Gunning the accelerator, Bram pushed the humming motorbike’s speed up to 45 mph. He’d never driven a manually operated trike before, and the thrill of doing so was contagious. It was also illegal. Manually operated vehicles were outlawed twenty-eight years earlier, but by then most vehicles used GPS. The law had been passed to discourage miscreants like him.
Logically, he understood the need for the ban: There shouldn’t be a bunch of anarchists on the road, swerving in and out of traffic, getting into horrific accidents, putting law-abiding citizens in harm’s way. But … the law had also sucked the life out of the open road. Despite the advantages supplied by GPS operating systems, he often longed for the good old days of family cruises and teenage boys roaring down Main Street in actual gasoline-powered hot rods.
He could imagine what it must have been like to drive what amounted to a fire-breathing dragon down the highway. Now the only place a gasoline-powered engine could be found was in a museum—if one didn’t count a few Third World countries where they were still being used. And even they were starting to see the light. Since the petroleum industry was focused solely on petrochemical endeavors instead of gasoline, the remaining few gas-powered vehicles had been converted to use biofuels. This meant that the streets of rural Cambodia, and equivalent habitats around the globe, smelled of French fries, hamburgers, and fried chicken.
With these thoughts swirling in his head, Bram failed to notice the police monitor affixed to a post on the side of the road. Moments later, his reverie was interrupted by the ringtone version of Robert Johnson’s “Hellhound on My Trail.” Pulling to the side of the road, he placed the trike in neutral and reached for his Personal Interlink Device, feeling perturbed. He’d specifically asked Eric—his PID’s artificial personality—to transfer all his calls to voice mail for the duration of the trip. That’s when an image came to mind of a star, with the words “Tennessee State Police” wrapped around its outer edge.
“Dammit!” Bram glanced around, looking for the monitor; it was around a bend in the road. Shoulders slumping, he spoke to his PID, “Connect me with the men in blue, Eric.”
“There’s no need for that, Bram.” Eric’s voice sounded exactly like another one of Bram’s idols, an English guitar-god from the twentieth century. “The state police traffic computer has instructed me to forward this information: ‘Bram Waters, you will immediately cease and desist driving your manually operated vehicle. If you do not, said vehicle will be impounded. If you have the means, arrange for its pick up. If not, the state police will make arrangements for you, which will include a nominal towing fee. Expect a fine of one-thousand one-hundred fifty-three dollars for blatantly failing to comply with existing state and federal laws. Have a nice day.’”
“What a crock!” Bram seethed. He wanted to grind his PID into the dirt, but instead heaved a heavy sigh. “Eric, program my truck with these coordinates. By the way … do I have any other messages?”
“Yes, Bram, you have eleven messages in all.”
“Jeez … okay, give me the bad news.”
“Is that sarcasm or an actual premonition, Bram?”
Frowning at the PID, he grumbled, “Just play the messages.”
What followed was a message from Charlene telling him that she was through for the day and heading home; two robo-calls, which he quickly deleted; five advertisements, which were also deleted; one lead on a current case; and one from a potential client before the final message was played. He bolted upright in the trike’s seat, his mouth hanging open in shock.
“This is Lawrence Murchison, press secretary for Dr. Solomon Chavez. I am pleased to inform you that you have been chosen to participate in the greatest adventure ever envisioned by the mind of man: The Ark Project. Most of the other six thousand people chosen were informed by underlings or by computer; however, I’m calling you personally, Mr. Waters, because we want to offer you a special position as a crew member, the details of which I’ll outline when you return my call. Please contact me by four o’clock. If you receive this message after that time, please call first thing in the morning. I’m looking forward to speaking with you … but I suppose you already knew that.” Bram heard a soft chuckle. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Good day, Mr. Waters.”
Variations on that lame joke had plagued Bram long before his memoir became a bestseller. Lawrence Murchison’s attempt at humor hadn’t fazed him—it was the message itself that threw him for a loop. Bram stared at his PID, stunned, not having seen this coming.
“What the fuck?” was the only reaction that came to mind.
•
ORANGE COUNTY, CALIFORNIA: 9:27 P.M., MAY, 29, 2060
Shaking his head in disgust, Jimmy Jamison glared at the HV, his eyes following President Gale Cranston as she strode from the podium and out of the White House press room. The president had just finished giving one of her all-too-frequent press conferences, once again trying to reassure the American people that the faltering economy was on the upswing.
It was bullshit! Everyone knew she was a lying, devil-loving, Hollywood liberal.
“Sarah, turn this crap off,” he spat.
“You betcha, Jimmy.” The computer’s chipper, North Dakotan accent always made the seventy-eight-year-old former software engineer smile.
Rising from his plush leather couch, Jimmy Jamison cinched the red, silk robe tighter around his slight, five-foot seven-inch frame, opened the sliding glass window located in his mahogany-paneled study, and stepped onto the terrace overlooking his kidney-shaped swimming pool.
“Sarah dear, connect me with Dahlgren. And use the secure channel.”
Seconds later, a man’s husky voice sounded in his Bluetooth implant. “Dahlgren here, Mr. Jamison. How can I help you?”
“I’m curious how the Victoria Proposal is coming along.”
“It’s right on schedule, sir. Our inside contact has sent word of the shipment’s arrival. It will be loaded the day after tomorrow.”
“Excellent! We are doing the Lord’s Work, my friend. A great reward will be awaiting our arrival in heaven.”
“I’m sure that’s true. However, the money you’re paying me will come in handy while awaiting the heavenly version.”
Philistine! Doesn’t he know that money is a poor substitute for God’s love? “Of course, my friend, you will be well rewarded when the plan succeeds. When the modern-day tower of Babel tumbles to the earth, a cry—no—a roar of joy will erupt from the mouths of the faithful, unlike anything heard since the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.”
“Amen, brother.”
Jimmy Jamison looked to the heavens and pursed his thin lips. “Call me the instant you learn of our success. Sarah, disconnect.”
Placing his blue-veined hands on the veranda’s white, marble railing, Jamison watched his grandchildren frolic in the pool, their happy voices sounding as if there wasn’t a care in the world. If they only knew the truth, he thought. If only they knew that the Antichrist walked the Earth, weaving his evil plot to subvert the Lord’s will, they would be shivering with pure terror instead of splashing and cavorting with unmitigated joy.
Perhaps it was best they didn’t know. Their happy, carefree voices were like a balm to his soul. The young shouldn’t suffer from the horrific truths that plague adults.
•
LAKE VICTORIA COMPLEX, KENYA: 4:12 A.M, MAY 30, 2060
Three sharp beeps woke Floyd Sullivant from a peaceful night’s sleep without disturbing his boyfriend. Floyd’s eyes snapped open, knowing that the sonically directed alarm clock, which could only be heard by the individual it was focused on, was programmed to activate only in case of an emergency involving his job as head of security.
Swinging his legs over the side of their queen-size bed, he arched his back and stretched his muscular, two-hundred twenty-five pound, six-foot three-inch frame. After a massive yawn, he rubbed his close-cropped brown hair and sub-vocalized, knowing that Madge, his PID artificial personality, would hear and respond.
“What’s the emergency, girl?”
The directional function was still in effect. “Security has detected an anomaly at dock 9-B. It requires your immediate attention.”
An anomaly. “I’ll be right there. Is Fletcher on duty, or—”
He was distracted by a soft groan and the feel of his boyfriend rolling over in bed.
“What’s going on, baby? Can’t sleep?”
Floyd felt a smooth, callous-free hand find the small of his back and begin a gentle massage.
“It’s nothing, Rudy.” His deep, Welsh-accented voice sounded too loud this early in the morning. “Something’s come up at work, is all. Go back to sleep.”
Rudy sat up in bed. “Lights, fifteen percent,” he ordered. The overhead glow-strip blushed faintly, casting his lean, Scandinavian features in a soft light. “Is it serious?”
“Don’t know,” Floyd said, pulling a clean, white t-shirt over his head. “I’ll find out shortly.”
“Let me know how it goes. I enjoy listening to you talk about work.” Rudy’s eyes lingered on Floyd’s well-defined torso.
“If I can, babe,” Floyd chuckled. Straightening his tie, he leaned over and gave Rudy a quick kiss. “I’ll see you tonight. I’m cooking linguine … with oysters.”
Rudy shook his head. “You’re incorrigible.”
“What can I say? I like oysters,” he said, a sly grin tweaking the corners of his mouth.
Slipping his PID into his shirt pocket, Floyd left the apartment in a rush. It had been months since an anomalous security threat had been detected, and his curiosity was piqued.
Rudy was still sitting up in bed. The expression on the young man’s handsome face had changed from happiness to concern. He stared at the bedroom door, wondering if Floyd’s departure warranted informing the group he worked for, and he wasn’t thinking about his fellow employees in the shipping division.
•
Twenty-four minutes later, Floyd was approaching a contingent of security officers gathered outside the small auxiliary office at dock 9-B. One of the security officers was Jeremy Fletcher, a gangly twenty-year-old that Floyd was quite fond of, though Jeremy’s exuberance sometimes got on his nerves.
The young man noticed Floyd’s arrival before anyone else. “There he is,” Jeremy said, his face lighting up. Having distinguished himself as a computer whiz in the US Navy, Jeremy was quickly headhunted by CIMRAD and reassigned to administer the security upgrades at the Lake Victoria complex. Though he continued to hold the rank of ensign, the only outward sign of his military status was the navy pin he wore on the lapel of his black security uniform. “The chief will clear—”
“Mr. Fletcher!” snapped a middle-aged black man to Jeremy’s right. “Wait until we’re inside the hut. On second thought, stay quiet unless called upon … do you copy?”
The young man sheepishly nodded his head.
Floyd was intrigued by the unusual exchange. Approaching the group of five men and one woman, he motioned toward the auxiliary security office and followed them inside, concerned by the odd, furtive looks he was receiving from his most trusted lieutenants.
“Computer, display the schematics for receiving dock 9-B,” said Gloria Muldoon. As usual, her tone was brusque. Her long, raven-black hair was pulled back in a regulation ponytail and, as usual, she wore no makeup. But that didn’t matter, as even without makeup, she was quite stunning.
Floyd admired Gloria’s commitment to her job. It had been an auspicious day when he hired her as his second-in-command. Her devotion to the Ark Project was so complete that he never saw her with a man—or woman. Perhaps it was her icy nature that got in the way. Heterosexual men tended to be intimidated by strong women—unlike him, who was fascinated with the fairer sex, icy nature notwithstanding. Being a reasonably attractive man with a muscular physique, he’d been approached by women over the years and even gone to bed with one while attending college … after a night of heavy drinking. It had been a pleasant enough experience (at first). However, despite her pretty face and nubile body, the sexual glow began to dim. After more than a half hour of lovemaking, he was exhausted, couldn’t finish, and wanted the experience to end. Since she was lying face down at the time, he closed his eyes, thought about a former boyfriend, and picked up the pace. Welcome relief soon followed. Exhausted, he rolled off her and stared out the bedroom window. An empty, downcast feeling lurked in the pit of his stomach.
Unfortunately, he’d done his job too well. The girl—he couldn’t even remember her name anymore—told him that she’d never been pleasured like that by any man, ever, and wanted more. He tried to beg off by claiming fatigue, then closed his eyes and hoped she’d get the hint. Shortly thereafter, he felt her hand close around his flaccid member. Before he could react, her lips were next. Floyd told her to stop, but she’d kept on going. He wanted to push her off but was afraid she’d grow angry, so he lay there staring at the ceiling, hoping she would arouse him, if only to avoid telling her the truth.
After ten minutes and no reaction to her efforts, she looked up into his sad eyes and with a confused expression on her face, asked if she was doing something wrong. After reassuring her that her technique was superb, he’d asked her to lie next to him. That’s when he’d told her the truth. At first she didn’t believe him, saying that he was too good a lay to be gay. Then, when he told her that she was the first woman he’d ever slept with, she started to yell. As she hurriedly threw on her clothes, he tried to settle her down, asking her to stay, saying he’d fix her breakfast, coffee, anything, but she’d stormed out of the apartment. Floyd never saw her again. That was his first and only heterosexual encounter. He’d never been tempted again, not even by the gorgeous ice-princess herself, Gloria Muldoon.
Standing perfectly erect, with her hands clasped behind her back, Gloria stared at the fifty-two-inch HV screen embedded in the far wall. A blue-lined, rotating, holographic schematic of dock 9-B floated within its inky blackness.
“Computer, enhance sector nineteen, bay five.”
The schematic stopped rotating and zoomed in on the aforementioned location. A pallet stacked with non-perishable medical supplies sat apart from the rest, blinking an ominous red warning signal.
Gloria pointed at the screen. “Gentlemen, what we have here is a pallet with a net weight equaling twelve grams less than what it should be.”
Floyd scowled. He was losing sleep for this? “Why does this warrant an emergency meeting, Gloria? Can’t this discrepancy be explained? Perhaps the manufacturer used too much packing material.”
Once again, he received strange looks from his staff.
“No, sir. This shipment contains medical supplies that are packaged in a prescribed fashion,” she replied. “The supplies themselves have a weight calculated down to the microgram. It is my considered opinion that someone is trying to smuggle contraband onto the ship. A ‘sniffer’ was used to test it for explosives. Though the results were inconclusive, that does not mean a bomb is not contained somewhere within its depths.”
“Has it been X-rayed?”
Gloria gave him a hard look before answering. “The container is shielded to protect itself against cosmic radiation exposure; therefore, we can’t determine what’s inside. A bomb disposal unit has been called in and will be arriving in a matter of minutes.”
“Good work,” he said, “but I’m still unsure why this situation is such a high priority.”
Gloria glanced toward Jeremy Fletcher and nodded.
The young man cleared his throat and nervously explained. “Well, sir. This morning I, um, found a discrepancy in the weight classification computer logs. Normally I would have reviewed the weekly statistics yesterday, but I was down with a stomach bug. I came in early to catch up and discovered that the weigh-in on the receiving dock and the official figures recorded in the permanent record were off. I did a little digging and narrowed the anomaly to dock 9-B, sector nineteen, bay five. As you know, sir, I’m a stickler for det
ail and—”
“Yes, yes, get to the point, Ensign,” Floyd snapped.
“Yeah, um, anyway,” Jeremy sputtered, glancing sidelong at Gloria. “I was m-merely …”
The boy seemed oddly reticent. Before he could suffer further embarrassment, Gloria held up a hand for silence—she was being notified (via Bluetooth implant) that the bomb squad had arrived. All six left the auxiliary office and hopped onboard a maglev warehouse trolley. Further discussion was put on hold as the group traveled to sector nineteen. Floyd was pleased to see the sector was cleared of workers, which would minimize casualties if something did go wrong.
The bomb squad was already set up and waiting for the order to proceed when they arrived at the dock. Floyd and the other security officers positioned themselves behind a blast shield located twenty yards away and watched as the squad, positioned behind their own blast shield, deployed a bomb-disposing robot affectionately known as Teddy. It stood three feet tall, rolled across the floor on tracks, and sported mechanical hands that could be used for finely detailed work. Atop its box-like head were two half-moon antennas that gave the impression of ears … hence its name.
It took nearly thirty minutes for Teddy to remove the crate’s top panel and begin scanning its interior. The scan showed a ceramic object with electrical components in the middle of the crate. After a tense five minutes, the object was removed and placed in a portable detonation chamber.
Floyd turned to Gloria with an angry, determined look on his face. “Whoever’s responsible for this device must be apprehended, and quickly, before word leaks out. I don’t want this fucker slipping through our fingers.” As his staff’s hard expressions began to soften and they shot each other knowing looks, Floyd decided to confront their attitude head on. “What the hell’s going on, Gloria?” he growled. “What are you not telling me?”
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