“There’s no international group out there?”
“And if such a group had been already compromised?”
She halted, looked back at the Earth. “Meaning?”
“The protection of humanity constitutes what, in particular?”
“All right, I’ll bite. Social order is the base line. Prevention of panic in the streets. Economic chaos. But also, basic human rights in the face of an unknown galactic alien presence. Protocols for transition to advanced technology and new ways of doing things.”
“What if your present social and economic structures are incompatible with that galactic presence and, more specifically, all future participation in that community?”
“Ah.”
“In other words, what if that global Contact Team’s stated purpose is fundamentally flawed in its moral precepts?”
Sam was silent for a few moments. Then she sighed. “I get it. They’d probably say, ‘thanks but no thanks.’”
“This option is not available. Accordingly, we have selected a different point of First Contact with the aim of circumventing the potential impasse.”
“In other words, it ain’t up for negotiation.”
“Ultimately, this is a question of value systems, Samantha August.”
“Go on.”
“Technology, political structures, cultural and societal traits are constants in the galaxy,” Adam replied. “There is little variation, and few instances of true innovation. Accordingly, the only value system of any significance between sentient species is found in the art each civilization produces. Appreciation of said art remains both volatile and ephemeral, and value is highly variable. Among our Triumvirate, Samantha August, humanity’s artistic contributions are much appreciated. And that of course includes your own work.”
“Oh, wait until my agent hears about this. Not to mention my publishers’ legal departments.”
“Furthermore,” Adam continued, “you personally have an extensive public presence, which we find propitious.”
“Sorry. Still thinking about the legality of galactic bootlegging.”
“Very soon, Samantha August, wealth—as you humans measure it—will be irrelevant.”
She grunted. “Well, all right, that’s an ‘out’ likely to drop the jaws of every lawyer on the planet.” Sighing, Sam walked closer to the vision of the orbiting Earth. “I see the Space Station,” she murmured, and then, after a moment, she spoke again. “Adam, when is this Intervention of yours starting?”
“Samantha August, it has already begun.”
CHAPTER THREE
“In space, no one cares if you smoke.”
SAMANTHA AUGUST’S FIRST TEXT
TO HER HUSBAND
West of Djambala, Republic of Congo, Warlord Camp, May 22nd, 6:18 AM
Kolo had been nine when the bad men came to the village and took him away. Now he was one of the bad men. The deep forest of the Congo was not the forest of his youth. Back then the branches overhead had been full of life. Monkeys, snakes, lizards, bats. Animals made use of the trails, mostly at night, leaving their tracks everywhere to give proof of that other world, the one where people didn’t belong. Now the forest was silent, silent and empty.
Hunger was the currency of this new world, guns, bullets, and machetes a working man’s tools. He had eighteen followers, all well-armed, all with blood in their eyes. His camp was six kilometers from the nearest road, seven from the nearest village. Eleven children lived with them, some on their way to becoming warriors, others already slaves ready to do a man’s bidding.
The morning began like any other. Kolo disentangled himself from Neela’s skinny arms and pushed her to one side of the cot as he sat up.
She’d fixed herself just before their lovemaking the night before and was still dead to the world. He studied her briefly from beneath lowered, sleep-heavy lids, to make sure she was still breathing. She was.
Addicts made for co-operative slaves. So long as the service expected of them was kept simple and required little effort. She’d told him her age when he had first stolen her from her dead mother’s arms, two years past. Eleven then, thirteen now. They died young, these slaves, but there was a never-ending supply. Not as easy as it once had been—the nearest villages were now all abandoned, their inhabitants having fled the endless raiding, the random killings. So it was getting harder to scrounge food.
And slaves.
Soon, he told himself as he threw on a ragged Split Endz t-shirt, he’d have to send a runner to the mining camp—the one that had no business being where it was. Some forest people were left, usually getting in the way when it came to digging new pits or felling more trees. A week or so of working for the miners, killing and scaring off the forest people, meant he could feed his camp for a while longer.
He had few memories of the time when his country was not an open wound, and no illusions about the blood-suckers who kept it that way. He was one of them, after all. But the guns came from China and the money came from corporations all over the world. Nobody wasn’t dirty.
Pulling on his old army pants and slinging on his web-belt and checking the heavy army-issue .45 in its tattered canvas holster, he collected his Exxon baseball cap and left the hut.
People were up, but not many. The pickets were coming in from the bush as dawn marked the end of their vigil, and the children were already out, ranging the lifeless forest and dreaming of a fat lizard or a monkey, but ready to settle for grubs and insects.
Things that broke down stayed that way. The world wanted this place to stay broken, and nothing was going to change that. But he had his tribe now, and he would do what needed doing to keep it fed. Loyalty was born of necessity and the belly was a wallet and wealth wasn’t what you had, but what you’d still have a week from now. Kolo never planned beyond that week.
Manioc was roasting, a blackened pot of coffee was on the boil, and a young naked boy was lying nearby, surgical tubing still wrapped tight around one ashen arm. Kolo walked over and nudged the frail form. “Joak! You gave this one too much last night, and now it’s dead.”
Joak, huge and sitting slumped by the fire, his massive scarred hands cradling a coffee mug, lifted a miserable gaze to Kolo. “Never would’ve made a warrior anyway.”
“No. He was a slave.”
Joak shrugged. “One less mouth. And we’re short on powder.”
This last statement elicited a dark glower from Kolo, which made Joak nervously lick his lips.
Kolo walked up to the man and spoke in a low voice. “Shut your fucking trap. You want trouble in the camp? Letting that news get out.”
Not meeting his eyes, Joak shrugged again. “Not saying it don’t change it, Captain.”
“We’re getting in a new supply. Any day now.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Now drag the body away. To the pit.”
Joak scowled. “I don’t like that place.”
“No one likes that place,” Kolo replied, “but you killed it, you dump it, that’s the rule.”
Sudden motion from the bush to his left made Kolo swing round, one hand smoothly plucking the .45 from its holster.
The young ones were rushing back in, on their faces confusion and fear.
Kolo stepped forward. “Is it soldiers? You!” He snagged one child by the shoulder and spun her round to face him. “Soldiers coming?”
She shook her head. “Forest spirits!”
His warriors were up now and gathering their weapons, drawing close to their captain. Releasing the terrified girl, Kolo pointed. “You and you, go and see who’s coming.”
He’d chosen two of his youngest warriors, still eager, still in the habit of stroking their AK-47s and strutting past the slaves, hoping to catch a girl’s eye. They hurried off without a question asked. Glancing over, Kolo saw Joak’s jaded regard as the man watched the scouts heading into the bush.
He might have to kill Joak soon. Some things couldn’t be helped. “The rest of you, load up. Joa
k, get all the slaves together. Robbie, collect up the drugs. Henry—”
He stopped upon seeing the sudden return of his scouts. One of them had a bloody nose.
“What the fuck, man? You fall? Who’s coming?”
“A wall,” said the second scout, rubbing at one swollen knee. “Invisible wall, Captain!”
The first scout spat blood. “I run into it. I go down. Then it starts pushing me.”
“Pushing?”
“It’s coming, Captain!” said the second scout.
Three warriors who had been standing near the huts to Kolo’s left all staggered in unison, turning in alarm and raising their weapons.
Though he squinted, Kolo could see nothing. “What fucking game you all playing at?”
One of his men reversed his AK-47 and slammed the shoulder-stock against something that rebounded so hard it knocked the weapon from his hands.
“Step away!” Kolo ordered. He fought down his terror. The bush was alive with spirits. He knew enough to know that. But nothing like this. Moving cautiously, he edged forward, pistol held out.
When he reached the place where the three warriors had been, the pistol collided with something. “Fuck,” he muttered, pushing harder against the invisible barrier, “there’s nothing there!”
He ducked when Joak fired off a quick burst. Kolo heard the slugs impact something to his right, less than an arm’s length away. But when he looked, he saw nothing.
The invisible wall was advancing, pushing at the pistol in his hand. He moved back quickly and then said, “Spread out to either side—find its edges!”
His warriors fanned out in some confusion. They encountered the wall with grunts and curses. One tried to hack it with his machete, but the blade recoiled.
As far as Kolo could make out, the barrier was a straight line, slowly crawling over the camp. It had emerged from the deep forest on the western side. A dozen or so warriors attempted to hold back the wall’s advance, and Kolo stared at the absurd scene of men leaning against nothing, their feet being pushed through the dirt.
None of the huts on that side of the camp were accessible now, and two drugged slaves had been pushed out through the flimsy wall of their respective huts, and were now rolling senselessly forward. “Robbie! Collect them up.” He holstered his .45 and turned back to his own hut. “Collect everything!”
Behind him, Joak asked, “Where we going?”
“We’re getting the fuck out,” Kolo answered.
“I thought all the forest spirits were dead.”
Kolo halted and turned. He eyed his rival, wondering if the man had been joking. From his closed expression it was impossible to tell. “This is no fucking spirit. It’s a weapon.”
At last, Joak’s eyes widened.
“It’s a fucking weapon,” Kolo repeated. “No more hiding in the bush, Joak. No more hiding from anything.”
“No way.”
Kolo wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation. He turned his back on Joak and continued on toward his hut. Neela weighed next to nothing. He’d throw her over a shoulder. Barring that, there was nothing else he needed in there. He had taken three strides when he heard a click behind him.
Kolo spun, pistol in his hand.
Joak stood scowling down at his AK-47. “Fucking jammed,” he said, and then, startled, looked back up at Kolo. After a moment, he managed a lopsided smile. “You win, Captain.”
“Better start running, Joak,” said Kolo in a calm voice.
Dropping his weapon, Joak bolted.
Kolo raised his pistol and took careful aim. Then he hesitated. Was the man worth the bullet? He doubted he’d see Joak again. Only fools hung around when there was a price on their head.
He slid the pistol back into the holster and made his way into the hut.
Neela hadn’t moved. “Good girl,” he whispered. “You’ll stay loyal. Your kind always do.”
Boulder, Colorado, May 23rd, 4:15 PM
Joey Sink sat in his basement surrounded by monitors. Weird shit going down everywhere, he didn’t know which way to look. A tinny voice came though his headphones.
“Joey? You tracking this?”
“Hey King Con. Tryin’.”
“What do you think? Ecoterrorist Super Weapon?”
“What—” he then leaned forward, eyes darting from one screen to the next. “Oh shit, see what you mean. Can’t believe I missed it. They all started in wilderness areas and then spread out.”
“A ‘fuck-you-super-weapon,’” said King Con, with plenty of nasty satisfaction in his tone. “And Sat-feeds are going haywire. Fishing fleets right over big schools of fish, and they can’t drop their nets!”
“What do you mean?”
“Shit just piles up on the deck. All those fish and they can’t touch ’em! Greenpeace must be dancing and why not? They’re probably in on it.”
King of Conspiracy was an old and loyal contact on Joey’s Kitchen Sink Vlog. Wherever the man was holed up, he had access to all sorts of esoteric shit. Rode the waves, always attuned to the next whisper. But for the time being, Joey just let him talk. He was too busy to reply, as he studied the monitors. After a long moment, he leaned back and said, “Take a breath, King Con. The mid-lat places are being hit hard. Central America, Chile, Bolivia, Amazon Basin. North Madagascar, all over Africa. Cambodia, Vietnam, Indonesia’s being hammered.”
“National parks in the States, most of Florida and the Everglades and half of fuckin’ Alaska—”
“Hey, what did I tell you about profanity?”
“Sorry, Joey. Just, uh, getting carried away. Anyway, I’ve got reports from some heavily populated areas, too. All that new ranch-land in what used to be the Amazon, the mining and logging towns. Shit in the Congo, too—”
“Taiga in Northern Russia,” Joey cut in. “Inland British Columbia, Northern Alberta—wow, everybody’s being pushed off the Tar Sands, equipment and all. Whatever it is, it crushes bull-dozers like tin cans.”
“Eco-Fuck-You-Super-Weapon—you recording us?”
“That’s what I mean about the profanity, King Con. Now I got to go in and edit and bloop and it’s all a pain in the ass so just cut it out, will you?”
“You not getting it yet, Joey? It’s all going down, the whole ff—damned mess! And it’s impenetrable, that forcefield. And you can’t dig under it and drones just crash into it overhead—”
“Wait, what’s that about drones? Someone’s doing fly-overs?”
“Tried,” King Con replied with a cold, short laugh. “Oh, and helicopters and other shit all get collision warnings—but they think it’s dome-shaped and, oh, get this, birds can fly right through it!”
“Huh?”
“Birds, man! Birds! Ultra-Eco-Terrorist-Doctor-No-Eco-Fuck-You-Super-Weapon!”
“I’ll get back to you,” Joey said in a grating tone. “Go wash out your mouth with soap.” He clicked off.
Official statements were coming on. Nobody knew a thing. Nobody was taking credit, and then suddenly all kinds of wing-nut groups were taking credit. Science teams had been dispatched. The military was on alert. Tourists piled up at the entrance to Yellowstone National Park. How big were these things going to get? No idea. Are they all still growing? So far, yes. What’s going to happen to all those displaced people? No idea. Relief agencies have been alerted. Riots in Brazil, but miraculously no one was hurt—
Joey Sink looked back at that last report. Thousands rioting at a mining town … “And no one got hurt? What the fug?”
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, May 24th, 3:45 PM
Officiousness had a way of bloating the ego, all that self-importance conjuring an aura of exceptionalism, of secrets held and the fate of millions hanging in the balance. Alison Pinborough had little time for it. The last administration had made overtures, murmuring about an invitation into the PM’s inner circle, but the very idea had offended her. A photo of the country’s last Prime Minister adorned every office in the science community, studde
d with darts. That fear-mongering anti-intellectual neo-fascist who had ruled the country, actively shutting down research programs and muzzling scientists, had set things back by decades.
It was worth something, she supposed, that Canada’s new PM didn’t seem to be living in a cave. Still, it was early days, and Alison had little faith in politics. Too many vested interests in maintaining the status quo, even when that status quo was a recipe for suicide. These days, worldwide, reason was an endangered species.
Nonetheless, she had finally given in, accepting the appointment as the PMO’s Science Advisor. Clearly, credentials in geology well matched the glacial pace of change in government.
The thought elicited a crooked grin as she made her way down the corridor, following the secretary as he led her to the PM’s conference room. As far as cities went, Ottawa felt cold and damp. At least she didn’t have freshmen to teach, or university administrators to battle. And the apartment was decent, with a lovely view of the Rideau Canal. And as for all the briefs from the field agents who’d managed to report back in time, the folders were blissfully closed and tucked under her left arm. A few more seconds remained before she would have to begin discussing the impossible.
She didn’t like being afraid, but afraid she was.
The secretary reached a door, knocked once and then opened it, turning to invite Alison into the room beyond. “Thank you,” she said, stepping past the young man. Courtesy was one of the few aspects of officiousness that she actually appreciated. In the wake of the last PM’s belligerence and bullying, it was a welcome return—or so she’d been told at the meet-and-greet that accompanied her appointment. People had been relieved, the bureaucracy resettling itself with a new zeal for propriety.
The conference room was, of course, well-appointed. She was led to her seat and found herself opposite Will Camden, Minister for Natural Resources. On Will’s left was Mary Sparrow, Minister for Parks and Recreation. Neither one looked happy, although something glinted in Mary’s dark eyes that, upon reflection, didn’t surprise Alison.
Rejoice, a Knife to the Heart Page 3
