by Ben Bova
Then the politicians stepped onto the desert. The President, with Melillo and three others; General Bakhtiar and his staff members; Ling Po and his people in their high-collared blue jumpsuits. Archbishop Overmire waddled out of a fourth minivan, wincing noticeably as the harsh desert sunshine struck him. Sister Angelique and Tavalera followed him as the entire procession hurried toward the air-conditioned comfort of the observation building.
Stoner heard Tavalera half-whisper to Angelique, “I told you he’d be here.”
Angelique nodded and said nothing.
The three groups headed quickly toward the building, separated from one another by a few paces. They stayed separated, Stoner saw. None of them said a word to any of the others. None of them even looked at the others. Three separate units, he thought. Three sets of world leaders with Neolithic attitudes: my tribe above yours; my people are human and yours are not. He shook his head in frustrated despair. How can they ever work together?
The entire procession hurried past Stoner without a word or even a glance and rushed into the cool shadows of the building’s interior. Tavalera, bringing up the rear, seemed uncertain but then stuck out his hand almost shyly.
Stoner grasped it in both of his own. “It’s good to see you again, Raoul.”
“Yeah,” Tavalera muttered, almost reluctantly. “You, too.”
Sister Angelique moved between them. “You are to go with the technicians to the building where the bomb will be dismantled,” she said to Stoner.
“Fine,” said Stoner. “I presume you’ll all get back to Tahiti in time for tomorrow’s closing session of the conference.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I want to address the delegates, the scientists, and the political leaders.”
Angelique closed her eyes briefly. Then, “It will be a plenary session. Everyone will attend.”
“Good.”
She pointed to a group of six men who were trudging out of the building to a waiting minivan. They all were wearing Western-style business suits and looked decidedly uncomfortable in the desert heat. “You should be going with them.”
“To witness the dismantling,” Stoner said. “Yes, I know.”
But he hesitated. Something about Angelique’s expression puzzled him. She seemed . . . eager? Worried? Expectant? She licked her lips with a swift motion of her tongue. Her eyes evaded his. Something’s bothering her, Stoner thought.
She’s anxious about something, his wife told him mentally.
She’s got a lot on her mind, Stoner replied.
It’s more than that, Jo said. We should dig into her head and find out what’s bothering her.
No, Stoner said. I told her I wouldn’t probe her mind without her permission. We’d be just as bad as that sadist Mayfair.
Stoner sensed his wife’s disdain. You’re too close to her for your own good, Keith.
Jealousy? The possibility surprised Stoner.
Caution, Jo answered. She’s dangerous. You pushed her away and she hasn’t forgotten it. Or forgiven you for it.
You’ve been into her mind, Stoner accused.
He sensed Jo’s cool amusement. I don’t have to probe her mind. I know how I’d feel if you rejected me.
Stoner smiled to himself. I’ll be careful with her, he promised.
Jo said, So will I.
For a moment he thought Jo might be right and it made sense to probe Angelique’s mind, but he decided against it. Whatever’s bothering her will come to the surface soon enough. Studying Tavalera’s face, he saw that Raoul was unworried, unconcerned. In fact, it looked to Stoner as if Tavalera was enjoying his chance to see the high and the mighty at close hand.
I hope he’s not too disappointed with them.
“They’re waiting for you,” Angelique prompted, gesturing toward the minivan.
Stoner nodded. Flashing a grin to Tavalera, he sprinted toward the minivan and climbed in beside the driver.
Tavalera watched the minivan growl into motion and head off for the distant building, kicking up a spurt of sand and gravel.
“Come inside, Raoul,” said Sister Angelique, “where it’s safe.”
“Safe?” he asked, stepping through the doorway. “You afraid I’ll get sunstroke out here?”
It was pleasantly cool inside the bunker. That’s what this is, Tavalera realized as he looked around. A concrete bunker. Walls thick enough to stop a missile. Steel doors.
Safe, she had said. Tavalera shrugged mentally. I bet even if they exploded the bomb out there we’d be safe behind all this concrete.
RICK
It’s simple in theory, Rick said to himself, but a little trickier when you actually try to carry it out.
He had engineered the nanomachines and the specific enzymes they carried in the starship’s biolab. It had been fairly simple to hack into computer files in several governmental research facilities, despite their protective programs and highly restricted accesses. In each of the tightly guarded facilities Rick found confirmation of what the starship’s own files had told him.
Reverse transcription. Engineer an enzyme that will deactivate a specific gene in an organism’s DNA. In this case, deactivate the gene that produces the narcotic effect of the opium poppy.
That had been simple enough. And engineering nanomachines to carry the enzyme and insert it into living poppy plants, like a purposeful, man-made virus, had given Rick little enough trouble. Now he had to deliver the nanos to the fields of poppies that grew amid the wild craggy mountains of high Asia. And in the carefully cultivated government-owned poppy farms in the Anatolian hills, the rocky pasturelands of Macedonia and Greece, the parched littoral along the southern edge of the shrinking Mediterranean Sea.
He could see the fields in satellite imagery from a dozen surveillance satellites that orbited the Earth. They know about them! Rick realized. Governments know about the opium poppy grounds and do nothing about them. Worse, they take a share of the profits from the opium cartel and even from the farmers themselves, literally dirt-poor.
That’s going to stop, Rick said silently with a grim smile. Now.
Spreading the enzyme-bearing nanos across the poppy fields was the tricky part. Rick thought about commandeering cargo planes from various national air bases but decided that such an overt move would attract too much attention. Instead, he opted to deliver the nanos himself, projecting himself across the skies like an avenging angel, spreading death to the plants that produced opium and heroin.
Not death, he told himself. Not one flower will die. They’ll grow and bloom just as they always do. The farmers will harvest them and the chemists will process them just as they’ve done since time immemorial. But from this time on the poppies will produce no narcotic chemicals. They’ll be nothing more than harmless red flowers.
The drug trade will be broken. The cartel will self-destruct. There’ll be murderous wars while they try to find out who’s made their product useless. Maybe I’ll announce from on high that I’ve done it and there’s nothing they can do about it.
But not until I do the same for the coca plantations in Latin America. That will be tougher: they grow the coca plants in the forests, protected from satellite sensors by the other vegetation. But I’ll find them. I’ll root them out and destroy them. I’ll rid the world of this curse, once and for all.
In his mind, though, Rick heard his mother’s calm, rational voice: Until they start mass-producing designer drugs in laboratories.
He almost smiled. Then I’ll destroy their laboratories, each and every one of them.
He sensed Jo’s disapproval. Don’t take on the job of being God, Rick. It leads to tyranny. Besides, your father won’t like it.
CHAPTER 3
The minivan pulled up beside the old Humvee and the technicians piled out. Two men from each of three nations, Stoner saw as he climbed down to the sandy ground. Two Chinese, two Iranians, and two Americans. To each other they seem very different: the cast of their eyes, the tint of their ski
ns, their languages, their religions, their histories. Yet they’re so much alike! Their differences are minuscule, but it’s their differences that they each focus on.
“Come on, Earthlings,” he called to them. “Let’s witness some history here.”
Without anyone giving a command or making a decision, Stoner became their leader as they walked in the blazing hot sunshine the half dozen steps from the minivan to the steel door of the drab, featureless disposal building.
One of the Chinese technicians came up alongside Stoner.
“Have you truly been to the stars?” he asked, his voice low. Yet Stoner heard the curiosity in his tone.
“Truly,” he replied. “Tomorrow I’ll address the plenary session and tell you all about it.”
“It is hard to believe.”
“I know. But it’s entirely true.”
As they approached the door it swung open. A slim, big-eyed gray-skinned man half-bowed and clasped his hands together. “Welcome. Enter. Enter,” said Nagash Janagar.
Standing in the rear of the observation bunker’s only room, Tavalera whispered to Angelique, “We’re not gonna see much from this distance.”
She pointed to the display screens lining the room’s front wall. “The cameras in the disposal building will show everything.”
Tavalera made a noise halfway between a sigh and a grunt.
The politicos down front were having some trouble getting themselves seated. A couple of the Chinese were jabbering to themselves while several of the bearded, smoky-skinned Iranians stood glowering. Archbishop Overmire moved ponderously among them, a broad smile pasted on his jowly face, his hands fluttering amicably, and finally got everyone seated.
They all want to sit in the center, Tavalera figured. None of them wants to sit on the sides. He almost laughed out loud at the display of naked egos.
At last the Archbishop raised his hands prayerfully and said in his most benevolent tone, “I want to thank you all for coming to this demonstration of faith and goodwill. I believe we should all thank God for the blessings of peace and understanding. No matter how you worship Him, we are all God’s children.”
The Archbishop clasped his hands together and bowed his head. All the others did pretty much the same, Tavalera saw, even the Chinese. Sister Angelique lowered her head in prayer.
After several seconds the Archbishop straightened up—as much as a man of his girth could straighten. “And now I would like to present to you our host for this historic moment, the President of the United States.”
“Oh, crap,” Tavalera moaned softly. “They’re gonna make speeches.”
Angelique flashed an annoyed glance at him. “Of course,” she whispered. “What did you expect?”
Tavalera’s unhappy frown could have curdled milk.
As the President started to get up from his chair, Oscar Melillo grasped his arm and whispered, “Remember, when it goes off you’re shocked, stunned.”
The President nodded, thinking, We’ve rehearsed this a dozen times. I’m shocked; then I’m filled with righteous anger. Righteous anger. That’s when we launch our missiles. That’s when I lay down the law to the Chinks and the rug merchants.
Janagar was reciting the speech he had memorized, telling the technicians all the details of the hydrogen bomb and its intricate workings. The technicians had gathered around the opened warhead, peering into its works.
“And these?” asked one of the Iranians, interrupting Janager’s carefully rehearsed explanation. “What are these?”
“Those are the safety interlocks. They ensure that the bomb’s fusing mechanism will not be activated until the timing signal is received from the master computer.”
“And where is the master computer?” the Iranian asked. Rather peremptorily, Stoner thought.
Janagar pointed to a metal box, about the size of a man’s palm. “This is the master computer.”
“Larger than it needs to be,” murmured one of the Chinese. He spoke Mandarin, but Stoner understood him perfectly.
Stoner smiled inwardly. These techno-geeks are in their element, happy as clams at high tide. I wonder if this Hindu will be able to start his job of dismantling before they run out of questions.
Janagar, though, was glad that none of them had asked him to disconnect the master computer. It was already counting down to the moment when the bomb would detonate.
The President spoke for nearly ten minutes; then the head of the Chinese government got to his feet. Ling Po wore a single red star pinned to the chest of his blue coveralls.
In Oxford-accented English, Ling Po began, “I wish to thank the President for inviting us to witness this historic event. . . .”
Tavalera huffed with impatient displeasure. Leaning toward Angelique’s ear, he whispered, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m gonna grab one of those vans outside and go out to see them dismantle the bomb.”
“No!” she whispered back urgently. “You’ve got to stay here!”
Shaking his head, Tavalera said, “I can’t stand this B.S. I’m going to where Stoner is.”
“You can’t!” she insisted, clutching at his arm.
“Come on, Angelique; we’re not needed here. Let’s go where the action is. You can come with me. Nobody’s gonna miss us here.”
“No!” she repeated, her eyes wide with fear.
Tavalera stared at her. “Why not?” he demanded.
“Stay here. It’s safe in here.”
“Safe? Safe from what?”
“Just stay here,” she said. “Don’t go outside.”
“Why not?” he asked again.
She didn’t answer, but the terror in her eyes told him what he needed to know.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he hissed. “You’re gonna set it off! You’re gonna kill him!”
Tavalera wrenched free of her grasp and bolted toward the door.
CHAPTER 4
“Stoner!” Tavalera yelled as soon as the bunker’s steel door clanged shut behind him. The desert sun was like a hammer on his bare head as he ran toward the nearest of the minivans.
“Stoner!” he called again as he slid into the van’s cab. Solar panels on the vehicle’s roof generated enough electricity to keep the van’s air conditioner running at low speed. Tavalera gunned the engine and twisted the AC’s control knob to its highest level.
No answer from Stoner. As he headed toward the dismantling building, jouncing and rattling on the rutted unpaved road, Tavalera blamed himself. I told him to stay out of my head. I told him to keep away from me.
Stoner saw that Janagar’s face was shining with a fine sheen of perspiration. The man’s hands were trembling slightly as he continued his explanation of the bomb’s workings for the six technicians.
“So which component will you remove first?” asked one of the Chinese, his manner brusque, impatient.
Drawing himself up to his full height, Janagar barely reached the level of Stoner’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and said in a voice suddenly shaking with emotion:
“None. The bomb will not be dismantled. It will explode in less than one minute.”
One of the Iranians started to laugh, but a look at Janagar’s face cut off his amusement.
And Stoner heard in his mind his wife’s urgent warning: Keith! They’ve launched twenty missiles!
They? Who?
Six from silos in the United States. The rest from submerged submarines in the Pacific and Indian Oceans.
Stoner pinned Janagar with a penetrating stare. “Why?” he demanded.
The Indian’s eyes were almost popping from his head. “Krishna,” he muttered. “Krishna, Krishna.”
The technicians were bolting for the door, pushing one another in their maddened effort to get through the doorway and into the waiting van. No use, Stoner knew. They can’t get far enough away before the bomb goes off.
Grabbing the half-fainting Janagar by his shirt, Stoner probed deep into the man’s mind. And sensed the tumor growing in his brain, saw hi
s history, the family that depended on him, the martyrdom he was willing to accept in order to provide for his wife and children.
Clutching Janagar by the nape of his scrawny neck, Stoner said, “There’s a better way.”
He dragged Janager to the minivan, where the technicians were shoving one another to get into the vehicle. One of them had already revved up its engine and was starting to back out of the parking space even though two of the techs—an Iranian and an American, Stoner saw—were still scrambling to get in through the sliding side door.
Stoner killed the minivan’s engine with a mental command as he dragged Janagar to the van. With his free hand he pushed the two struggling technicians into the vehicle while the driver—one of the Chinese—strained, red faced and sweaty, to get the engine going again. With one hand Stoner swung Janagar into the van, then surrounded it with a bubble of energy.
Then he saw, off in the distance, a rooster tail of dust. A car’s coming this way.
Tavalera, he realized. Without hesitating, Stoner flung out a mental command: Raoul! Turn around. Get away, back to the bunker. Turn around now!
Tavalera heard Stoner’s shout in his mind.
“They’re gonna blow the bomb!” he yelled.
Turn around! Stoner commanded. Before it’s too late.
The flash seared Tavalera’s eyes. He felt the shock wave of the explosion lift his minivan and toss it like a pebble, tumbling across the rough desert floor. The roar burst his eardrums. Blind and deaf, he felt the flash of searing heat boil his flesh, vaporize his bones. The pain lasted only an instant. Then he was dead.
Stoner stood by the minivan’s open door as the explosion engulfed him. The men inside the van screamed as the core of white-hot plasma enveloped the thin shell of energy that encased the vehicle. For an endless moment it was like being in the heart of a star. Then the desert erupted as tons of dust and stones, scrubby plants, burrowing animals, were all instantly vaporized and lifted on a gigantic pillar of smoky fire and rose to the stratosphere.
