“Professor Matthew Carlson, meet Commander Jonathan Hawthorne.”
A computer wristband occupied Carlson’s attention, projecting images visible only to the user as interpreted by a chip implanted in his brain.
“Professor?”
“Oh, sorry.”
Carlson blinked, then stood and extended a hand that Jonathan accepted.
“Matthew here will oversee the geological survey team. He has been on the faculty at Penn State University as part of a UVI grant program. Professor, this is the Commander Hawthorne. You know, ‘do it,’ and the battle of Ganymede.”
“No. My apologies.”
“None needed,” Hawthorne said and searched for a seat.
“Oh Commander,” Fisk’s friendliness faltered as he produced a small device resembling a penlight. “We must inhibit your electronic signature during this assignment.”
“I really don’t have anything.”
“Wait a second,” Carlson jumped from across the aisle, “shut down everything?”
“Communications,” Fisk answered as he rolled the inhibiting device between fingers. “Now that we’ve picked up the Commander, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask the same of you.”
Carlson’s mouth hung open and it appeared he might cry.
“I’m sorry, but this is part of mission security. We may be able to allow limited downloads once we’re under way, but no outgoing communications.”
“Can I call to my mother? I have to tell her she won’t be hearing from me for a while.”
Fisk granted permission with a nod and returned his attention to Hawthorne who said, “Don’t look at me; I do my best not to have an electronic signature.”
“No phone?”
“I’m rarely on Earth so it would be a waste. My account relays comm traffic for me to the Princess or my home.”
Carlson overheard and asked, “No thinker?”
Hawthorne tapped his temple.
“No implant, no chip; nothing but natural gray matter up here.”
Fisk asked, “How do you pay for anything?”
Hawthorne produced a plastic card with an imbedded microcomputer that recorded every transaction, every morsel of food he consumed, and every beat of his heart.
“I wouldn’t have even this if it were up to me,” Hawthorne answered. “It seems the company and the government like keeping track of me, so here it is.”
Carlson shook his head and returned to his wrist computer, probably calling his mother.
Fisk said, “Well in that case, relax. Our first stop is Boston where we will pick up another of the Project Directors, a distinguish researcher named Dr. Leo Wren.”
Hawthorne did not recognize the name.
The small jet roared to life, rose vertically, and then hovered until the engines rotated into horizontal position, after which the craft rocketed forward and gained altitude, soon reaching supersonic speeds.
Eventually the clouds cleared, allowing Hawthorne to see the terrain as they swept northeast along the border with New Jersey. The scenery included highways, wilderness, rivers polluted to varying degrees, ball fields, and clusters of cloned homes.
Hawthorne saw few farms as the trend toward vertical agricultural towers moved food and pharmaceutical crops closer to processing centers in cities.
“You can still see the high watermark.”
Fisk’s voice startled Hawthorne because it came right next to his ear.
“What’s that?”
“You can see the line between old growth and new as well as debris fields that still have not been cleared. It’s over sixty years but from the sky you can see how the wave reshaped the geography of the entire east coast, from Newfoundland to Florida.”
Hawthorne pulled away from both the window and the young man as he replied, “That’s before I was born.”
“Reshaped the entire political spectrum, too,” Fisk said. “Before the Atlantic tsunami, the North American continent was fractured and they say nearly bankrupt. The disaster set the stage for unifying three nations into one. Universal Visions played a big part in the rebirth of our country.”
“Oh, I’d say there are about twenty million people who could have done without that particular rebirth.”
Fisk ignored the casualty count.
“I think the project we’re working on could also be a moment in history that will change our world!”
“Mr. Fisk, about forty years ago someone said that same thing when they harnessed dark matter and created artificial gravity. They bragged about engines that could fly a ship across the whole solar system in weeks and how that meant unity, freedom, and all that. Instead, we ended up with mines and processing plants on just about every piece of rock in the system. To a miner, there’s little difference between an anthracite shaft in Pennsylvania and a platinum shaft on an asteroid, except maybe a longer commute.”
Carlson turned away from his wrist computer and joined the conversation.
“That’s not exactly true.”
“Look, the point is that conquering the solar system was no different from the California gold rush or exploring the Congo. It started with excitement and promises, but ended in the same old story of politics, war, and resources to exploit. The only change is instead of worrying about cannibals and malaria, you worry about a rip in your space suit or a solar flare catching you outside the shielding.”
Fisk responded, “I’m surprised to hear that considering you work in space and were a war hero in space.”
“Yeah, well, I have open eyes, mister corporate astronaut. Write your press releases about new eras and bold exploration but wherever we’re headed your company will send in the mining gear, build habitat domes, and ship the bounty back home.”
A pilot came from the front and whispered in Fisk’s ear, causing his eyes to widen and his smile to evaporate.
“Um, our itinerary must change. Dr. Wren is not at Boston University right now.” Fisk went into a cycle of straightening his lapel and tugging at his jacket cuffs, a sign of both nerves and a touch of obsessive compulsiveness. “It seems Dr. Wren is out doing fieldwork so we will, um, have to go and collect him. In England.”
Carlson remained silent but a tremble developed in his lower lip.
Hawthorne rummaged through the refreshment drawer hoping to find a pony bottle of Scotch or bourbon. A drink before noon sounded like a good idea when travelling to the most dangerous real estate on Earth.
“At least I don’t have to worry about getting killed when we pass the asteroid belt. Hell, I’m not going to make it off the planet.”
5. England
Hawthorne exited the lavatory and walked toward his seat, pausing as he passed Fisk who studied a photograph as if it were a puzzle. At first, the lenticular photo showed a dark haired woman smiling, but when the image shifted, she closed her eyes and blew a kiss.
“She’s beautiful.”
“She’s from Monterrey in the Mexican states,” Fisk explained and flashed a genuine smile. “She left UVI to work in her father’s restaurant. I proposed last year during a Venus cruise just as our orbit took us into sunrise. I planned it down to the exact moment because I wanted it to be perfect.”
“Mr. Fisk, most plans in space do not go perfectly.”
“I know you are a cynic, but I believe we can make a difference. When I think about having kids someday, I want it to be better for them. It’s not just about energy and minerals, but new ideas and the chance for humanity to evolve which we are never going to do without space exploration.”
Hawthorne told him, “Everyone wants it to get better, but people usually find a way to screw things up.”
---
As they neared England, Fisk noted a clause in Hawthorne’s contract requiring him to assist in crew recruitment. If he did not, the Corporate Entitlement Acts of 2083 allowed for his arrest.
That thirty-year-old law meant Hawthorne had to escort Fisk into the ruins of the United Kingdom whereas Carlson, as a mission spe
cialist, was under no such obligation.
As the plane flew over the moorlands of Dartmoor National Park, Hawthorne saw fenced-in tent cities, sanitation trailers, and muddy roads while smoke from campfires and portable incinerators generated a murky haze.
The plane slowed to a hover and the jets rotated for vertical support. His stomach jumped as they descended behind high walls until a roof slid shut, sealing them inside a hangar. Hawthorne spied the red, white, blue, and green North American flag hanging from a wall.
As Fisk approached his two passengers, Hawthorne remarked, “No offense, but I never thought a black man could look as white as a ghost.”
A cheap shot, perhaps, but he felt the traps built into his contract were cheap shots, too. Besides, Fisk was clearly out of his league. His eyes were wide, his mouth trembling, and he walked in a gait that combined the stagger of a zombie with the nervous energy of a man treading hot coals.
“Commander, we will collect Dr. Wren. He is at a research camp outside Exeter, about seventeen miles away.”
Hawthorne said, “I suppose I am driving?”
Fisk just stared at him through big wide eyes.
“Sure, that’s probably in my contract, too.”
They left Carlson alone in the plane with his wrist computer.
The garrison commander denied Fisk’s request for an armed escort, saying there had been no recent reports of feral hostiles in the American sector. However, he did equip them with white biohazard gear including ponchos and masks as well as dosimeters, a dented and scratched GPS, a vehicle, and a word of advice: follow the A30 from the base at Whiddon Down to Exeter where they would find Wren’s research and reclamation camp.
Their buggy ran on a hybrid engine that alternated between a gasoline-powered growl during acceleration and an electronic hum while coasting. Hawthorne favored the gas pedal as they drove away from the American outpost.
Seventeen years ago, this was picturesque countryside but the meadows, creeks, and farms had been displaced by mountains of biohazard drums, piles of bulldozed debris, and smoldering bonfires. Any patches of nature that remained had withered from a decade of chemical bombardment.
Saving the United Kingdom had meant killing everything. Hawthorne and Fisk wore biohazard suits more for protection from the agents employed to cure the country than the bacterium that had spoiled it.
After twenty minutes, they followed GPS directions onto Dunsford road, leaving behind the remains of countryside for the remains of suburbia. Instead of wilting woods and brown grassland, they came on neighborhoods reduced to piles of charred timber. Fire had been another weapon of choice in battling the outbreak, even atomic fire.
They arrived at a hermetically sealed tent built alongside what had been the Royal Oak Inn on Okehampton Street. Hawthorne parked next to a white van sporting the blue and gold Universal Visions, Inc., logo. A man in hazmat gear greeted them with a pistol.
Fisk exited the buggy, raised his hands, and said, “We’re here from UVI for Dr. Wren.”
The man pointed east and told them, “He’s down by the river.”
They followed his direction to a slope overlooking the riverbank. Two men in protective garb with North American badges worked by the water, one scooping samples from the river, the other feeding those samples to an analyzer.
Fisk descended and called, “Dr. Wren?”
The one scooping samples turned to face the newcomers.
“Get the fuck away from me, I’m doing important shit.”
“Um, doctor, I am Reagan Fisk from UVI corporate, we spoke last week.”
“I don’t give a piss.”
“I am sorry, doctor, but you must come with us.”
Wren went at Fisk like a charging bull but instead of horns, he stuck a finger in the smaller man’s chest.
“I do not give a flying backward fuck who you are, there is no fucking way I am going anywhere. Now, go away like a good corporate cunt.”
Hawthorne felt a pang of sympathy for the diminutive Fisk.
“Hey, calm down.”
“Who the fuck are you? No wait, you can piss off, too.”
A radio strapped to Wren’s belt interrupted his tirade.
“Leo, a contact just tripped a wire over the coast and is moving this way.”
Wren climbed the bank and hurried toward the camp radioing, “Another Alliance incursion?”
“Negative, too small.”
Fisk followed at a fast trot calling, “Dr. Wren, please!”
Wren showed no interest in Fisk or Hawthorne until they came to the camp. Hoses and cables ran from Wren’s company van in to the tent, providing power and clean air.
“I need your buggy.”
“Dr. Wren, we have to talk.”
“I need your fucking buggy you little weasel now give me the keys!”
To Hawthorne’s surprise, Fisk’s spine stiffened.
“The only way you are getting in our vehicle is to drive back to Whiddon Down.”
Wren paused in the face of unforeseen resistance and then spoke through grit teeth.
“You work for Universal Visions, right?”
“That is what I have been trying to say.”
“So do I and I need your car to do my job.”
“You are being reassigned.”
“Give me the buggy for an hour and when I get back I will do whatever you say.”
Fisk considered and then conceded with the condition, “Commander Hawthorne goes along.”
“Fine, fuck it,” and Wren accepted the keys then jumped in the buggy.
When Hawthorne did not move, Wren shouted, “Don’t just stand there looking retarded.”
The radio on the doctor’s belt broadcast, “It will fly over the city in a minute.”
Fisk took hold of the Commander’s arm and led him to the buggy.
“Make sure he gets back safe, he is part of your crew.”
“Is this part of my—”
“Yes,” Fisk assured, “it is.”
Jonathan stepped into the buggy just as Wren pulled away. A second later, they crossed the scorched remains of the Alphington Street Bridge and as they did, Hawthorne took in the enormity of what had happened to this nation.
Nothing stood taller than twenty feet in Exeter, leaving dunes of black soot sprinkled with stone, concrete, and twisted rebar
He did not realize he had muttered, “Jesus Christ” aloud until Wren responded.
“You fucks did this to my country.”
“America had nothing to do with this,” Hawthorne spoke loud enough to be heard over the accelerating engine. “Besides, I see a North American patch on your shoulder.”
Wren’s faceplate hid his features except for a thick tuft of hair and a big nose that had suffered multiple breaks.
“I lived in England before The Cut. But hey, at least your country took in refugees when the fucking European Alliance started nuking population centers.”
Hawthorne knew the Europeans had accepted millions of refugees, resulting in English, Welsh and Scottish enclaves inside France, Belgium, and Norway. With them came ethnic clashes, political chaos, and poverty. The proud people of the United Kingdom—at least the ones who survived the disease and containment protocols—were broken and scattered.
As for nukes, in retrospect such action appeared excessive, but had the bacteria nicknamed The Cut reached the mainland billions might have died.
“Look,” Wren pointed to a dot crossing the horizon above Exeter’s remains, “it’s headed north.”
His radio confirmed, “Leo, it keeps popping on and off the radar but now it is coming up over Birchy Barton and still flying northwest, maybe toward the university.”
The buggy swung between the river and the remains of a tall building seemingly toppled by a tornado of fire.
Wren preached to Hawthorne, “You are not so fucking stupid to believe it was an accident, right?”
“Hey, I’m just along for the ride.”
“Pre
tty fucking coincidental that we get a so-called extraterrestrial bacteria the same time we refuse to join the Alliance.”
The European Alliance had existed for decades without England before The Cut, but Hawthorne figured pointing that out would only aggravate his driver.
“No England, no need for that Martian colony or those space stations. U.K., gets fucked, the French, Germans and the rest grow stronger. They were always jealous of us, anyway.”
“Okay, fine, big conspiracy, but who are we chasing?”
“Fucking looters.”
No standing buildings, no trees, no grass, nothing. Exeter more resembled the remains of a well-used fireplace than a treasure trove.
“So, you’re telling me that some crooks slipped by coastal security and evaded the quarantine patrols to pick through this wasteland? Is this professional or is it personal, doctor?”
“Listen you condescending fuck, England existed for centuries before anyone discovered North America. It will take another hundred years before everything valuable is found, cataloged, and set aside for the future and I will not let looters take shit that belongs to the next generation. England is my country and I will protect it.”
Wren worked the wheel and they sped along a side street.
“How old were you when The Cut hit?”
There was a long pause until Wren answered, “Thirteen, but this is my home, understand? If I had refused American citizenship they were going to ship me over to those European cunts.”
“You curse a lot.”
“What?”
“What is your specialty, doctor?”
“Christ, you tracked me down and you don’t know? I do all sorts of shit but especially Quantitative Biology.”
They managed a quick look at the encroaching aircraft as it flew overhead: a small cargo prop plane with a fuselage sporting odd angles that suggested stealth technology.
Wren slowed the buggy as they drove a street with more standing walls than they had seen along the river. While nowhere near intact, several facades remained, like a Hollywood backlot.
Hearing through the mask was difficult, but Hawthorne recognized the roar of prop engines rotating into a vertical position for landing.
Project Sail Page 3
