On the bright side, at least he didn’t have to explain Spike to Lola. Funny how the things you worry about are never the things that bite you on the arse.
Spike barks.
‘Well, I apologise if my lack of success with the opposite sex reflects poorly on you.’
Another bark.
‘Taking my shirt off would not have made any difference.’
Corey drives on. The memory of the night in ‘97 when the quake hit and he lost his mum floods back. It’s funny, that memory only resurfaces when he feels bad - and then makes him feel worse, which truly sucks. He finds the best way to deal with it is not to. Just bury it as deep as possible and ignore it. Eventually it will go away on its own. Of course, that means it will come back again later, but he’d cross that bridge when it reared up unexpectedly.
He did try to deal with it once. He was in his late teens and his need for answers became so strong that for a while he began reading about fault lines and earthquakes in his spare time, not just the ones in Australia but wherever they occurred across the planet. For a brief moment he’d even considered heading to Sydney University to study seismology and research earthquakes, but the call to fly was too strong and he didn’t think he could sit in a classroom for years on end, no matter how interesting the subject.
Corey pulls up at a red light. It’s an intersection. As he said to Lola earlier he’s not great at understanding subtext, but he can’t help but think he’s reached a crossroads in his life too.
Spike barks.
It’s actually a good question and takes his mind off the horrendous feeling-sorry-for-himself-fest he’s been indulging in for the last couple of minutes. What do they do now? He’s in no hurry to return to Central Australia. He loves his home but he wants to experience a world outside the desert. So where to next? He can stay in Los Angeles, try to find some work. He likes the vibrancy of the city, that there’s always something going on, but the Florida Keys are also tempting.
He’d visited them at the beginning of the tour around America, travelled the two-hundred-kilometre-long Overseas Highway, the one they blew up in True Lies, one of his favourite movies, and even though he’d only spent a week there, the place captured his heart more than any other spot during the journey. He’s pretty sure that’s because of the ocean: every time he looked at the Florida Strait it was a different shade of blue. There’s just something about the sea that, after living a desert life for so long, makes his heart sing. When the movie deal is finalised he’ll have the dough to move down there and, as Cape Canaveral is close, it’ll be easy to catch up with Judd and Rhonda when they’re in Florida.
The dog barks.
Corey glances at the animal and grins. ‘Yep, I’m thinking Florida, too.’
*
4
Alvy Blash is almost certain this is the day he will change the world.
Almost.
The next five minutes will tell him for sure.
He moves to the metre-wide fan positioned in front of the curvy, high-waisted Hyundai iX35 and flicks the power switch. The fan spins up and the large room, with cement walls, floor and ceiling, reverberates with the deep, flat chop of rotating blades. The torrent of air slams into the front of the car with such force it rattles the windscreen wipers.
Alvy points at Jacob, who sits behind the Hyundai’s steering wheel. Jacob pushes the start button on the dash and the engine cranks to life. He slides out of the vehicle and exits the room through the only door, which sits directly beside a long, thin horizontal window that’s double-glazed with shatterproof glass and built into the wall at eye level.
In front of the vehicle the woolly-haired Alvy holds a small, metal spray can in his left hand and turns to Bunsen, who stands behind the shatterproof glass. Bunsen nods then Alvy takes a deep breath and presses the button on top of the can. Once. It emits a fine puff of clear mist that is whisked by the airstream straight into the Hyundai’s front grille.
That clear mist is why they are here. Alvy almost called it Hedorah, after the fictional Japanese smog monster, but went with the Swarm instead because it better describes what it actually is: a very large group of very tiny particles working in perfect unison to complete a very sophisticated task. Granted, calling it the Swarm isn’t as exciting as naming it after one of Godzilla’s nemeses, but it feels right for an invention at the forefront of molecular nanotechnology.
Bunsen triggers a digital Seiko stopwatch as Alvy exits the room, closes the metal door behind him and moves to the window where they all study the Hyundai, its engine ticking over at just over a thousand revolutions per minute.
Alvy’s heart races. He’s never felt this nervous. He’s been fiddling with the Swarm’s formula for the last week, working on the molecular assembler, tinkering with the messenger RNA and tweaking the sequences of amino acids that construct the protein molecules. He’d really wanted to spend another day on it - he always wants to spend ‘another day’ on everything he works on - but gave in to Bunsen’s demand that they perform a live test to see where they stood.
‘Come-on-come-on-come-on,’ Alvy says it through an exhaled breath and glances at the stopwatch. The numbers blink and change, ten, eleven, twelve seconds. He’s spent the last thirty-four months, every day and night since Bunsen recruited him, creating and finetuning the Swarm, and now he’s about to find out if all of that time, effort and money were worthwhile.
He’s suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of dread. Did he miss a step? Is the self-replication sequence correct? He thinks so, but you never know until you run a real-world test. He’s actually glad Bunsen pushed him to do this. If it were up to him he would have put it off, then put it off again. It helps to have someone cracking the whip, not that the twenty-nine-year-old needs much motivation. He has embraced Bunsen’s worldview wholeheartedly, has not only drunk the Kool-Aid but come back for more until the jug was empty, then mixed up his own batch.
Alvy always worked on his own in the past, which meant he was a bit of a lonely guy, his excess weight, facial hair and actual hair, and his preoccupation with Grand Theft Auto, not doing him any favours socially (that is, with the ladies). He guessed that’s why Bunsen sought him out: his skill set and solitary lifestyle - there was nothing at home to distract him from the job at hand. Of course, he’s not working alone here, he’s part of the team and he enjoys the dynamic immensely. It reminds him of when he was young and his brother and father were alive. He’s sure they’d be proud of what he’s doing, would realise that the Swarm will one day change the world for the better.
He studies the stopwatch in Bunsen’s hand. Nineteen seconds, twenty, twenty-one. He glances at Jacob and they exchange a nervous smile. Jacob’s been invaluable in the lab, eager to help and quick to learn. The shared experience has brought them close. Alvy likes having a friend, even if he is actually a work colleague. If the Swarm is a success a good part of the credit will go to Jacob. Bunsen, on the other hand, hasn’t been around that much and didn’t even pretend to understand the science of what Alvy was doing. He made up for that by not only building and paying for a state-of-the-art lab but providing all the equipment Alvy needed to complete the task. And it had cost a fortune - well over nineteen million dollars so far. Alvy once asked Bunsen where all the money came from. ‘Reruns,’ Bunsen said, but never elaborated.
Alvy looks at the stopwatch again. Twenty-eight seconds, twenty-nine.
Christ, the tension is unbearable.
It’s like waiting for the world’s most important kettle to boil. His eyes move back to the Hyundai. ‘Come-on-come-on-come-on.’ He doesn’t bother saying it under his breath this time. He hopes it will happen but fears it won’t. Hope and fear. Don’t those two words just sum up life? You hope for the best but fear the worst.
The Hyundai’s exhaust turns a light purple colour. Yes! It’s something Alvy expected, a key design feature of the Swarm that had taken him three months to perfect. It’s thrilling to see.
Bunsen turns to him wi
th a smile. ‘Excellent.’
Actually, it’s more than excellent. It’s fuckin’ fantastic. Alvy returns the smile and glances at the stopwatch. Forty-four seconds. He looks back at the exhaust. The purple exhaust is darker now, and growing darker by the second.
The exhaust turns black.
It happens, just like that. It’s extraordinary, shocks Alvy even though he’s expecting it, has been working towards it for the better part of three years. It’s terrible and beautiful and sickening and inspiring all in the same moment. All the tension he’s been feeling is instantly released.
*
Bunsen turns to him with a wide grin. ‘Congratulations. You just changed the world.’
Alvy has done exactly what was asked of him and he’s done it two months faster than he said he would. The guy is even smarter than Bunsen realised.
Bunsen puts an arm around him, pulls him close. ‘You did it. You did it!’ Not wanting Jacob to feel left out, Bunsen hooks an arm around the assistant and pulls him into the huddle too. ‘You guys - you made something out of nothing. Something important. Something vital.’
Bunsen takes in their shining faces. They look so happy. He wants to remember this moment forever, the moment the mission became a reality, before the machinery cranks to life and everything changes, before he must be cruel to be kind and set Kilroy in motion, to do the things Kilroy does so well.
*
Alvy looks at Bunsen. ‘What now?’
‘Make a batch. Three thousand litres of the Swarm, three litres of the counteragent.’
‘Jeez. Okay. That’s - a lot.’
‘I want to impress them.’
‘Of course.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘If we start now? Fourteen, fifteen hours.’
‘All right then. I’ll make some calls, set up the demonstration for tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Call me as soon as it’s done.’
‘Will do.’ Alvy nods and Bunsen moves off, then stops and turns back to him.
‘I’m proud of you.’ A little positive reinforcement always goes a long way with Alvy.
Alvy grins. ‘Thanks, man.’
Bunsen nods and keeps walking.
*
5
Houston Oilers cap on. Check.
Fifty-eight millimetre American Optical mirror-lensed aviator sunglasses on. Check.
Beats by Dr Dre Pro headphones on. Check.
Collar of navy blue Penguin polo shirt up. Check.
Judd Bell is first down the boarding ramp towards the United Boeing 787, the aircraft that will take him to Los Angeles on this fine day. He doesn’t want to get caught in line with the other passengers so he moves fast and stays ahead of the pack, his cap, oversized sunnies, enormous headphones and raised collar doing their best to make him incognito.
So far so good.
He steps into the plane and hands the flight attendant his boarding pass. He managed to reserve the seat he wanted. Not that it was difficult. Row 56, seat A is, arguably, the worst seat on the aircraft and in no demand at all. ‘Row 56, seat A. Right to the back.’ Judd takes the boarding pass from the nice lady before she has a chance to look at his face and walks on.
He moves quickly down the aisle. Ah, good old 56A. What would he do without it? It’s the only way he can fly domestic any more. It’s the last row on the left at the rear of the plane, against the window. It’s far back enough so none of the passengers will have to pass him to get to their seats, and it’s far enough from the rear toilets so none of the passengers will have to queue nearby when they visit the bathroom. Sure, he’d prefer the larger seats in business class but he’s found, from experience, that if he sits at the front of the aircraft he’s much too visible.
Judd takes his seat, pulls his cap down as low as it will go, then settles back and stares out the window. The seat beside him is empty, and as the plane is only half full, it should stay that way.
It’s been almost a year so hopefully the attention has waned a little anyway. It’s the reason he doesn’t get out that much any more. Sure, he leaves his house and drives to work at Johnson Space Center every day, but everyone he comes in contact with knows him, and if they don’t they tend to be shy about approaching Judd Bell, saviour of shuttle Atlantis and the great state of Virginia. Interestingly, when he’s outside the work environment, the opposite is true. He’s mobbed, because he’s Judd Bell, saviour of shuttle Atlantis and the great state of Virginia. Over the last year he hasn’t been to a restaurant once. It was just easier to stay in than be mobbed and have to deal with -
‘Excuse me, mister, are you Judd Dell?’
Two minutes! The tap on the shoulder comes exactly two minutes after he sits down. Judd turns from the window and sees a little girl, maybe seven years old, standing in the aisle opposite him, an expectant expression on her face.
‘No, I’m not.’
The little girl is crestfallen. Crestfallen! Man, he hates that expression. It breaks his heart. He can’t do it. He can’t lie to a child. He raises his sunglasses and whispers: ‘But I might be Judd Bell.’’
Her face lights up. ‘That’s what I meant!’
‘Just don’t tell anyone.’
‘Okay! Well, my name is Holly and I just need to tell you that you saved my grandma who lives in Richmond, Virginia, and she’s really nice so thanks for that and also you’re very nice, too.’
‘Thank you, sweetheart, but it wasn’t just me, lots of people helped out that day —’
The little girl turns and runs up the aisle, shouts at the top of her voice: ‘Momma, it is him, it’s Judd Dell! It’s Judd Dell!’
Judd sighs, watches her go. ‘I thought we weren’t going to tell anyone.’
As one, the passengers turn and search - and find ‘Judd Dell’ in row 56, seat A. He forces a smile and they clap. The clapping then changes and becomes applause, then changes again and becomes - good Lord - cheering. They’re cheering. That’s a first. All Judd wants is for it to stop. He half rises out of his seat and tries to tamp it down. Unfortunately that just means the few people who aren’t already cheering because they don’t know what the hell is going on see him for the first time and join in.
*
Two hours into the flight the last of the wellwishers have returned to their seats. Twenty-seven different people visited him during that time, some from Virginia but most with friends and family there, and all of them credit Judd with saving either their lives or the lives of loved ones. Also amongst the wellwishers were some supporters of NASA who wanted Judd to know they thought the space program was in safe hands with him, and then there were a few people who just wanted an autograph and a momentary brush with fame.
When he’s finally able to sit back, he feels terrible. Terrible. The whole reason he booked row 56, seat A and wore the old cap and the silly headphones and the ridiculous sunglasses and turned up his collar like he was Rob Lowe in 1985 is not because he doesn’t want to be mobbed by wellwishers. He doesn’t mind that at all. He likes chatting with people and signing autographs and spruiking NASA, it’s an important part of the job. No, what he doesn’t like is the feeling that he’s fooling people. What’s the saying? You can’t fool all of the people all of the time? Well, it seems you can, and he’s been doing a pretty good job of it for almost a year.
Judd pulls out his iPad and lays it on the tiny tray table. He has two hours before they land at LAX and there’s plenty to do. He needs to read the Atlantis 4 screenplay so he doesn’t sound like a complete moron when he talks to the studio execs and director about it. Then, time permitting, he should take a power nap, which is the same as a regular nap except with a cooler name.
He does neither of those things.
Instead he swipes open the iPad and watches a video he downloaded from YouTube six months ago, a video he has watched many, many times - a wobbly, hand-held, shot-on-an-iPhone-in-portrait-mode affair that lasts forty-six seconds.
/> He leans back in his seat and starts the video. It begins innocently enough, a young woman films two of her friends outside the Imax Theatre in Houston before an early evening show. The setting sun throws a warm, orange hue across the groups of people who mill about in the background and wait to enter. One of those groups is Judd, his partner Rhonda, his Aussie mate Corey and his blue heeler, Spike. It’s a couple of months after the Atlantis hijacking.
All is fine and dandy as the crowd displays the usual expectant buzz before a show - then a man shouts: ‘Everybody get down!’ The man is Judd. The crowd scatters as the camera phone whip pans to a tall blond guy holding a sawn-off shotgun. Bang. He fires the weapon and the camera phone films the sidewalk for a moment as the camerawoman takes shelter behind a nearby truck, then turns and aims the camera phone at a white car. On one side Rhonda, Corey and Judd are crouched as they take cover, on the other the gunman approaches the vehicle. Bang. He fires again, blows out the windshield. The tinkle of glass on bitumen is heard.
The camera phone wobbles and Judd pauses the video. Past the stunned and panicked faces of Rhonda and Corey he can see himself in profile and remember exactly what he was doing at that moment. Astronaut Judd Bell, hailed as the great American hero, who not only helped save the hijacked space shuttle Atlantis but prevented the detonation of a nuclear dirty bomb in Virginia, was trying - and failing - to come up with a plan to save his friends and himself.
Judd un-pauses the video. The man with the shotgun is the towering German Dirk Popanken, who the world thought was dead. He is not, and as the lone surviving member of the crew that hijacked Atlantis and attempted to detonate that dirty bomb, strides around the white car to where Judd is crouched to enact his revenge. Fortunately, because of the angle, Judd is unsighted by the camera phone at this point. Otherwise the whole world would have seen him cowering, without a plan of action.
The gunman raises his weapon and aims it directly at Judd’s unseen face. And that, you would think, is that: Judd’s life cut short with the pull of a trigger. Except something else happens to fill the last twelve seconds of the video, something that changes his fate.
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