Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  The attack on Iran stepped up the level of security on Sandray. The round the clock drone of helicopter activity drowned out our natural world. Naval vessels appeared over the horizon escorting incoming ships. Castleton School overlooked the Minch and on one occasion, Eachan, his eyes bright with excitement, came bursting through the door to tell us, “An aircraft carrier was in the Sound today, we could see the fighter planes on the deck.”

  In many ways the danger of an attack on Sandray by external forces worried me less than the knowledge gleaned from visiting other nuclear installations many years ago. Experience told me that the Sandray underground dump would be a maze of computer and robotic controls. From working in Geneva I understood and feared the unpredictable nature of complex systems.

  Producing food rather than commuting to an office emphasised a change in weather patterns. Weeks of dry terminated in endless spells of rain. When storms hit, the wind speeds had no problem reaching ninety. Livestock and crofter alike, in our simple way of farming we were struggling; it was far from factory farming- all under a roof converting oil into food. Most obvious to me working outside, was a quite distinctive shift in the type of rain which fell. Not so much the thin soft drizzle, a cross between fog and rain drifting in off the sea to settle on my woollen jersey like a silver mould; more frequently the droplets were large and heavy, pounding the ground, causing me to turn up my coat collar.

  Record droughts in Australia, followed by torrential rain and floods, melting glaciers in other parts of the world, mud slides engulfing remote Brazilian villages and tragic flooding on the plains of Pakistan; mystic soothsayers of the sandwich board variety quoted Nostradamus, the end is nigh. More scientifically minded pundits blamed the extremes of weather on the sun’s current quiescent state. Astrophysicists informed us that the normal eleven year sun spot cycle had stretched. The period of minimal activity on the sun’s surface did appear to be unusually extended.

  Historians quoted the mammoth disruption to the world’s fledgling communication network of 1859. The spectacle of the northern aurora was witnessed over Rome, the sky blazed with shooting colours and people flocked to church. Apart from Quebec’s entire power supply being knocked out 1989, well, history was history… what’s on tonight’s telly?

  In America, scientists at NASA’s Space Flight Centre were becoming increasingly concerned. The sun was sleeping, and they sure didn’t like it.

  Sir Joshua arrived unannounced on the summit pad of Sandray. He preferred his visits to be a complete surprise. It kept the staff on duty in a state of unease. His personal helicopter flew out from Nuen’s nuclear weapons base on the Clyde, ostensibly heading for London. Once airborne he shouted into the intercom, “Head for Sandray!” The pilot nodded and banked northwest. Fully aware this change of course should immediately be notified to the Traffic Controller at Glasgow airport, he remained silent. Goldberg preferred it that way.

  A flurry of courtesy greeted their Chairman. Would he care for lunch, coffee in the central operating gallery? “Not at the moment, I shall go straight down to inspect the storage chamber.” Goldberg had no wish to allow any delaying tactic which might enable possible shortcomings to be rectified.

  The Chief Technician, alerted from the switchboard, made a hurried appearance, “Good afternoon, sir.” Goldberg inclined his head, “You’ll kindly accompany me. Firstly I want a full inspection of the underground area.” “Of course, of course, sir,” the technician ushered his employer to the main lift shaft and the pair descended into the bowels of a storage centre designed to hold enriched uranium with a half life varying from a few hundred to tens of thousands of years.

  Five hundred feet below the summit of the Hill of the Shroud, Goldberg stepped out of the passenger lift into the halogen whiteness of a huge concrete lined chamber.The couple stood on the stainless steel platform looking down on a series of massive lead covers securing the top of an extensive line of boreholes. To their left, a track way running alongside them disappeared down a narrower tunnel which led to the unloading jetty on the shore. A large container of waste on a low loading trolley moved silently, inch at a time, up the track. Robotic machines, their green security lights flashing, slid into place. Clawing arms waved towards the cylinder. Another massive robot positioned itself over the mighty lead cap. Operators in the central control module regulated the whole slow motion dance on 3D screens.

  Man, robot and remote control. No humans ever entered this subterranean hall without express permission, nor without wearing heavy lead lined clothing. Ignoring his own regulation Sir Joshua stood before a majestic display of human endeavour. In the Halls of Valhalla, amidst cloud and thunder, lived the Viking Gods of the sea rover’s belief, omnipotent in their power over the life or death of humankind. Under the hill of their island sanctuary, the Hill of the Shroud was built. A chamber of echoes, hallowed alone by its power to obliterate human life. In the funereal hollow, before moving arms which knew no feeling except the pulse of circuits, Goldberg deemed himself at the apex of his life; supreme control, answerable to none, other than his own free will.

  “Where is that consignment from?” Sir Joshua watched the canister’s deliberate trundle towards its burial vault, “France, sir.” “Excellent. How close are we to capacity?” “Only twenty-five percent storage left, sir.” Goldberg smiled inwardly. The inestimable value of what he controlled, the sheer unadulterated, fabulous wealth, his cultured mind whispered; a fortune beyond even the fabled riches of Babylon.

  “Follow me.” Sir Joshua spoke over his shoulder, “I shall examine the far end of the unit. We shall widen this tunnel, drill some deeper bore holes, double the present capacity.”

  Along the wide steel gantry flanked by monitoring dials and lights, Goldberg marched.

  His footsteps rang out, hollow and metallic…

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Awake

  Ninety-three million miles and twenty-five days to each rotation, the furnace at our solar heart turns slow. Six thousand degrees are on its face, a roaring fusion is within. Five billion years remain to drink our power house dry. Crunched by gravity’s brutal jaw, a shrunken dwarf, it’s girth no bigger than this earth. Electrons jostle protons, pack so dense and tight a spoonful of its matter weighs three tonnes or more. No planets left, away it spins, its light a guttering flicker. Our once proud sun and fifty billion dwarfs which too were suns are companions in the galaxy. There, inert and feeble they await the day when the great Andromeda spiral will crash into our Milky Way; and Dark Energy begins its fight to oust the power of Gravity; and deal the final hand of fate.

  Three hundred million years is one rotation of our galaxy, a dot amidst the denizens of space where a hundred thousand million systems swirl. Can we contemplate such span of time? Death will banish time. For at the centre of this Universe, gargantuan and supreme, there spins the black dark hole through which all things are drawn; a single point that turns infinity to eternity. And in the brightness of one creative flash all posibilties awake to fields of Universes new. Will consciousness endure, be born again? Become some form which owes survival to imagination’s strength? Will entangled waves of this self same energy feast on knowledge, posses the power to build a Universe?

  Each eleven years is the ebb and flow of sunspot cycles, pulse of our miniscule cosmic presence. It slowed. Twelve years passed. The white hot surface of the sun remained almost free from the dark pock marks of cooler gas which block the coronal emissions. A maelstrom of particles in the blast furnace of plasma at the sun’s magnetic heart were churning, smashing, annihilating; energised beyond the strength of gravity.

  A bubble swelled on the surface of the sun; swelling on a molten face which revolved towards the earth. Gigantic pressure built.

  It burst; twenty billion tonnes of matter hurled in leaping fangs of glowing plasma, flicking tongues of energy whipping into space at near the speed of light.

  Particles, highly charged, their destructive power a billion atom bombs surged ear
thwards. Unleashed energy smashed through the earth’s magnetic shield.

  The skies blazed. An aurora of terrifying brilliance unseen before; a solar outburst of extreme violence enveloped the planet, a vast geomagnetic storm all powerful in its fury.

  Satellites veered wildly out of orbit. Global navigation failed. Weapon systems crashed, computer networks crashed. Power cables criss crossing the globe became the giant storms antennae. Worldwide communication ceased. The arteries of civilisation were paralysed. Fires and multi explosions ripped through city and homestead alike. Ripples of panic spread, waves of chaos engulfed the masses at their phalanx screens, the herdsmen on his empty plains.

  Terror turned to anarchy. Fear swept all before it!

  People gazed towards the sun.

  Was this the time to pray?

  Sir Joshua Goldberg and his Chief Technician walk slowly along the steel gantry towards the end of the huge underground storage chamber. Beneath them is the line of installations which cover the actual bore holes. Down three hundred feet into the solid rock beneath the hill, are the stacks of containers. Massive lead caps seal their tops. Seemingly unending pipes carry the vital cooling liquid. Banks of lights indicate every aspect of the state of the nuclear waste, the various pressures involved and of paramount importance, the material’s critical temperature.

  The couple stand at the end of the long steel gantry. Nuen’s Chairman looks proudly back along the chamber. Bright green lights shine from each control point, the plant was working extremely efficiently, all was as he’d planned it. Entirely satisfied Goldberg smiles, and waving his arm towards the dead end of the chamber he speaks expansively to his Chief Technician, “This is where I shall build my next phase of the expansion on this Goddamn island. This facility has solved the problem. My Company is the saving of the whole nuclear industry.”

  Instantly they are in total blackness, primal, complete and without sound, a density of blackness without point of reference, an absence of all else but the sickness of claustrophobia. Such its suddenness neither speaks. Their shallow frightened breathing quickens. Goldberg moves. His foot strikes something soft. He reaches down. His hand contacts a prone body. “You bastard, you’ve fainted. You foul bastard, get up, get up, get me out of here, get me to the lift.” There is no move, no breathing. “You fool, you blithering fool, are you dead?” Goldberg kicks the inert form, finds its face and kicks again and again.

  Horror- struck Goldberg stumbles, falls against the handrail. Which way, which way? This way? Inch by inch he shuffles. Both sweating hands slide along the rail. The lift, the lift, I must reach the lift. I must reach the… is this the main platform? Only blackness, the underground blackness is a creeping phantom, untouchable, yet a presence that moves with his every shuffling step. Another yard, another, another, the rail turns. He follows. Yes, the lift door. He runs trembling hands over the control buttons…. must find the control, his hand paws, his fingers feel.

  These must be the buttons. They won’t press. No power, the lift is without power. A screaming Goldberg beats the unyielding door, “Get me out, get me out pleeese!!!” A hollow voice echoes out of the black silence. “Get me out, pleeeeese!” The scream fades, stretches into the void, the wail of torment entering the tunnel of dread.

  He listens to the echo, is there someone? His bare hand has struck some object, he feels blood. His sagging legs give, he sinks down, leans his back against the closed door and stops the futile screams. There is nobody to hear, nobody.

  His broken voice trails into sobbing. “Please, please God get me out of here,” he clasps beseeching hands. Now there is no echo. The trap of utter blackness swallows his whimpering voice.

  How long passes? There is no telling, only darkness. His mind is emptied of rational thought. His heart pounds with fear. He leans to one side and vomits.

  He closes his eyes, and prays.

  Upstairs in the central control room the on duty team sitting before a bank of winking consoles relax. Goldberg and the boss are safely below inspecting the storage chamber. They swivel their chairs and chat. Ordinary, mundane comment, last night‘s dart match in the centre. No mention is made of the arrival of Sir Joshua. Their whole work area is under continuous surveillance by camera and microphone, every word and move is recorded and computer analysed. During the past month a number of alerts have been relayed to them, mostly unidentified aircraft. Unknown to Goldberg his helicopter pilot had checked in their flight to avoid another such incident. Since the Iran attack a completely revised set of security rules applies. Neither ship nor plane or any person allowed near Sandray without double verification. The terrorist threat is at red, its highest level.

  The safety door’s light is flashing. “It’s Jim,” comes over the intercom. He’s in the outer vetting compartment. The foreman checks him on the screen and punches in a code. The door opens allowing an off duty colleague to hurry in. The door automatically closes behind him.

  “Hell chaps! There’s something bloody funny happening in the sky, its turning green, great stabs of light are streaking across it.” The panic in the eyes is not lost on the group. They swivel off their seats and surround the man, “Back to your stations!” barks the foreman, equally alarmed. “This might be an attack.”

  Suddenly complete darkness. Every screen, every panel light, cut out. The foreman technician is first to react. “Emergency, emergency drill,” he shouts, “switch to number one base generation.” The team leaves their seats. They fumble about feeling their way, bumping into each other. “No response, no response,” shouts the first back to his control web.

  Frantically each man on reaching his desk presses buttons. Dead, the system is dead. The leading technician reaches the emergency door, “Hell’s teeth it won’t open!” Voices begin to babble, try this, try that, the first wave of panic is setting in. The air already feels sticky. No vents, no air conditioning.

  “Christ boys, we’ll be cooked alive in here!” a shrill voice above the rest. “Shut your mouth!” the foreman barks out of the black dark. “Stay at your desks.”

  Nobody yet dares mention the thoughts upper most in every mind. Has the cooling systems surrounding each waste filled bore hole has been cut off? Each man knows the consequence.

  Meltdown. The prospect of death stalks through the control room.

  Goldberg stirs, lifts his head, opens his eyes. The faintest green glow suffuses the chamber. Only too aware of what is happening he groans, on and on, the low groaning of total abandonment to abject terror. He screams again, “God of my people, please, please.” He slumps back exhausted.

  The green radiance intensifies. He looks round the chamber, flickering light is playing a ghostly hand on its vaulted ceiling. His crazed mind flashes back to his treasured bathroom, the beauty of its mouldings. This can’t be happening; it’s a dream, a horror of a drug induced nightmare. I must waken, must waken.

  The heat is making his breathing difficult. He stares down stupidly. The nearest lead cap is melting into a green fluid. Without warning his platform begins to tilt, slowly to buckle. “No, no, no!” his voice is broken from screaming. He grabs at stanchions, hangs on. The tilt increases in slow motion. His hands are burning; the stench of a sacrifice on the altar of mammon.

  A plume of fluid spurts out of the bore hole. Blazing droplets fall on his legs. The pain is beyond feeling. He watches his flesh melting, running down the sloping platform. His legs are dripping. Tiny flames of tallow course down the ribbed steel. The heat is searing his lungs at every breath. Goldberg throws his head back.

  In a cracked shrieking he pleads, “God, God, save me, I give you all my money, God of the ten talents, pleeeese, pleeese hear me, I’m your servant, I made it for you, all my money is yours, millions, milli……” To those that have shalt be given.

  The heat cuts off his breath. His burning hands release their grip. The acrid fumes of his burning flesh choke his lungs. The green glare burns his eyelids.

  Unable to close his eyes, Si
r Joshua Goldberg slithers gradually, imperceptibly down the platform. His closing anthem approaches.

  Radiation, a requiem for all mankind.

  The white hot furnace waits.

  White hot as the erupting sun.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  “As a whisper that will pass in the larch.”

  The fact that my inheritance vanished during the banking crash into somebody else’s pocket didn’t give me the slightest cause to grieve, nor could I find any reason to envy the lifestyle enjoyed by financial tycoons afflicted by the disease of making money. Our needs were slender, the income from the croft paid the bills and healthy living filled the bank. Eachan stretched into a tall, strong boy, able both at school and on the croft. Cows and ewes by their yearly offspring supported our family unit, just as we fed and cared for them, a mutual arrangement with much affection on our part, and if I read the animals minds correctly they viewed us with friendliness, especially when hay appeared. Given the sorry state afflicting many of the world’s poor we were fortunate. Not without a twinge of conscience- there seemed little missing in our lives, and yet….

  That morning I walked about the croft talking to the cows, “Well girls, you’ll be glad the weather has taken a turn for the better.” Day after day of unseasonable weather had forced our cattle to stand heads down and backs to driving rain and gale. The calmness which followed possessed an unusual quality. Maybe the passing of the storm heightened the sombre nature of its tranquility. The atmosphere struck me as odd. The sun had long risen to a sky without mist or cloud and yet the land and sea were imbued with a sickly paleness that lacked the animated colours which peopled my memories.