Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  Stretched most of the way across the bay, he still had free use of one hand and one foot. He tried tapping into his imagination, figure out what he might be able to do that could get help. Glancing up at the spidery superstructure of his own creation, he tapped out a few pecks on the side with a fingertip. The resonance was impressive. Of course. It was put together that way on purpose. To resonate. But was there some secondary way that could be of use? He looked around, eyes landing again on a rack of specialty tools secured against the wall. He reached over and grabbed another of the wrenches.

  Gingerly, Dean maneuvered the tool until it rested snugly in the palm of his hand. With a snap of the wrist, he tapped three quick taps against the superstructure. The metal quivered in sympathetic vibration, but the noise was masked by the shuddering spaceframe and the incessant roar of the engines. Up there with his crewmates, though—if he were exceedingly lucky—someone might hear it. He tapped again, more concentrated this time, an old but familiar distress message. S. O. S.

  56.

  With their supply chain collapsed, and their base of operations destroyed, the enemy no longer had the means to wage war. Conscripts, too desperate for food to concern themselves with the fight, deserted en masse. Some remained in the United States, others attempted to move southward. A full retreat was underway.

  This situation posed yet another dilemma for President Webster, who needed to decide what to do about all these people. There were at least a half-million troops, stranded an ocean away from home. He had a number of options for dealing with them, each one less appealing than the last. His first instinct was to execute them, every last one. The benefits were clear; he’d put the world on notice, ensure that in the coming times of tribulation, America would not be trifled with. There was a certain rationality to it, despite its savage underpinnings, and these were certainly desperate enough times. Moreover, hadn’t their enemies been attempting the very same thing? And wouldn’t they have continued to the last if cosmic circumstances hadn’t foiled their plans?

  Still, exacting vengeance on desperate, impoverished combatants wouldn’t do any good in the long run. Their leaders were dead already, perished beneath the waves while their soldiers fought on. Their homelands were decimated, and would never recover. In the face of disaster, the opportunity to show mercy could be well received, and in his more circumspect moments Webster was inclined to do just that. But he still had no idea what to do with them.

  It was one thing to offer blanket amnesty and send them off, but they had no place to go. The blunt statistics of what they were up against were enough to stagger the mind. Disease and starvation ran rampant. And with priority shifting to the homelands, any remaining aid would soon dry up. Many were grievously wounded, by battle or by flood, and a full third of them weren’t able enough to move on their own. The humanitarian toll dwarfed the relief effort, and would only get worse. And all of it was now, and for the foreseeable future, Webster’s problem.

  * * *

  “…and so I must ask you to endure further hardships, this time in the name of humanity itself. In the face of our enemies, we must show restraint. Beyond even that, we must show compassion. We do not seek to forgive, nor will we soon forget, but in our shared peril, we put aside animosity for the common good. For our good, as well as theirs, and for the good of all the people of the world. United, we may yet stand, where divided we will surely fall.”

  The president knew from the monitors just out of camera range that the reaction was not good. Not good at all.

  He marveled at his mastery of the obvious. The meters were off the charts; each one plunged deep in the blood-red ‘disapprove’ zone, from every demographic, in every region that still had pollsters tracking such things. He snickered under his breath just thinking of it. Despite the fact that the country was mired in an ongoing catastrophe, one that had left most either fighting for survival themselves, or else defending their homes and families from harm, those pollsters were still on the job. Still out there, still asking their inane questions and trying to gauge public opinion. Still evaluating the political expediency of each and every action, even now. Politicians and pollsters…Lord help us all.

  “I know, deep in my soul, that each of us has the capacity to act with mercy, despite circumstances that cry out for justice. To know in this singular moment in history justice, true justice, divine justice, has already been served. It may not always seem the case. But the architects of this madness, I promise you, have already paid the price.”

  There was a flutter of activity on the monitors. Elevated levels of approval, albeit slight and fleeting, from at least some of the people out there. A couple of the indicators actually flirted with the blue zone for brief intervals. The appeal for mercy, or his honest conviction, or perhaps the notion that justice had been served; whatever the reason, people were responding to it. He had a sneaking suspicion it was more about the architects of madness angle than anything else.

  As the speech wound down and Webster got to the heart of the matter, he was keenly aware that the backlash would be severe. The people were being asked to lend aid and comfort to their enemies, at a time when their own interests were threatened, and annihilation seemed to lurk around every corner. Appeals to the greater good notwithstanding, it was a bitter pill to swallow. But the alternative, mass killings and vigilante justice, were a step too close to anarchy. As long as there still was a president, Webster intended to act like one, and as long as the people accepted his leadership, he would continue to lead by example.

  * * *

  It was no small feat, making the leap from rhetoric to action, but the people did band together with admirable grace. They willingly laid down their arms, as their president asked. As long as they weren’t directly threatened—hostile outliers being quickly and brutally dispatched as before—they gave aid as best they could. Given the state of affairs, there was little to give, but they did what they could.

  The enemy, too, picked up their share, as the unbelievable truce began to take hold. Enmity, culture, language and race, all of it trite in the face of extinction. For the first time in history, a war was ended not with the signing of a surrender or an agreement of truce, but with the lifting of ploughshares.

  Tensions were still high. That was unavoidable. There were natural resentments, fueled by loss and hardship. Most simply ignored the enemy in their midst, but conflicts did flare. In larger cities, the police were still able to enforce order, but small towns—hard hit to begin with—found even the act of peacekeeping a challenge.

  With the legal system as broken as the rest of society, citizen committees began to arbitrate disputes. In legal circles, such tenuous, untested cases were observed with care, and evaluated for future validity. Such arbitration could never hold up in a real court, but those were few and far between, so people tended to respect the decisions. Conflicts were weighed and resolved. Punishments, both monetary and physical, were meted out. Complaints about the medieval nature of it were voiced, but dismissed by the simple fact that nothing better was available. Border towns along the new ocean began to flourish, embracing new ways and coalescing into true communities. Divorced from their original nationalities out of necessity, old enmities fell away in the face of this new paradigm.

  * * *

  Gravimetric fields remained, flaring like wildfires, further separating those near the central ocean from the afflicted homelands. A new America was forming, but with an old-fashioned sensibility. The early settlers had it right, frontier justice worked best in harsh environs; where trust was fleeting and friendship hard-won, where the lawless were handled with swift justice, and the law-abiding quick to step into deputized, ad hoc law enforcement roles.

  With power and utilities spotty even in the developed nations now, when the lights finally went out for good, it didn’t come as much of a surprise. The power cut out in patches first, then one region after another, until even the major metropolitan areas went dark. Hungry for a new angle, the media t
ossed up ominous graphics, and began speculating about this latest symptom of the planetary sickness.

  As the disaster-struck regions had already been without power for some time, it didn’t change much in the way of relief efforts, but it did have the effect of unnerving those few as yet untouched. For the first time, the events of the day reached everyone at once, and the breathless reporting of doomsday was beginning to be take hold among the rich and the powerful.

  “What the hell are we paying you for?” one wall street tycoon snapped at the vice president. He was clearly put off by the fact that his direct line to the Oval had been severed. “I’ve got household staff running around with candles for fuck’s sake. What are you people doing about this? I want answers!”

  The vice president was a career politician who’d made many promises over the years. While tempting to consider abandoning his former benefactors, in the end he considered it prudent to keep them calm. These people, after all, might be around after the disaster had subsided. They would call a reckoning against those who turned against them, and they would have the power to back it up with real punishment. It wasn’t a sure thing, but he wasn’t in the habit of taking unnecessary risks. He made the arrangements.

  * * *

  The military was pulled every which way with conflicting orders. Key members of the administration ordered them to handle the wealth-exodus problem by whatever means they could. Bought and paid for shills on the other side demanded that they look the other way. Camps had to be set up to handle the influx of wealthy taking flight, while the government figured out what to do with all of them.

  As true refugees began to realize what was going on, they too sought protection within these military havens, only to be turned away at the gates. Orders to remain neutral became untenable as soldiers found themselves under attack by angry mobs. Their wealthy protectees demanded they dispatch the riffraff, then return to getting the important people to safety.

  The incident at Hansfield Air Base, where east coast captains of industry were being ferried, was the final flash-point. A nearby refugee camp got wind of heavy aircraft being readied, so they overran the barracks. When the order came down to eliminate the threat, the gunfight was caught on tape—by one of the wealthy refugees no less—with snide commentary to go along with the filming of the massacre. The fool then sent the video out, neglecting to filter it, and before long it had been passed along to several thousand social media accounts.

  With matters progressing to a level akin to the French Revolution, President Webster ordered a halt to the evacuations. They’d be resumed only when an equitable lottery system could be established. Other world leaders followed, and the rich and powerful were on their own. In the aftermath of the damning video, there was little they could do about it. No amount of money could sway their politicians any longer, and they were in a position of trying to buy their way out through normal channels. This was still a clear advantage, given their ability to throw money around, but the damage was done. Rich or poor, the evacuees were simply the lucky ones now, the rest huddled in the darkness, waiting for the end.

  * * *

  Of all the new towns along the central ocean coast, New Joffrey was a model community. With the refugee population of famed Joffrey at its center, they fast gained notoriety for their system of swift, fair justice, and for the integration of the South Americans into their community. Living and working side-by-side, thrust together by mutual need and a desire for normalcy, the community not only survived, it’s citizens were beginning to thrive.

  A fishing village at it’s heart, their new ocean teemed with mixed species from several niches, now wending their way through the new habitat—easy prey for the fishermen mining the natural wealth of New Joffrey Bay. Oddly enough, a secondary industry of tourism was also taking hold. People settling into the new regions were drawn to the storied history of Joffrey, and wanted to experience their hard-won seaside refuge first hand.

  Their connection to Commander Mansfield and his storied heroics had elevated New Joffrey as well. Their most famous son, his legend surpassing even that of Chief Masters by now, added an additional element of optimism to their rise-from-the-ashes story of greatness. While the old ways continued to perish around the globe, the new world that sprang up in it’s wake was finding footing in surprising ways.

  57.

  Limbs straining for purchase, losing strength by the minute, Dean felt a painful tug every time the ship lurched. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer. But the valve wouldn’t stay put without his intervention, which he couldn’t very well go and find by himself—not while he was attached to the works and holding everything together by sheer force of will.

  He tried tugging at the glove once more, seeing if he could try and twist it off. But his fingers were getting caught up in the mechanism from all the buffeting. He’d just as likely twist his own hand off in the process. And the more immediate concern was obvious. If he let go, the leak would spring again unchecked, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop it at all this time around.

  The ship heaved again, dipping wildly this time and knocking him around, swung by the arms like a door on a broken hinge. Dean scrambled to get back into position, realizing that if he were to have any chance, it would have to be during one of these moments when the tossing ship could be used to his advantage. But there was no way to cross the chamber fast enough to get to the radio, then get back fast enough to stop the leak. He wasn’t even sure he could swing the wrench back into place with sufficient force once he let go.

  Sufficient force. Something about that notion appealed to him. He looked again at the control panel that was so close, yet so far away. He felt the contours of the other wrench in his hand, the one he’d tapped out the code with. If he could hit the activation switch…maybe.

  Hefting the tool and eyeing the controls, he took careful aim. He tried to think back to playing darts, those few times he’d ever been popular enough to warrant a bar invitation. Those were precious few times, to be sure, but perhaps it’d be enough. He tipped his wrist back once, twice, and on the third time he let it go. Shit. The wrench left his hand with far more juice than he’d intended, flipping end over end as it sailed across the room and smashing into the panel with the force of a hastily flung club. The panel lit up with emergency lights and emitted a series of pained beeps, then fell dead and silent. Shit!

  A violent jerk and roll motion broke his grip, and he went flying. The momentum carried him upward, into the latticework of the solution, until tanks and leak were out of sight. He could hear hissing below his feet, though, confirming his fears that letting go had restarted the deadly process.

  Seizing the handhold, he was about to pull himself around try to get back down when a jolt forced him to reach out for support with the other hand. More banging and crashing was happening beneath him as the ship buffeted more violently by the second, but amid the turbulence he was unable to let go and do anything about it.

  He thought he heard a muffled swear. He looked around for any sign of his shipmates, but the shaking had also caused disorientation. He couldn’t even figure which end was up, never mind sweep the entire bay for signs of life. The motion was now a violent up and down that wrenched his shoulders and forced him to grip harder on the hull, leaving nothing in his field of vision but steely grey plating. He strained to hear more, but aside from the bumping and the rockets below, it was hard to make out what was happening. With a final, nasty heave, the ship seemed to settle, and he cautiously let go of his right arm. He would’ve preferred to keep that one for stability, but it ached alarmingly. He didn’t have confidence in his ability to hang on, particularly if the abuse were to resume, so he stuck with the left, kicking off with his right foot to swing around.

  He was greeted by the sight of Jo, straddling the deck, holding herself in a twisted, pinned back fashion to brace with one hand, and the wrench in the other. Most vital of all, she had the leak back under control, and looked every bit as
casual as if she’d just been hanging out, doing some yoga with a friend.

  “It’s alright, doctor,” she called out, “I’ve got it. Call flight.”

  Dean hesitated, feeling shame over his stupidity, accompanied by a strong reluctance to admit his mistake. Don’t be an idiot, he thought. The good of the mission outweighed any juvenile issues with inadequacy in the face of strong women.

  “I shorted it out. Threw a wrench into it by mistake.”

  Jo rolled her eyes, but didn’t miss a beat. “Alright. Get up to the flight deck then. Go now, while the turbulence isn’t so bad.”