Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “Yeah. maybe. We should ask Dean.”

  She didn’t like hearing that, but it was logical. If anybody knew about the big picture it’d be him. Especially now that he had the ear of the whole damned world.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to keep you better informed,” Director Zee said to Jo, who’d been waiting for her ever since Shane had been called away. She knew that was Zee’s way of making sure they could speak alone, though it hardly mattered. She would fill in the colonel as soon as she could—Zee had to know that.

  “You had your reasons,” Jo said, not entirely convinced. This conversation was starting off as strained as the debriefing, and Jo had a feeling it was only going to get worse.

  “I have no doubts about you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Jo gave her a sideways glare. Of course that’s what she was thinking. What else could she possibly conclude? “Doesn’t matter. I’ll handle the assignment, whether you believe in me or not.”

  “I believe in you, Agent Osborne,” Zee said. “It’s just the circumstances, that’s all. Ever since the White House put you in that position, I’ve known that we’d have conflicting interests. The OTDA has always remained above that sort of thing. But now…now we have to choose sides.”

  Jo thought about that for a moment. “Are you sure you’ve picked the right one?”

  “Not remotely. But it really doesn’t matter. If we’ve chosen poorly, nobody will be left alive to protest.”

  Jo didn’t say what she was thinking. It wouldn’t serve any purpose. Zee had already made up her mind, and now the only thing left to do was get on with the work. “Can you at least give me a timeline here? I’m not the only one tired of sitting on her ass. When are we getting out there?”

  “Honestly?” Zee said, “I don’t know. Several issues have yet to be resolved. I suspect it will happen soon, though.”

  The moment she said it, her phone chimed. With a casual flick of the wrist, she glanced at it, and nodded to Jo.

  Jo stood up. “Okay then. Where are we going?”

  When Director Zee pointed to the ceiling, Jo immediately assumed she meant they were going to the top of the mountain. But Zee’s upward gesture didn’t square with Jo’s line of thinking. The motion her mentor was making referred to something higher, something way up, up there—and suddenly, Jo knew what came next.

  40.

  Upon hearing the news that his old friend and boss, Joe Mansfield, would be heading up the expedition, Shane Douglas’ expectations for the mission had soared. What had seemed a suicidal gesture, though still incredibly dangerous, took on a new level of optimism. This was also their first time seeing each other since the test vehicle crash—an even that seemed so very, very long ago. And now they were in a video conference with President Webster, giving input on the final makeup of their team, a team tasked with saving the planet. To call the situation surreal was to understate the case considerably.

  “My first priority is to ensure unit cohesion,” the president explained, “and I know we’ve got a real mixed bag here. You two are the only strictly military folks we’re going to have, and as such, your thoughts on who fits best will be taken under the most serious consideration.”

  They replied with cautious appreciation, observing the proper deference. It had been made clear prior to the start of the meeting that the president would be expecting frank replies. That being the standing order, they would do so just that as soon as they were asked any direct questions. That was how these things were handled, particularly when it came to dealing with the commander in chief.

  “The addition of Dean Eckert is a major concern, no doubt,” the president said, “but we can regard him more as a passenger than a member of the crew. For practical purposes, at least, you can think of him in those terms. Naturally we don’t want to say that to the others, nor to Dean himself, but we all know he’s just along for the ride. He’ll do his part when we get there. Until then the idea will be to keep him occupied, and feeling valuable, and otherwise out of the way. I trust you can both work out how best to handle that.”

  The commander and the colonel nodded in concert. They would remain silent as a matter of course until the president asked for input. Checking in with the other via quick eye contact, however, it was clear that Mansfield wasn’t comfortable with carrying a weak link. Douglas, for his part, wasn’t thrilled with the notion that even the president didn’t consider Eckert a full-fledged member of the crew. Neither of them was particularly happy with this turn of events. Still, they wouldn’t say so unless asked directly.

  “Then we’ve got the international crew to think about. They’ve all been NASA trained, so there’s no question of protocol issues or lack of knowledge, but styles will vary.”

  They nodded again. No new information there.

  “Then we come to our friend from the OTDA, Jane Osborne. It seems she’ll be joining our little party as well.”

  This came as a surprise to them both. Neither hadn’t realized the OTDA would be involved, never mind that Jo would be joining the mission. Shane sat up straighter in his chair, a sense of concern flooding over him. He wasn’t sure why he was so bothered, so he willed himself to keep an open mind and hear the president out.

  “It wasn’t my first choice, to be brutally honest. But Director Zellweiger brought up an extremely valid point, which is the fact that they’ve been working on the difficulties of deep space deployment longer than anybody. NASA included. And if we ever needed an expert up there in case things go pear-shaped, it’s now. That said, do either of you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  He paused, allowing the men space to voice their concerns. It really did seem as though he were leaving it up to them, which was an awkward position to be in—but they were the ones going into the line of fire as it were. It made a certain amount of sense.

  Shane Douglas cleared his throat. The president nodded for him to go ahead.

  “Sir,” Douglas said, “as you know I’ve been working with Agent Osborne since Wilkerson Seabase, and she’s proven herself a valuable asset. However, I do have my concerns about her ability to fit in. She’s something of a loose cannon.” He felt his face turn red with the shame of betrayal. He was torn between his commitment to the mission and the crew, and the familial fondness he had for his quirky friend. He realized that he might have trouble separating the two.

  “I’m aware of your concerns, colonel,” the president said, “In fact, I share them. However, I’m told her skills are beyond reproach. If you agree, I think we’re going to have to give her a shot at this, at least through the training phase. If any problems should arise, I’ll give you ample opportunity to revisit your concerns prior to launch. Is that acceptable?”

  Shane thought it over. It sounded reasonable enough, and it was clear the president had given it some thought as well. He’d have to have a talk with Mansfield, and of course with Jo as well, but perhaps the situation might just be workable. If he could put his personal feelings aside.

  “Yes, sir,” Shane replied, “that sounds good to me.”

  “Commander, anything to add?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Alright, good,” the President said, “I look forward to seeing the both of you as soon as you get to Cheyanne.”

  They stood up in front of their individual monitors and saluted. The president returned the honor and signed off, leaving the two old friends alone on the channel.

  “You gonna be okay with this, Shane?”

  Shane thought it a fairly redundant question, but then he realized that he’d not considered what Joe Mansfield himself had thought of the arrangements.

  “I am, Joe. She’ll work out fine.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.”

  They chatted a few minutes longer before signing off. The next time they saw each other it would be face to face, but with a crew to break in, there would be little time to spare for friendship.

  * * *
/>   Given the slapdash nature of the emergency measures, security concerns, and all around unpredictability, the president’s men had taken to arranging some odd locations for meetings. Particularly in cases where a lot of space was required, they’d commandeered ballrooms, event halls, and even sports facilities in order to get everyone in a room. This time around, though, President Webster’s situation absolutely had to take the cake. Listening to the reverberating echoes of a hundred grumbling science advisors, spread out over the floor of a summerized hockey rink, the president found himself playing goaltender at the far end. Not such a bad metaphor for my presidency, now that he thought about it.

  The room was filled with the brightest minds, engineers and technicians and logistics experts, all in the process of losing their shit. There simply were too many ideas going on at once, and everyone was convinced that their way was the only logical way. Now that they had the ear of the president, they were desperately trying to make themselves heard all at once. And if they weren’t going to get his attention by polite cajoling, this bunch didn’t seem at all adverse to harsher methods, up to and including shouting him down. Given the unfortunate acoustics of the place, that was proving easier that usual. It was all he could do to keep appealing for calm, and not throwing up his hands in disgust.

  The problem was, he needed these people. Not in the way they were assuming—he already had his game plan. What he needed from them was cooperation, and a willingness to serve as worker-ants in the service of a greater plan. Not the easiest sell for a bunch of geniuses, accustomed to deferential acceptance of their words.

  Fortunately for the president, his one-man brain-trust was standing by—a man fully capable of refuting the lot of them. If he kept his nerve.

  “Doctor Dean Eckert has some insights to share,” the president announced, “insights that until now have been closely guarded national security secrets. However, it’s vital that you all are informed, so I’ve authorized him to speak on my behalf. Doctor, if you would…”

  Dean’s eyes widened as stage fright set in. He’d never been very good at public speaking, particularly not when addressing his peers. Even with the knowledge that he was right, it didn’t help with the sweaty palms and heart palpitations. And that bit about being ‘authorized’ was something of a stretch, too. What he’d come up with was hardly a secret. It seemed as though the president was simply trying to prop him up, make it seem like his work was more official than it really was. Still, he had the truth on his side, and he knew as well as the president these scientists had to accept what he’d found, if they were to have a hope of fixing things.

  * * *

  Doctor Eckert’s intriguing theories aside, it was President Webster’s job to convince them to give up their entrenched positions, make them see reason. He could always order them to proceed, but it would be far better to actually get them onboard with the plan.

  He hesitated, then reluctantly voiced the dreaded “any questions?”

  “What about the orbital buildup of gravimetrics we’ve been hearing about?”

  “Right! What about that? It’s impossible to get out that far without losing the ship, right. Is this a suicide mission?”

  “Look at what that effect’s done down here! It’ll be ten times worse in space!”

  “People, please!” the president implored. “Just take it easy. It’s being worked out as we speak.”

  He looked over the room, inviting objections. With none forthcoming, he went on.

  “Thanks to the work of Doctor Eckert here,”—he gave Dean a nod—“we’re getting a real handle on things. Particularly the design materials we need that’ll allow us to slice through the thick of—”

  “What good’ll it do, slicing through it in space?”

  The president glared at the man who cut him off so abruptly, then nodded for Dean to field the question.

  “Uh, good question,” Dean said, “and what we’ve come up with is a method—we’re referring to it as ‘the solution’—a method of shunting the gravimetric beam away from earth, from way out in deep space. What we’re going to is get out there, far enough from the planet so that deflecting the beam will force it away from earth altogether.”

  “How far our will you need to go?” came another voice in the crowd, most of whom had gone silent listening to Dean’s solution.

  “That’s the thing,” Dean answered. “We’ll have to get pretty far out. It’s nothing we can do from near-earth orbit. Anyway, so we deploy the solution in four parts, assemble it in such a way that we can divert the beam, then park it right in the path of the gravimetric effect. So, er…yeah. That’s the solution.”

  A number of voices raised up at once, but the president waved them off and nodded thanks Eckert at the same time.

  “How do you have any idea if it’ll work!” It sounded like the same rabble-rouser from before, but it was difficult to tell.

  “It’s similar to the brick and mortar solutions put to good use here at home,” said the president.

  “So what then? Are we just supposed to slap some panels on the spaceship and hope for the best?”

  “It’s not as simple as that—” the president began.

  “Actually,” Dean said, feeling somewhat more confident after his first answer, “in a way, it is. Look, this effect is hyper-dimensional. That’s something we need to wrap our heads around if we’re going to combat it. It’s not a matter of which materials we use, but the orientation of those materials leading into the shift. If we arrange it right, we could slide a piece of paper through the gravimetrics without so much as a wrinkle.”

  “Now that’s something I’d like to see,” Commander Joseph Mansfield said over the audio channel. He was participating in the meeting remotely, from the launch site, and had been so quiet so far that Dean had forgotten he was even there. “What’s say we try it with a spaceship first, see how it goes from there?”

  Dean smiled at the sarcasm, but didn’t take the bait. The others looked at him with dubious stares, if not outright condescension, but he knew to hold fast. They didn’t get it, yet, but they would—just as soon as his theories were put to the test. Or else it won’t matter anyway, he thought with grim humor.

  41.

  Supply lines were disintegrating under the strain. Refugees carried only meager provisions, foolishly expecting to replenish along the way. Illness and injury struck with increasing frequency, particularly in those areas not yet safe for travel. In order to keep everybody moving, mobile hospitals had to be set up, emergency supplies flown in. Relief services and government resources, already taxed beyond their capabilities, were pushed to the limit.

  Tens of thousands descended on airports and train stations, only to be met with weapons drawn and gates secured. Nashville International was no different from any other airfield or train line within a thousand miles, although with the inland location it was even more of a refugee magnet than locations in the coastal zones.

  Attention travelers. A state of emergency is in effect. Please direct inquiries to the Central Processing Center. Those desiring transit to the north are required to apply at the Central Processing Center, with priority seating assignments for U.S. citizens and their immediate families. For inquiries on non-citizen supply requisitions and ration coupons, applications will be accepted at the foreigners department in the Municipal Public Affairs Agency. Priority requisitions may be requested for the infirmed, refugees traveling with small children, and NATO member citizens and their immediate families…

  In between announcements, which blared every five minutes in seven different languages, the man with the bullhorn attempted to calm the unruly crowd by presenting a human face. He had received his unwanted assignment thanks to his trilingual skill set, which he was putting to use in the face of an angry horde.

  “Please, everyone,”—he was running through the spiel in English this time around—“the airport is closed to civilians for the time being. It has been designated a military transit facilit
y. Any persons attempting to enter the premise will be subject to arrest. This facility is not open to the public. You have to return to the city center to apply for transit permission.”