The gravimetric effect. Every headline contained some reference. All other news took a back seat, the riveting turn of events leapfrogging its way straight into a ‘breaking news’ bombardment. Government agencies, in full-on propaganda mode, attempted to control the story by preventing news crews from entering stricken areas, but their efforts were in vain. Leaks sprang up everywhere, fast becoming a deluge.
The first amateur video to capture the effect did so in dramatic fashion. It was a low-grade cellphone clip of two cats, one stuck to a shimmering wall, it’s hair-raising caterwaul a sickening accompaniment to the animal tugging at its own fur, attempting to rip itself loose. But the other cat was a far worse sight, snapped it two at the backbone, writhing in pain and very much alive. By rights it should’ve died from loss of blood, but the gravimetrics caused a gruesome cauterizing effect—not a healing sort, but instead something that served to prolong suffering.
Once the first video went viral, the floodgates burst open. Authorities attempted to confiscate footage, even going so far as to threaten the videographers with arrest, but there were too many of them. Hosting companies prioritized the removal of human deaths and injury, but hundreds of videos remained. Wounded livestock and wild creatures, property damage, infrastructure torn apart, all remained up and running. And despite their best efforts, videos of people began to filter out too.
The splinching effect on a human being was akin to skinning an animal, then pulling back the flesh so the insides popped out. Some suffered only a minor case, on the extremities mostly, a disgusting and smelly affliction but not a fatal one. The less fortunate were literally sliced down the middle. Victims in the throes of the effect, their anguished screams searing into the national consciousness, were watched by millions.
The phenomenon was documented in Sacramento, Garfield, Joffrey and Hartford, with unconfirmed reports from several other communities. Local authorities worked day and night. National guard units had also been dispatched, setting up evacuation centers and tending to the afflicted within still-volatile ground zeros.
With the sickening videos traveling far and wide, the panic spread like wildfire. Frightened citizens barricaded themselves in ‘safe’ buildings; skyscrapers, big-box stores, community centers and the like. Those remaining outside fought to get in, and minor skirmishes quickly turned bloody. Police were loathe to get involved. Besides, they had enough work on their hands directing the flow of evacuees elsewhere as all available shelters filled up.
The possibility of a military takeover was fast becoming a serious consideration. Other world leaders weren’t in any better a position to contain their own people, either. Knowing that one’s body could be ripped open by a phenomenon no one could explain was enough to drive even the most stalwart soul mad. The streets were becoming overrun, the situation growing untenable.
The realization that a world thought stable was actually falling apart was too much. In Washington, the brief honeymoon phase was officially over. President Webster had used up every ounce of his political capital just trying to contain things. With no hope for a democratic solution, the declaration of martial law came as no surprise. Other nations followed suit. But even that wasn’t enough.
As the chaos intensified, conspiracy theories emerged. The gravimetric catastrophe was self-inflicted. Or it was an enemy weapon, prelude to an all-out invasion. Or aliens come to destroy the planet. Or a false flag operation the likes of which had never been seen.
Webster’s decision to pull the informational plug was, in some sense, even worse than the militarization of the country. People could stay indoors and remain out of the way if they had something to occupy their attention, but eliminating the internet robbed them of that outlet. Still, he considered it necessary to the greater good. The more outrageous the notions floated by kooks, the less likely rational people would pay attention when the government told them something shocking.
So Webster killed the internet, informing major media outlets to gather for an important announcement, and instructing the FCC to crack down on any ‘sensationalist’ programming that didn’t meet strict guidelines. For a time, things went quiet. Eerily so. But there was no telling how long that would last.
* * *
The press room was awash in cross-chatter and shouts. The administration had put out feelers, testing the waters and checking into what the media already knew, or thought they knew. The amount of sheer conjecture was actually beneficial, in the sense that they could spend most of their time dismissing all the foolishness. But there had to come a point where they addressed the actual facts, and that would be a difficult sell.
The beleaguered undersecretary for science, Sam Orwen of Utah, had been at the podium for forty-five minutes now, batting away one conspiracy claim after another. He wasn’t allowed to explain the administration’s official position, nor was he authorized to speculate. He merely struck down the more foolish notions, while ignoring those that struck closer to home.
“Mr. Orwen,” a woman from the Washington Post called out, “we’ve seen claims from leading scientists that this anomaly is coming from outer space. Can you tell us if this is related to the galactic alignment theories of 2012, and if so, can you tell us why it’s so late?”
The undersecretary fought back a sarcastic smile, instead settling on a pained shrug. “As I explained a few questions ago, from,”—he looked around for the person who’d last brought up 2012, but couldn’t place the face—“someone in back there, I said this had nothing to do with all that 2012 hokum. As was proven back then, the notion of a galactic alignment is nothing but science fiction. Next question.”
“Sir, is it possible that this might not be a natural occurrence. Some have claimed this anomaly from space may be the work of—”
“Little Green Men?”
There were a few chuckles, then the room exploded, a dozen voices at once calling out “Mr. President!” in a bid for attention. The president, surprising both the undersecretary for science and the press pool alike, strode in with pursed lips, bearing an aura of great purpose.
“Thank you, Sam,” said the president, “I’ll take it from here.”
Orwen looked relieved as he handed the podium off to the boss and slipped quietly into the back of the administrative pack. The president motioned for calm, adjusted the microphone and looked out over the room.
“It’s fair to say there’s a lot of misinformation out there right now,” he began, peering into the amassed crowd of journalists, his look promised that they were being leveled with here. “I’m not blaming anyone in particular. It’s to be expected. But that’s the way panics are born, so I’m here to tell you, to tell the world, exactly what we know. Aside from national security concerns—which need to take precedence, especially now—aside from those, I’m going to be straight with you folks. It’s not going to be easy to hear, but I’ll ask you to bear with me and try, above all, to remain calm. We’ve all got to stick together now, because that’s what it’s going to take to get through this.”
* * *
In Joffrey police headquarters, a temporary command center had been set up. A map dominated the far wall, with dark circles surrounding the affected areas. No patrols were being sent anywhere near those locations. The people who could escape had long since fled, and those left behind were beyond help. Thirteen officers had been wounded or killed in early efforts to penetrate the gravimetric barrier, with nothing to show for it. Not a single survivor successfully extracted, they were all too far gone. Police Chief John Masters and his mayor, Dennis Quaid (no relation, thank you very much), finally reached the painful decision that they should ignore the grav-traps, as one excitable news reporter had coined the phenomenon, and concentrate on the areas they could still manage.
The walking wounded still had to be dealt with. Their condition defied medical intervention. The wounds remained open, painful and unsightly, and chronic. Their presence exacerbating an already tense situation. The decision to send them away ‘f
or further treatment’ was not taken lightly. Unfair, certainly, but there was little else the police could do. The greater good was all they could think about.
A caravan of ambulance and emergency vehicles was cobbled together, and the afflicted themselves were tasked with driving their fellows. No one else was willing to accompany them, despite clear evidence that the condition was not contagious. Nobody was taking any chances, and the modern-day lepers were being forced to fend for themselves.
The authorities still had to contend with the homeless, displaced masses. Long past angry and turning desperate, they were weary of empty store shelves and emptier political promises, and began taking matters into their own hands. When looting turned widespread, the cops had new targets to run out of town, this time for legitimate reasons. There simply weren’t enough cells to hold all the criminals, and the justice system had long since ground to a halt. So the mischief-makers followed the pariahs down the road and into exile—they were now the next town’s problem.
20.
The hacker kept his expression neutral as he locked the information down and tried saving to multiple sources. But keeping his prize wasn’t going to be that easy. As soon as he stored it in one place, some unknown agent removed it. Trying again, same result. Then the cat and mouse game intensified, his mirror gaining ground, to the point where he could barely stay ahead at all.
He stuffed the data into encrypted hidey-holes, specially selected niches designed to conceal and repel simultaneously. His horcruxes—as he lovingly referred to them—were works of art. Perfect for just such an occasion. But in a split second, right in front of his eyes, the first of his stashes was exposed and removed. Then another.
He desperately counted the spare channels he had left. Fewer than twenty. He’d never considered the fact that he might need more. Never guessed he might come up against such a powerful adversary. In the time it took to remove the data and re-position it, the third horcrux was destroyed, then the fourth. He was beginning to feel the sort of hopelessness Voldemort must have felt as he was being picked apart, bit by bit. He realized that he wasn’t up against just one person. No one was so fast, so thorough. Not even himself. This was the computing power of an entire group—an entire nation?—being brought to bear against him. And he with only his wit and his pride to combat this unstoppable force.
In the few seconds he could spare between bouncing frenetically around the networks, he strove to identify his enemy more precisely. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to fix on a location. U.S.A. West coast. Utah. NSA data center. You bastards! How did they even locate him way over here? But it didn’t matter. They had him. He had to deal with it, or lose his prize.
Another one down. He was approaching single digits, and few places to spare once he got down there. All the ordinary channels were closed off, these guys were that efficient. And deadly accurate, too. He lost three more spots in quick succession in a momentary lapse. No more of those! He buckled down and prepared to defend the last of his turf. They had him down to three, then two. It was over.
Suddenly, a new player entered the game. His options were replenished, and faster than those NSA pricks could keep up, too. If I’m no match for them, this new guy was more than a match for both of us, he thought.
“Hope he stays on my side,” the hacker muttered. He mentally kicked himself for being too obvious, but then he realized it didn’t matter. His frantic efforts had caught the attention of the room, and his comrades were gathering around. Okay then, let ‘em watch. They couldn’t steal this away from him, not if his new best friend managed to save the data. That was assuming he wasn’t here to steal it for himself. Was he? Shit.
But whoever it was had no intention of keeping the goods. Once the NSA had been thwarted, this savior slipped in a coded primer to the hacker so the files could be located later. Nobody in America would get their hands on it now. Who are these people? he wondered. But he had little time to concern himself with it. There was a recovery to take care of, and as soon as his comrades lost interest and returned to their own work, he set about getting his hands on the data for good. It was sure to be worth it.
* * *
Dean Eckert drifted in and out of sleep. He’d lost track of how many hours it’d been since he’d arrived, but he guessed it was at least a few days by now. A week, maybe.
A sack of sandwiches, foreign looking snack-packs and brownish fruit had been tossed inside the door each time he slept. He kept promising himself he’d try to stay away to see who came, but so far he’d missed the mark. Nobody came to collect trash, so he just left it in the corner furthest from the bed.
With nothing else to do, Dean thoroughly examined his prison. There wasn’t much to see. It was a cramped, nondescript room. A tiny bathroom was set off to one side, just a sink and a toilet. There were no interior windows, and just a tiny rectangle of an outdoor one that let in a slice of light. It appeared to be dark out, though. He had no idea what time it was.
A voice called from the other side of the door, ordering him to look away. He obeyed. The man entered the room and pulled something heavy over his head. Dean was then led through numerous twists and turns, before they stopped short for a few moments. Then he was nudged forward and his blinder was removed. It was dark, but he could make out a figure sitting behind a desk. His escort left before he thought to turn around and see who he was dealing with.
“Hello, Doctor Eckert,” the seated man called out, “come closer if you would.”
Dean stepped forward, squinting into the poor lighting to get a glimpse of a proper looking, craggily faced man. He stood as Dean approached, walked to the side of the room, and picked up a bottle. “Do join me for a drink, will you?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured two and handed one to Dean. Dean tried to wave it away, but the steely face made him think twice. He reached out and accepted the drink.
“I have good news for you, Dr. Eckert,” he said, motioning for Dean to sit. “We seem to have found the research you lost. Or rather, had stolen from you.”
Dean’s heart leapt.
“What research?” he feigned.
He fancied himself clever for the retort until the man said, “By all means, play games if you never want to see it again.”
The man raised his glass, prompting Dean to do the same. Dean sipped in spite of himself. Whiskey. The bite was smoother than he was accustomed to, and he sipped again with the realization that he could calm his anxiety with it.
“Who are you?” Dean asked.
“You could consider us an interested party. That’s as much as you need to know.”
If it weren’t for the violent beginnings, Dean would swear this whole thing was some elaborate put-on. How much more ridiculously cloak-and-dagger could this guy be?
“So I should call you ‘interested party’ then?”
“You can call me whatever you like. My name is Robert Smythe, if you should feel the need to refer to me while wondering whether you’ve been given an alias or not. Given the circumstances, I’m afraid you’ll never know.”
Dean stood silent. Remembering his drink, he took a longer sip, beginning to feel lightheaded.
“What I can tell you is that we’ve been hard at work for some time now,” the man Smythe said after a moment’s pause, “tracking your work down and getting our hands on it, just to get it back to you safe and sound. That was our goal all along, you see. And all we need from you now is verification. If you would be so kind…”
Smythe held out a glowing tablet. Dean leaned forward and looked, catching sight of his intimately familiar synopsis page. There was no doubt it was his work, even before he began scrolling. He knew how many sections it contained. Page counts. Notational references. Everything. All he needed was to skim through and make sure it was all there. He couldn’t help but smile as he set eyes on work he twice thought lost.
“It would’ve taken me forever to duplicate this,” Dean said in a hushed whisper. “How did you get it?”
&nbs
p; “That, I’m afraid I can not say,” Smythe said, shaking his head, “we’re not in the habit of compromising our allies, even for an esteemed guest such as yourself.”
Dean maintained a blank expression, opting not to express his cynical opinion. His treatment had been benign enough, as far as it went, but he was a prisoner. The abduction alone was proof of that.
Dark Alignment Page 13
