Rejoice, a Knife to the Heart

by Steven Erikson

  So the valley had been perfect. Whatever leachates might creep down from the higher ground to either side were now entirely natural.

  Ten years. Quite the transformation. Certification of Organic Produce had finally come and the shift from the Farmers’ Markets to high-end specialty food-stores now seemed within reach.

  Until it was all taken away.

  Some Game and Fisheries guy on the tube had described the migration corridors now taking shape, one of them winding its way down from Alberta, Canada, with another narrower one working southward from some place called Southwest Saskatchewan. The western corridor skirted the east side of the Rockies, but then branched out to follow some minor valleys and flat-land. The other one looked to be heading for Kansas.

  “Why not just cut the country in half while you’re at it,” Dave muttered. The bourbon had dried his lips. He wet them again with another mouthful. “Look at me, the cliché.”

  That was kind of funny. The locals in town already had him down as one anyway, the hippy organic farmer, the eco-warrior, the guy with the beard and flannel shirt, driving his brand-new Range Rover. Selling bags of pine nuts every Saturday for a god-damn fortune.

  The forcefield had obliterated Jurgen’s fences. His sixty-three-head herd of Bison could now wander at will, down into the valley eager for all that new green growth, and leachate was the least of Dave’s concerns.

  Opening the door, he climbed out of the cab. Too drunk to drive back home, even though he’d be nowhere near a road the whole way. There were sinkholes, big boulders, run-off channels. Wouldn’t do to get stuck, roll the thing, or break an axle. Besides, this way he could walk off some of the bourbon. Stumbling in drunk as a skunk in front of his wife and kids wouldn’t do.

  At least she’d understand. They’d just lost everything.

  “You’d think doing good in the world would mean something.” Leaning against the Range Rover, he glared up at the cloudless sky. Wishing for a first star but it was still too early in the day for that.

  And over at the Wild West, where he’d bought the bottle, that shit-for-brains Hal Smart was probably still laughing, asking one more time if he could come on over to shoot him some beaver, hah hah.

  “Well, no, Hal, you can’t. That’s the whole point of these force-fields. You and your hunting buddies are plumb outa luck, as they say in these here parts.”

  But hey, Dave, ain’t we all outa luck? I mean, you and me both? Oh man, it’s enough to make a man drink, ain’t it?

  “Just one star, God. Just one.” He pushed himself off the truck and began walking, the bottle held by the neck in one hand. He could ditch it. But then it might break. There were deer, and elk, and pronghorn. Fine then. He’d stash it in the old outhouse since nobody ever went in there.

  “Give me a star, Lord. So I can curse it.”

  When a man does good, it shouldn’t be good for nothing.

  Boulder, Colorado, May 24th, 9:56 PM

  “So what’s it all mean?” Joey Sink asked the web-cam’s blinking light. “They’re calling it the Wall of God. But … really? Seen any angels lately? Fire and brimstone? Or is this just Gaia saying ‘guess what, humans, as Stewards of the Earth, you’ve just been fired.’ Or is someone else saying that? In no uncertain terms? Someone who’s yet to show up, but is about to with a big sign saying ‘Earth, Under New Management’?”

  He left that to hang for a few moments, and then said, “So if those big saucers come down to hover over Washington DC and every other capital on the planet … well, we’ve read the script, and it ain’t pretty.” He cocked his head and offered up a twisted grin. “Anybody hear a clock ticking? Or is that just me?

  “This is Joey Sink and the Kitchen Sink Vlog, and hey, wasn’t this a heck of a day?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Science and technology are just the clothes we SF writers wear. But every now and then, some of us choose to go naked into the future, and that is an entirely different proposition.”

  SAMANTHA AUGUST

  Cislunar Orbit, May 25th, 3:02 PM (by Samantha August’s watch)

  “You can’t be doing this,” Samantha said. “You’ve just hit the most disadvantaged people in the poorest countries on the planet.” Before her on the massive screen was a map of the world, initially startling because it was orientated sideways, with the North Pole to the left. The Exclusion Zones were marked by a translucent gray filter overlying the geomorphic details of the land and the ocean floor. There were a lot of them. She pointed at North America. “You’re re-establishing the Great Plains. That’s going to cut the United States nearly in half … all the way down to Kansas. The heart of America’s agricultural bread-basket.”

  “The ongoing anthropogenic deterioration of Earth’s climate will render your ‘bread-basket’ uninhabitable within forty years,” Adam replied. “The present population displacements are minor compared to those you will experience within twenty-five years. Rising sea-levels, drought, desertification, extreme weather events, will all directly impact your species’ preferred habitats, and at that future time none of your countries will possess the capability to deal with the crisis. In effect, if not for our intervention, your civilization will collapse within this century. Estimated population loss exceeds six billion. Unfortunately, your extinction will take the rest of the biome down with you.”

  “I think that’s enough good news for one day, don’t you? So, you’re going to restore the health of our atmosphere?”

  “It is necessary in order to best preserve the biome. Atmosphere will be returned to early industrial levels with respect to carbon dioxide, methane and other green-house gases.”

  “Why early industrial?”

  “To prevent recurrence of an ice-age. Atmospheric circulatory patterns need to be calmed, necessitating redressing in order to effect the proper equilibrium—”

  “Has all that begun?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why didn’t you start with that?”

  “Because the expansion of your species needed to be stopped immediately, Samantha August.”

  Adam had provided a chair. Rather, at her request it had grown out of the floor. She sat in it now, eyes still on the screen and the global map with its grey zones. Dotted lines indicated the full projection of these zones. She could only imagine the chaos afflicting the world below. She lit a cigarette—it seemed there was no end to her supply. “You know why I said I’d do this for you? Free cigarettes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless I’m running up a bill.”

  “Money is an anachronistic concept. While in our care, you incur no debt.”

  She settled back, smoked some more. “I am having second thoughts about being your spokeswoman. It’s not that I was naïve, either. But I figured you had a more palatable plan. Not something that would drive poor people from their homes.”

  “At present, many nations possess the wherewithal to manage this displacement event. Food is plentiful, transportation capable, labor available. If humans are now suffering, it is due exclusively to lack of will on the part of fellow humans.”

  “Because of political complexity,” Samantha retorted. “Sovereignty, logistics, the cost.”

  “Indeed, the cost.”

  She waited for more from Adam, but instead the silence stretched. “All right,” she said at last, “I get it. Societies establish their own value system, and once that system is in place, it becomes that society’s own cage. It exists to feed itself, in an endless cycle of reconfirming its own arbitrary worth. Still, Adam, some undeniable truths lie at the core of those value systems. Specifically, we exist in a state of scarcity and imbalance, and most if not all of our mechanisms are devoted to managing both.”

  “This is true.”

  “So, within that system, displaced populations will suffer—they can’t help but suffer. Even aid needs mechanisms to be set in motion, and in the case of a shortage of land, there are no easy solutions.”

  “There is no shortage of land,” said Adam.<
br />
  “Nations get protective about that sort of thing. Cultures feel threatened by a sudden influx of strangers. There are issues of language, expectation, religions, and their own legal structures—you can pretty much guarantee that a clash of world-views will end up getting messy.”

  “You are presenting, Samantha August, the opinion that in the present circumstances, humans will not sufficiently assist other humans to prevent suffering, or indeed, death.”

  “I don’t doubt aid organizations are scrambling, or that the UN is trying to get a handle on things. But we both know they won’t be enough. Look, the First World resists the influx of peoples from the so-called Developing World, and their reasons are of course highly suspect. All those labels that get trotted out. Ignorant, uneducated, terrorists, even unclean—racial purity is making a comeback on the political stage. Not just in the major countries, but everywhere. It’s the old tribal mentality, kicked awake like a hornet’s nest. Fascism’s on the rise, no longer hiding in the shadows, but brazenly up-front and in-your-face. It’s a stressed world down there.” She tossed her cigarette butt. “Your timing sucks.”

  “The Exclusion Zones represent an end to terrestrial expansion,” said Adam. “Your present civilization, alas, is predicated on the presumption of infinite growth, infinite expansion, and infinite resources. Whilst limited to your single planet, growth, expansion, and resources are in fact finite, not infinite. Your collective comprehension of this appears to be singularly abstract, and thus relegated and unable to effect change upon your insatiable momentum.”

  “I know,” Sam muttered.

  “Therefore, consider the Exclusion Zones as a forward advancement of the deadline—that future moment when you truly run out of, well, everything. But there is a vital distinction here, as I mentioned earlier. If left unchecked, that future deadline will arrive when your civilization is least capable of accommodating the new paradigm necessary to ensure its survival. But now, with that deadline advanced by virtue of the Exclusion Zones, your civilization remains robust enough to begin the process of adaptation.”

  She sighed and leaned her head back. “Yes, all very reasonable, Adam. But you slammed the door. You have to expect us to spend some time pounding away at it.”

  “Fruitless.”

  “And in the meantime, people suffer.”

  “This was anticipated.”

  “That sounds heartless.”

  “As heartless as the unwillingness of the capable nations to help the incapable nations? As heartless as considering cost in the face of imminent human suffering?”

  “No,” she snapped, “you’re proving a perfect match to us, Adam. And if that’s the best you can do, God help the Earth. And as for me speaking on your behalf, forget it.”

  “Prior to the initiation of the Exclusion Zones, Samantha August, Earth was seeded with a Sensory Suite. This Sensory Suite established a blanket of sensor presence. The matrix integration is now world-wide. Indeed, without this initial placement, the Exclusion Zones would not be possible.”

  Frowning, Samantha stood again and approached the global map. “A blanket of sensor presence. What does that mean, specifically?”

  “It means that I am monitoring all activity on the macro-scale.”

  “Not possible. Too much data.”

  “Not at all,” Adam replied. “Indeed, I am at the same time monitoring other phases of the Intervention at twenty-seven other localities scattered throughout your solar system. Shall I describe for you some of the principles of Quantum Folding as they relate to Data Immanence in an AI context?”

  Samantha’s frown shifted to a scowl. “I’m not one of those hard-science SF writers, Adam. I write what you might call ‘social science fiction.’ I’m more interested in what the future holds for humanity’s sense of itself than I am in FTL Drives and Quantum Tunneling, Folding, Dicing, Slicing or whatever else might be theoretically out there.” She considered, and then said, “Maybe you picked the wrong person.”

  “No. We remain confident in our selection. As I said earlier, technical matters are common commodities, and science is a singular language lacking connotative nuance. What is unique is the human perspective, and that perspective is the exclusive realm of the creative arts. Among your world’s artists, Samantha August, those of you engaged in your specific genre have devoted your adult lives to speculation regarding extraterrestrial civilizations and life in the galaxy. This alone makes you the most qualified for the initial phases of First Contact.”

  “Then any one of us would do.”

  “Possibly. You have described yourself as a humanist. Your fiction explores that condition, with great compassion, yet without unrealistic expectation. You have honestly earned your dismay at what the future holds. Or, rather, held. More to the point, you have crafted a public persona, acquiring many followers. We deemed this of vital importance. No, Samantha August, your suitability is not in question.”

  “Back to the blanket,” Sam said. “You called it a matrix.”

  “Yes. In effect, I have incorporated the surface of the Earth into my body. Sensory monitoring is conducted at what you might call an autonomic level; however, even in that state there exists situational awareness. Accordingly, I am able to intervene at will.”

  “Intervene how, exactly?”

  “Samantha August, we are pacifists. Accordingly, we are imposing the equivalent of a cease-fire, world-wide. Aggression and destruction aimed against the environment, the fauna, and between humans, has now ended.”

  For a long, terrible moment, Samantha forgot to breathe.

  “Concurrent with this,” Adam blithely went on, “the Sensory Suite is now addressing the scarcity of food and clean water. Anticipating human resistance to alleviate the suffering of fellow humans, we are extending our Intervention. That said, we remain in Stage One of Five. Accordingly, there is much to come.”

  She found the capacity to draw a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Holy fuck.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Science tries to convince us that the material world is all there is. But science has an agenda. Surprise!”

  SAMANTHA AUGUST

  Baltimore, Maryland, May 24th, 11:02 PM

  When he went quiet, she knew what was coming. Her husband was two men trapped in a single body. One of them lived in a state of rage. The other one liked to drink. The drinker smiled a lot, at least at the beginning of a session. He got sentimental, loving in his sloppy, pawing way. His plans got big, overblown. He’d tell her how he’d change the world, especially their own world, this one in this apartment, with the curtains drawn, and he’d make his way into their daughter’s room to take the sleeping girl into his arms, whispering how much he loved her until she woke up and squirmed in his arms until he set her back down and tucked her in.

  The elation would fade later, at the kitchen table, as the drinking got serious, and he’d get all quiet, hunched over, waiting for her to bring him his supper.

  But there wasn’t much in the house this evening. She’d had to work late at the hotel and paying the babysitter overtime wasn’t something they could afford, so she’d skipped the store in her rush back home.

  And then there’d been Sally’s homework, which wasn’t much, but Sally was having trouble with spelling, and words, and reading. They were saying she was developmentally challenged. Annie didn’t believe it. Her daughter was just hiding inside her own head. Annie knew all about that.

  When she’d set the plate down in front of Jeff, he’d looked down at the eggs and two strips of bacon, and had muttered something about having been served the same damned thing that morning. But hunger won out and he’d tucked in.

  Until he sent the plate flying across the room, shattering the china and spraying food everywhere. “The eggs were runny,” he said, slowly rising as Annie backed away toward the kitchen entrance.

  He moved to block her way, forcing her back toward the stove, where t
he frying pan still sat with its bacon fat bubbling and popping.

  Something about tonight was different. Not with him, since she saw the familiar rage in Jeff’s eyes, as the second man inside him stepped over the drunk and rolled up his sleeves. No, what was different was in her. Tired of being hurt by this man. Tired of being on the receiving end.

  She turned and with both hands collected up the frying pan.

  Jeff halted, with a sudden tight grin on his red face. “The fuck you will,” he said.

  In answer she lifted the pan higher. The weight made her arms tremble, but if he came at her now all she had to do was tip the pan, let it twist in her hands.

  Motion caught her attention and she saw Sally in the entrance-way, frail in her faded Little Mermaid pajamas, the sleep still in her eyes as she struggled to work out what she was seeing.

  Jeff swung round, went to his daughter. “Sallyyyy,” he sang, taking her into his arms and lifting her up in a hug. He then turned to smile at Annie. “See your mum?” he asked. “She’s gotten dangerous. We have to do somethin’ about that, don’t we? So let’s you and me walk on up to her and get her t’put that pan down.”

  Their daughter still in his arms, held between him and his wife like a shield, Jeff advanced.

  Defeated, Annie set the frying pan back down on the stove-top.

  “Now,” smiled Jeff, “mummy’s been bad and we know what we have t’do with bad girls, don’t we?”

  Sally nodded, her expression severe, her eyes fixed on her mother’s.

  “Bad people get hit,” she said.

  Jeff set her down and with one hand guided her to one side. The other hand he raised.

  It always started with backhanded slaps, the knuckles against one side of her face, hard enough to break skin on occasion. From there, once she’d fallen to the floor, he’d use his fists, mostly on her body.

  So she waited.

  And flinched when he slashed outward with his hand. The crack that came with the impact stunned her and she blinked, bewildered as Jeff recoiled, clutching his fist. He’d not touched her, and yet there he was, doubled over and cradling his hand. She’d heard it hit something, but that something wasn’t her.