The Fall

by R. J. Pineiro

  Jack was about to reply when they reached a sign for Interstate 95.

  Palmer got suddenly quiet as he worked the gears while steering the Peterbilt cabin toward the entrance ramp for I-95 south.

  And that’s when he felt a bit light-headed as the Peterbilt accelerated down the highway and a new road sign loomed into view:

  SPEED LIMIT

  105

  One Oh Five?

  Really?

  “You okay, Jack?” Palmer asked after putting the rig on cruise control, shooting him another sideways glance. “You look a little pale there, buddy.”

  “I get a little carsick,” he lied as he looked over to the dashboard and noticed the speedometer needle pegged to one hundred.

  And then it hit him.

  For reasons he couldn’t explain, this version of central Florida, where his greeting committee and Claudette were absent, was on the metric system. Everything was in kilometers.

  Fuck me.

  Palmer reached into the large center console separating them, revealing a small cooler. He pulled out a can of Sprite and handed it to him. “The carbonation usually helps.”

  Jack was actually hoping for tequila.

  But he thanked him for the cold soda, popped the lid and took a sip, momentarily closing his eyes. The drink was cool, refreshing his core, and in a way renewing his desire to find Angie and get some answers.

  He decided to simply inspect the world projecting beyond the rig’s large windows. Traffic on the interstate looked normal, except for the speed limit signs.

  Neighborhoods and businesses crowded both sides of the highway now, in sharp contrast with the desolate road he had walked for the half hour before Palmer picked him up.

  On the surface, everything appeared normal, from the Exxon, Texaco, and Shell gas stations to his right to a Walmart sharing a parking lot with a Home Depot on the left. A large bank was next, with the current temperature displayed above its empty parking lot.

  Twenty-two degrees Celsius, or around seventy Fahrenheit, meaning the temperature was also being reported in the metric system.

  He tensed again when a large billboard caught his eye. A couple in swimsuits holding hands staring at the sunset below the words:

  CUBA

  THE HONEYMOONER’S PARADISE

  He stared at the picturesque image in growing disbelief, his eyes slowly drifting back to the road ahead, his mind resigning itself to the reality of his situation, however bizarre or inexplicable it seemed.

  And that reality blasted in his mind the words he had been so reluctant to accept:

  It wasn’t a dream, Jack.

  But then what was it?

  How did he end up here, back on Earth, alone, with no tropical storm overhead—and where former President Jimmy Carter back in the 1970s had apparently succeeded in transitioning America to the metric system.

  At least in Florida.

  He closed his eyes, wondering if he could be suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder. Although SEALs rarely suffer from PTSD, primarily because they had volunteered for combat-related duties and had gone through extensive realistic scenario training, making them better mentally prepared, Jack still contemplated the possibility, which effects varied from depression to delusions.

  Am I delusional and just don’t know it?

  Pushing that last thought aside, Jack forced his sorry ass past denial and into acceptance of whatever it was that was happening to him. There had to be a logical, scientific explanation for what he was experiencing. There always was.

  He should just roll with the punches, knowing deep inside that things always had a way of working themselves out as long as he kept his thinking cap on, as long as he followed his training and remained calm.

  But what if my thinking cap is off its rocker, like this guy’s?

  What can I do if my senses are lying to me?

  He shook those thoughts away and forced his confused mind to think of something productive, like analyzing the final moments before entering that strange storm—remembering the numbers that had flashed on his faceplate display over and over again:

  MACH 1.2

  G-METER 12.0

  TEMPERATURE 1200 DEGREES.

  ALTITUDE 120,000 FEET

  The numbers. Those numbers have to mean something.

  They continued flashing red while he fell, violating the laws of physics in ways that made his tired mind hurt. Energy couldn’t be created nor destroyed, only converted from one form into another. And the telemetry up to that point confirmed that theory as vertical velocity was converted into heat and pressure.

  But then things just froze while he continued to fall.

  Was the suit malfunctioning?

  Eventually the display returned to normal once he punched through that membrane-like layer full of lightning, and he reached the atmosphere.

  But he also remembered fading in and out during the latter portion of the fall. Was it possible that he dreamed the part about the display contradicting the laws of physics?

  His mind then jumped to Pete, recalling how he’d tried to contact him and how the transmission faded away shortly after he was immersed in that storm.

  Did the TDRSS link fail? Is that why they couldn’t talk to me anymore?

  But what about afterward?

  It was pretty obvious that he hadn’t drifted away like he had originally thought. But if so, then where was everybody?

  It simply didn’t make any sense.

  Or maybe …

  Jack stared into the distance, pursing his lips.

  Maybe I have some sort of concussion from the extreme Gs, he thought, recalling that at some point the G-meter had read almost thirteen, which was in itself unprecedented. Most astronauts experience only three to four Gs during launch and a few more during reentry. There was a case of a malfunctioning Soyuz causing a pair of cosmonauts to experience around ten Gs some time back, but he couldn’t recall what became of them. Fighter pilots sometimes go up to twelve Gs, but not before their bodies have gone through a lifetime of conditioning in flight training plus lots of time in those dreaded centrifuges.

  His eyes drifted back to the road, starting to believe that he had to be staring at a distorted version of reality as a result of his ride, and he could only hope that this condition was temporary.

  It has to be, he thought, touching his head, ignoring the sideways glance that Palmer shot him before looking back to the road ahead. Jack pressed his fingertips all around his skull, the base of his neck, and around his temples, looking for any tender spots, bumps or other telltale signs of external trauma, but he was clean.

  Sighing, he returned his attention to the world outside, looking at everything, at vehicles, at buildings, at road signs, at billboards, finding commonalities and also finding differences. Some were subtle, like the slightly darker green background on highway signs, or the more rectangular license plates, though not as wide as the ones in Europe. But then he would see bold differences, like the billboard advertising a high-speed ferry delivering you to your dream vacation in Havana, paradise for gambling, music, surf, and sand—in only two hours directly from Miami Beach.

  Does that mean that in my sick mind Castro fell? Or does it mean the bastard never won that old revolution?

  Another billboard appeared behind it depicting a smiling Pan American Airlines captain flanked by beautiful flight attendants welcoming passengers with open arms to their new fleet of Boeing 777 clippers.

  Your mind is certainly fucking with you, Jack.

  The advertisements that followed for McDonald’s, Ford Motor Company, Apple Computers, and even Walgreens and Rolex all looked just like home, and so did the—

  Jack suddenly felt himself being stared at again.

  This time he turned to see Palmer regarding him with a narrowed gaze under his bushy brows. The man seemed to have an amazing ability to keep the truck dead in the middle of the lane while looking away from the road for more than just a second—s
omething that even the high-adrenaline junkie in him found dangerous.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “There’s something really odd about you, Jack,” Palmer said, his beard shifting as he frowned and returned his eyes to the traffic ahead. “But I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. Yet.”

  “Well, this hiking suit is certainly different, Lou,” he replied.

  “No,” Palmer said. “It ain’t that. I already know that’s military-issued, including that serrated SOG knife strapped to your thigh. But you’ve got your reasons—probably orders—not to talk about it, and I respect that.”

  “Look, it’s really not—”

  “I served for twenty years,” Palmer interrupted before giving him a wink. “Did four tours in ’Nam before spending time in the DMZ. I know what I’m talking about, and you know that I know. But again, that’s not what’s odd about you.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, deciding to go along with this strange but somewhat insightful man. “Then what?”

  He studied Jack again before shifting his eyes back to the road.

  “It’s the way you’re looking at everything, Jack.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Like … if it was your first time.”

  * * *

  Angela felt her life had been defined by a series of crucial experiences, events that had transformed her thinking, her way of looking at the world around her. It started with her father’s death, followed by her short but impactful time with Anonymous, where she had strayed from the straight and narrow while acquiring skills that placed her on the FBI’s radar. But that experience, however dark at the time and certainly life-changing, had eventually forced her back onto the right path, steering her toward Florida Institute of Technology and her decade at MIT, where NASA recruited her. Then the road changed drastically again from academia in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to a government contractor living in Cocoa Beach, Florida.

  And straight into the arms of Jack.

  And straight back to this dungeon, she thought, sitting next to Art-Z while rubbing her eyes and trying hard to suppress a yawn.

  She was tired. Very tired.

  Her dose of energy drinks had long worn off and her body demanded the rest that her mind couldn’t yet allow. The data browsing down the screen of her former mentor and boyfriend required her to stay frosty, alert.

  So she drank more energy drinks while ignoring the slight shake in her hands and her increased heartbeat—though it was hard to tell if her heightened level of anxiety was chemically induced or due to the information Art-Z had managed to extract from the bowels of the Department of Defense’s network via the hack that Angela had so masterfully done to the tablets of the two scientists accompanying General Hastings.

  “Did you really have to name the cat Bonnie?”

  He shrugged, and said, “Same color eyes and hair, and just as … temperamental.”

  Angela looked down at the dark feline and noticed the hazel eyes. “I’ll be damned.”

  Art-Z pointed at the screen and said, “Payback’s indeed a bitch. Nice hack job, Bonnie. I see you still haven’t lost your touch, or your good looks. You been working out or something?”

  “I’m married, Art.”

  “Did you get a boob job, too?”

  “Art!”

  “Yeah, I got that you’re married and all. Just not to me,” he replied, leaning back and petting the cat, regarding Angela with strange detachment.

  He wore a pair of loose shorts, a Green Lantern T-shirt, and flip-flops. He also smelled a little, just like he did in the old days. And just like the old days, Art-Z was extremely pale from days—or weeks—without stepping outside. The interior of his small house at the end of a narrow road in the middle of a forgotten neighborhood in South Miami was in a permanent state of darkness. Heavy drapes kept sunlight—and outsiders—from peeking into the hardware that governed his cyber kingdom. And his lack of contact with the physical world for weeks at a time meant living off a diet of canned or frozen foods, plus copious amounts of coffee and energy drinks.

  “We were kids, Art,” she replied, her tired eyes taking in the information on the screen.

  “Yeah. We were. That was then.”

  “And this is now.”

  “And this is certainly now,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  After a moment of silence, Angela asked, “So … seeing anyone?”

  He slowly shook his head.

  “You probably would if you had a better ride,” she observed, remembering the electric scooter parked in the garage, quite diminutive next to her Triumph.

  “Hey, it gets me around.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Plus it’s good for the environment.”

  “Whatever.”

  He leaned forward and tapped the screen with an index finger. “I thought you said these guys were from Los Alamos.”

  Angela frowned, feeling foolish for having believed Hastings. His pair of mismatched nerds were actually from CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research and home of the Large Hadron Collider. “What can I say, Art? That’s what I was told.”

  “Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie, when are you going to stop trusting The Man? Look where that’s got you. Lost your husband and your career, and you’re claiming that your pretty face’s about to be on every news outlet labeled as a mastermind terrorist.”

  “Lucky me,” she mumbled as she read on.

  “For now it looks like you’re in the clear,” he said, monitoring the Florida State Trooper’s Web site as well as the FBI’s.

  “Trust me. I’m not. I think Hastings is just keeping his little manhunt low-key to avoid attracting attention.”

  “Either that or perhaps you’re imagining things. Maybe drank too many energy drinks?”

  “Stop fucking around, Art. I’m in serious shit.”

  “Easy, there. Just making sure you have your head screwed on right,” he said before pointing at the screen. “So, CERN, huh? That’s the particle accelerator people in Europe.”

  She sighed. “That’s them all right. They’re both resident scientists there.”

  “So,” asked the hacker, glancing in her direction. “What’s that got to do with your husband vaporizing in midair and you being hunted by this general’s private army?”

  Angela crossed her arms and shot him a look. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be here basking in your wonderful personality.”

  The hacker grinned and turned back to the screen, where they continued to read through the history of each scientist, including past patents, and current projects.

  “Here,” said Art-Z. “The woman, Doctor Olivia Wiltz, did spend ten years at Los Alamos, as did her older colleague, Doctor Richard Salazar, and apparently they’re still associated with Los Alamos even though they spend most of their time at CERN these days. Wiltz was an associate director in the weapons physics division.”

  “And Salazar was the director of the weapons systems prototype fabrication division,” she added.

  “That’s all good, Bonnie. But what’s that got to do with your husband going bye-bye?”

  She frowned. “Well, for one thing, the suit I’m developing is intended to be used as a military weapon. Maybe these guys are the ones who were going to take it into mass production?”

  “Sure, but what in the world are they doing at CERN? That’s quantum physics stuff. Particle collisions and that sort of microscopic shit.”

  She also didn’t get that weird connection. “Let’s see if we can figure out what sort of work they’re doing there.”

  They dug into CERN’s core, gaining access to the experiments, the data, and eventually the results—again, all thanks to the passwords that they had extracted from their tablet computers.

  “Just a lot of particle collision experiments,” she said, pointing to a window of results from CERN experiments two years earlier. “These guys were deep-analyzing the data from the detectors in the Large Hadron Collider to understand t
he particles created during collisions in the accelerator.”

  “Yep. And they were playing at both ranges of the spectrum,” Art-Z said, moving the pointer to a list of experiments that used general-purpose detectors to understand the largest range of physics possible.

  “Yes,” she said, “while this other set of experiments focused on what they called forward particles, protons that rub each other instead of actually colliding, but transferring energy to each other in the process.”

  Angela read on, reviewing the data from experiments that tried to explain the link between cosmic ray and cloud formations, all using antiprotons from CERN’s Antiproton Decelerator.

  “My head’s starting to hurt,” confessed Art-Z, sitting back and rubbing his eyes. “This goes well beyond my pay grade, Bonnie.”

  Angela ignored him, reading about a related experiment that analyzed hypothetical particles radiating from the sun, a joint project between CERN and the International Space Station.

  “Look,” she said. “There are a number of experiments connected to quantum physics and sun radiation being conducted in Columbus.”

  “What’s Columbus?”

  “The research facility module for European payload at the International Space Station. It’s being run by the ESA, the European Space Agency, which has pretty deep ties to CERN. They’re going beyond the collider to look at the effect of particles coming from the sun.”

  “And our friends Wiltz and Salazar are all over these experiments, designing them, conducting them, and analyzing their results,” he said.

  “Well,” Angela observed. “I agree with the designing and conducting part. They are really brief when it comes to results. In fact, for most of these CERN-Columbus experiments, the results section is almost nonexistent.”

  “Could it be because they didn’t work?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “Think about the cost of creating CERN and the Columbus module. Very expensive not just to build and deploy, but also to operate. Each of these experiments has to be costing them millions, maybe even tens of millions, to conduct. There has to be very tangible results from them, Art. They’re just not reported here.”

  They continued to dig for another thirty minutes, Art-Z on one computer and Angela on an adjacent one, both connected to the same back door and also to the vast library of scripts that her former boyfriend had amassed through a lifetime of hacking. Each script was analogous to a tool in a large tool box. The right one would help unlock an entryway. The wrong code had the risk of setting off an alarm. The trick was knowing which to use, when, and for how long before switching to another one.