority etched in his stance. “We will be there in less than three hours. I suggest you keep everybody safe until our arrival. I repeat, I want no one to go down that hole. Understood?”
Simon and the others nodded, impressed by the determination in Redding’s voice. It was the tone of a man not willing to put up with any kind of rebuke.
“We will wait until you get here, Major,” Emmeline said.
“Good, I thank you all for your cooperation and I will see you...” Redding glanced at this watch, “in three hours.”
He tapped Fox on the shoulder and the two men got up from their chairs.
“Redding out.”
The monitor went dark. Simon glanced at Emmeline
, who returned his stare without a word. And he understood at once she was as worried as he was.
19 The Pod
SIMON STOOD ON the rim of the sinkhole. He was reminded of the crater in Arizona he had read about in high school.
The Barringer Meteorite Crater.
The hole at his feet was as impressive as his memory of the crater. He estimated the hole’s depth at more than 600 meters, with some areas perhaps even deeper. The bottom of the hole was a vast dumping ground of enormous boulders, strewn about here and there, as if a giant had played a game or two of pitchnut. There were also massive cracks in the sinkhole’s floor, which looked to go even deeper than the mine’s original depth. These fissures expanded even as he watched, showing that whatever activity had been going on down there was still active.
The meeting over, Simon and Emmeline along with Declan and Captain Ballard had trekked out to the hole’s edge, eager to discuss the events with Arturo and Gerry. The two men were engrossed by the scenery, and by a bottle of whiskey retrieved from Gerry’s secret stash.
“Look at those cracks!” Arturo said, with a finger pointing to the bottom of the hole.
“Yeah, those are curious,” Gerry said with a wave of the arm. “There is something going on down there,”
“What can it be?” A voice asked from behind them.
They all spun around.
Anna Curtis was holding her arms tight to her chest, eyes red with grief.
“Anna, you should be resting,” Emmeline said, taking a step forward and wrapping her in her arms.
“I know,” Anna said, her voice a whisper. “I just can’t. It’s dad. I... still can’t accept it.”
Emmeline nodded, glancing at Simon from the corner of her eye. They both could feel her pain but there was nothing they could do. Poor Frank never had a chance. If the sludge had not killed him outright, then the sinkhole had for sure. Nobody could survive such a massive ground displacement.
“It’s the hope I have in my heart... it won’t go away.”
Tears flowed down her cheeks, and as the others looked on, they could sense the great loss in her heart.
