Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “But then, you getting taken?”

  She paused a moment, as if considering what to say. Then she took a deep breath. “That was all my fault, Dean. A stupid, rookie mistake. Why do you think I’ve been all-fire pissed this whole time?”

  “Wow.” It sounded stupid, but it was a genuine reflection of his feelings at the moment.

  “You’ve come a long way, doctor. And we owe you a lot. You know, even when I signed up for the OTDA, I never really thought we’d be facing a real threat. You know? Just sort of an adventure job, until now. I never thought I’d be looking at our destruction, and now here we are, and I haven’t done shit to stop it. You’d think I could, but nothing’s worked out. The attacks. Losing all those good men. And now this? You know, I always kind of resented you because I thought you were supposed to come along and fix everything, but that wasn’t fair. You’re just as stuck as the rest of us. But the truth is, if we do get out of this mess, it’ll be because you figured something out. And I have to admit, that’s pretty comforting after all the shit we’ve been through.”

  “Wow.” Now he knew he sounded like a moron. But hearing praise from Jo? It was like some kind of pleasant dream.

  “Now don’t go getting full of yourself,” she said, breaking the spell. “You’ll still need me and the fly-boy to get you out of jams now and again. And we’ve got some coming up. You’ll see.”

  With that she wiped her face, drying the last of her laughter-tears, patted him on the shoulder, and left him alone.

  “Wow.”

  There wasn’t much left to say to Jo, so Dean got back into the swing of his work. Honestly, he was a little embarrassed over their little meeting of the minds, and how little he knew about what she was thinking. But he had plenty to keep himself busy with, and as for the rest of the camp, they were treating him well. Very well. He couldn’t help but walk around with a smile for all the compliments he was getting, and he took to the rock star treatment like a duck to water.

  Such deference was something he’d always, in the deepest recesses of his ego, believed he was entitled to. He was brought up to speed on recent gravimetric events, most of which he’d already predicted, while receiving a generous helping of praise in the process. Luminaries throughout the scientific community and beyond were lining up to congratulate the suddenly famous Doctor Eckert, and he had to admit he enjoyed the limelight, grave circumstances notwithstanding. The main focus of the discussions centered on the tiny township of Joffrey, now famous in their own right, and on the ingenious solutions they had put in place. None of it did much good after all, poor bastards, but their ideas were sound, and he was interested in extrapolating what they’d accomplished into the larger arena.

  Dean had already worked up the calculations by himself, so there was little for him to glean from all the meetings. But he could afford to be magnanimous, now that the scientific community was finally acknowledging his work, and they were eager to hear his thoughts. There had been a few interesting suggestions along the way, but the more Dean studied Joffrey, the more convinced he became that the answer lay there.

  Dean came to understand the full extent of his clout when he requested some face-time with the White House. Within five minutes he was face-to-face—via video uplink—with the disheveled visage of President Webster himself. Had he been sleeping?

  “It’s good to see you, Dr. Eckert,” the president said, “I’m glad you’re still in one piece.”

  “Not as glad as I am,” Eckert quipped, tamping down his nerves as best he could, “I hope I haven’t disturbed you?” He felt stupid for saying so even as it spilled off his lips.

  The president waved the comment off and motioned for Eckert to get on with it. Even a rock star only got a couple minutes with the most powerful man on the planet.

  “Mr. President, I think I’ve come up with some decent contingencies, but I need to speak with the people responsible for Joffrey.”

  Webster looked confused. “Responsible? You mean the wall builders? Most of them are refugees by now, if they made it out at all. Nobody’s been able to raise them for hours now.” The president made a tiny sign of the cross with hand to temple, highlighting the gravity of his statement.

  “If not the builders, the planners maybe? Surely some got out alive?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. This is a priority then?”

  “Absolutely, sir. I need information only they can provide, if we’re going to duplicate their efforts.”

  “You’ll have it. Anything else?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Good,” the president finished, “keep me posted.”

  The connection broke half a moment before Dean thought to say thanks, but it hardly mattered. They would speak again soon. Webster needed answers, and would be checking in frequently until he got them. And Dean didn’t intend to disappoint. Now that the disruption theory had sunk in, becoming widely accepted in the face of new evidence, the confirmation was all but certain. With it would come a precise formula for blocking the gravimetrics. It was only a matter of time.

  Dean was accustomed to the fact that his brain worked differently that most. He never worried about the proper solution coming to him. It was as inevitable as the sunrise. He was confident that his idea would hold up. They would keep focusing on the materials, on the structural components, and all the rest of those obvious angles, but his was a deeper sort of analysis. When the solution dawned on him, and it would soon enough, not only would his idea turn the tide of bad fortune to good, it would turn Dean Eckert from doomsayer to savior. If he could speak to someone from Joffrey, and connect that final piece to the mystery he’d all but fleshed out.

  * * *

  The company commander ordered Dean, Shane and Jo to a classified briefing, which was odd. They’d been summoned separately each time before. These endless meetings were growing tiresome, but even so it was intriguing to have one set up in a different way, even if it were only a difference in personnel. The commander gave no further details, offered no explanation as to why the three of them had been summoned, and wouldn’t even say what the purpose for the meeting was to be.

  Aside from themselves, there were several other soldiers present, though none as high ranking as Shane and the commander. Whatever they were planning, either one of them would be in charge, or the leader wasn’t yet present. Then one more, surprisingly diminutive figure entered the room, and the entire operation took a turn to the bizarre.

  “Zee!” Jo burst out, leaping from her seat and running over as if to embrace the yoda-esque figure. Dean knew without a doubt that this was some sort of a mentor. But then Jo seemed to catch herself, and suddenly look around the room at all the soldiers she’d been abusing since she got here. Dean guessed from her expression she felt chagrinned about her behavior, and was perhaps worried this old woman had heard about it? But the woman gave Jo a near-imperceptible nod—of greeting or acceptance, he couldn’t be sure. Jo reacted with a muted expression of happiness, or even of contentment perhaps. Anyway, she looked as if she’d just turned a page. And Dean caught the hint of a smile from the old woman as well, before it disappeared behind a veil of composure.

  “Colonel Douglas,” the woman said, her voice stronger than the frail frame would suggest, “I believe thanks are in order, on behalf of the entire Offworld Threat Defense Agency.”

  “Ma’am?” He looked unsure of how to address the woman. It wasn’t readily apparent whether she were military, or something else. The rest of the room seemed just as perplexed.

  “Director Zee will do. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you’re not cleared for anything more.”

  Shane grinned at the sarcasm until he realized she was completely serious. He looked away, feeling stupid.

  “In any case,” she went on, “we have you to thank for keeping our agent safe these past few days.”—she looked over at Jo, again a vague hint of something…fondness perhaps, or at least a fond sort of familiarity—“Many thanks for your won
derful work. But we have more to do, and time is slipping fast, so…commander?”

  The company commander stepped forward, standing next to Director Zee. “Thank you,” he began, his eyes sweeping from one side of the room to the other, “I’m sure you’re all wondering what this is about.” There were a few nods and grunts, but the room stayed mostly quiet. “Unfortunately, I’m not here to tell you about it. My job was to assemble the team, and that’s where my participation ends. From this moment on, Director Zellweiger commands the people in this room, entirely at her discretion, which includes myself as well. Answer to her as you would your normal chain of command. That’s all I’ve got for you.”

  With that, he turned smartly, saluted the old woman—eliciting a number of shocked gasps—and stepped to the back of the room.

  Director Zee stood silent for several seconds, looking carefully over the room before she spoke, and just a single word at that; “Dismissed.”

  There were several moments of confused chatter and throat clearing. Jo was the first to figure it out, rising to her feet and striding purposefully out the door. Shane reacted a second later, catching the hint and standing to leave. The only difference between his exit and Jo’s was the fact that he gave Director Zee a formal salute before departing, mirroring the action of the commander moments before.

  With his example to follow, the soldiers all stood, practically in unison, and filed out. Dean, being the only other civilian in this overtly bizarre situation, didn’t know quite what to do. Paralyzed by indecision, he remained seated while the last of the soldiers filed out. Part of him wanted to avert his eyes and run for it, but another part thought he would be in deeper trouble if he neglected to show the proper respect.

  Zee spared him any further concern, walking over to where he was sitting and taking a seat for herself. “I have a message from the president. I’m glad you knew enough to stay behind.”

  Dean knew nothing of the sort, but decided the less said the better. He waited for Director Zellweiger to continue, firmly wishing he’d just gone with the damned salute and gotten the hell out of there.

  37.

  John Masters knew the end was near. For him. For his town. For the world, for all he knew. It sure as hell looked that way from the center of Joffrey. The last of the structures were teetering, battered by mini-tornados and shear. They only remained in place due to buffeting effects, pinning them into place with opposing forces, their internal structures ripped asunder by the relentless tide. The people huddled under what shelter they could find, but every so often, another structure would fail, sending another half-dozen or so people flying off to their deaths. Watching such unbelievable carnage, he almost wished to go out that way himself, if only to avoid the inhuman, horrifying sight of it all.

  Fast losing hope, Masters thought he was imagining things when he caught sight of something on the horizon, against the black gravimetric clouds. An almost imperceptible glint, flying their way. It looked like helicopters from the way they were moving. Finally on their way to save Joffrey? As much as it was too little, too late, even that slight glimmer of hope gave him new energy.

  It took forever for the choppers to make it. They flew straight into the center of the vortex, threading the needle between twister and cloud, all the time having to carefully avoid the ground effect. When they finally landed, Masters and Scott had already laid out makeshift helipads inside the strongest concentration of structures. That would buy some time, but they couldn’t stay on the ground long.

  When the soldiers poured out, it was clear this was a smash and grab operation. There would be no time to rescue anyone further afield. That grim fact was accompanied by a grimmer one—there weren’t likely to be any left to rescue. Not outside of the fortified town square, not at this late hour.

  Masters pushed Deputy Scott ahead of him and climbed aboard the nearest craft, preparing to help civilians onto the choppers against the crush of deplaning soldiers. The military reaction was shocking, civilians were brutally shoved back onto the pavement. Scott and the national guard men were the only ones being allowed to remain aboard.

  “What the hell?” Masters screamed, his voice raw, but still commanding enough to carry over the whip of the blades. One of the soldiers approached him and ducked down to allow for conversation.

  “We have orders to bring you back, Chief!” the man yelled, positioning himself squarely between Masters and the door even as he spoke, ensuring none of the civilians could make it past. “Just you, your men, and the guard unit! That’s all for now!”

  Masters couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’ve got room enough for everyone here!”

  The soldier denied the request with a vehement head-shake. “Can’t do it, sir! You first, then we’ll come back for more if we can!”

  It was Masters’ turn to shake his head. “You can’t get back!” he shouted to be heard over the din, “It’s now or never!”

  “No choice, sir!”

  Masters hopped down from the chopper. The soldier looked thrown for a moment or two, then he bore down on the policeman, trying to intimidate him into compliance.

  Masters was having none of it. “I’m not going anywhere until the rest are aboard!”

  There it was. They were at an impasse, and Masters could only hope the orders to bring him in would override any gut instinct to leave him behind. The wheels were turning in the soldier’s head.

  Finally, he shrugged, and began waving the civilians in. The ones who’d been unceremoniously shoved out were the first back in, reeling from the abuse, but desperate enough to give it another go. Among them were a number of familiar faces. Masters recognized Vern Jones’ son, Phil. He gave the Chief a look that spoke volumes, so much so that Masters knew enough not to ask about his dad. Then Melissa Matthews, the city hall secretary, stepped up and climbed in. He’d not realized she was even still around. He’d assumed she would’ve fled when the rest of the city staffers did. But no, she was still here. So many were still here. More pockets of survivors popped out from under shelter, coming in small waves as news of the rescue filtered out. Through it all, Masters remained a safe distance from the choppers, lest one of the soldiers get any bright ideas about grabbing and tossing him aboard the nearest one.

  With one final glance around, Masters saw that he was the lone remaining townsman. With a heavy regret, he stepped forward and allowed the nearest soldier to grab him by the arm and place him aboard. His eyes desperately searched for one more, but the town square was empty. Shelters all around the command center began to fold up and fly away, and finally the main structure itself imploded.

  There was nothing left. No buildings to protect. No lives to rescue. Meeting the gaze of his rescuers, he motioned for them to take off. The rescue group lifted off one by one, keeping a careful distance to account for unexpected shear as they gained altitude and made for the top of the cloud cover. Masters tried to look down, but the twisters had kicked up too much debris to see much. His last image of the town was a raging black oblivion.

  * * *

  Mayor Dennis Quaid turned his wrist to look at his watch again, probably the fifth time in as many minutes. He took a deep, calming breath and put a hand over the watch face, just as he’d done the other four times. The press conference, intended to announce his candidacy, had been delayed for over an hour. Breaking news out of Joffrey. Once they announced whatever dire update just couldn’t wait, and finally got their asses back in gear, his coverage would be a fraction of what it was supposed to be.

  He didn’t even bother turning on the television in his green room. He honestly couldn’t care less what they had to say about that town, so far into his past had he placed that miserable experience. As he sat there with his wife and his campaign manager, he could only think about the future, and how quickly fleeting fame could catapult one onto the national stage, but how easily such a fragile thing could collapse. He intended to make the most of his sudden notoriety. Assuming the world didn’t fall apart
in the meantime, he would be governor. Not the state he would’ve chosen, given his druthers, but it would do.

  Surprised by the sudden outburst of cheering and stomping in the corridor, Quaid’s wife was the first to get up and open the door. Watching normally staid journalists and news crew personnel running by, bumping each other and high-fiving, Quaid just stared in abject incomprehension. What the hell are they so damned happy about?