Children of a Dead Earth Book One

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  “Captain,” Hekekia interrupted. “I’ve just got a revised estimate from one of my techs. We’re going to need at least twenty percent capacitor charge to restart one of the fusion reactors. We’re already too low, and we’re going to be burning at least a percent for every hour of emergency power.”

  “Can we get enough recharge out of the habitats to get back up to twenty?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know where to begin making an estimate for that. And this whole thing assumes we don’t burn out the drive motors or roast the bearings in the first place.”

  “But it’s our only chance, yes?”

  The line went quiet for an uncomfortably long time. “The only one I see.”

  “That settles it, then. Hekekia, pull the trigger.” Mahama looked down between her feet. “As for you, detective, coordinate with Chief Bahadur. We’ll make the announcement shortly. Get your constables ready to disperse any crowds and prepped for rescue operations for anyone who floats off when the gravity goes away. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Benson saluted, then shoved a stunned Korolev towards the exit. The first door slid shut behind them, leaving them alone while the outer door cycled.

  “Did you hear all that, chief?”

  “Yes, Pavel, I did.”

  “What are we going to do?” Korolev was a ball of nervous energy mixed with indignant righteousness. Benson imagined it to be what small dogs looked like.

  “You’re going to follow the captain’s orders and get Avalon ready for micro-grav.”

  “Weren’t you listening, sir? We’ve been sabotaged! Somebody isn’t happy just killing one person anymore, they tried to whack everybody! And they would have done it if these floaters hadn’t gotten clever.”

  Benson reached out his legs to brace against the far end of the entry chamber, then pushed Korolev up against the side for a little bulkhead counseling. The impact stunned the younger man enough to jar him loose from the growing fury that was threatening to overtake him.

  “I know that, Pavel. And if we don’t get the power Hekekia needs to relight the reactors, they may still succeed. We need to help the crew right now to have any chance. It’s all that matters right now. Are we on the same screen?”

  Frightened, Korolev nodded. “Yes, chief. But… nobody said anything. They acted like damaged capacitors and the reactors failing at the same time was just a damned coincidence.”

  “Because they’re not cops, son. They’re crew. They live in a little bubble where they see all and control everything. They don’t see the million little ways people figure out to cheat the system. We see it, because that’s our job. We don’t believe in coincidence because we’re the cynical assholes who have been dragged through the muck long enough to know the truth: they don’t control everything. Sometimes I wonder if they control anything.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing.” Benson let him go. “They’ll figure out it wasn’t an accident soon enough. Engineering will find some cables cut or a sensor blowtorched, whatever. Until then, you are going to follow the captain’s orders and coordinate with Bahadur in Shangri-La. You’re going to find Lieutenant Alexopoulos and tell her to deputize the lightbulb jockeys and their jet packs to grab any strays who float away. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir. But… those were the captain’s orders to you.”

  “Very astute, constable.”

  “Well, then what are you going to be doing?”

  “Trying to see in the dark.”

  Korolev frowned. “That’s the only answer I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Is that a problem?”

  Korolev’s spine stiffened. “No, chief.”

  “Good.” The light over the outer door turned green before it slid open. “Let’s get to it.”

  * * *

  Travel was immediately curtailed. Constables with biometric hand scanners were brought up to secure the locks to the command module, which had gone into automatic lockdown when the plant network failed. The doors had to be operated manually.

  The lifts only went down, and only because they recaptured much-needed energy as they fell. Movement between the modules was effectively shut off, save for any hearty souls who felt like climbing the kilometer tall ladders from the deck to the hub.

  Meanwhile, Benson requisitioned a case of hand torches from the lockup in Bahadur’s stationhouse, (he’d fill out the actual requisition forms later) and took a little detour back down into Shangri-La’s basement levels to search out the Unbound for another little chat with

  Mr Kimura.

  Something Kimura had said in their first meeting jumped out at Benson during Feng’s interrogation. When Benson asked if Feng had ever visited the Geisha, Kimura laughed and said Feng “has no need of our women.” He’d assumed it just meant Feng was faithful to his wife, but now his real meaning was clear. Kimura knew about Commander Feng’s romantic preferences.

  What else did the man know that he hadn’t been forthcoming about?

  With the miserly trickle of emergency power engineering was allowing, Benson knew Kimura and his people would be running around in complete darkness. But more than that, they would be caught entirely flatfooted by the coming micro-grav.

  The lift doors opened into the dark and quiet of Shangri-La’s basement levels again, but somehow it managed to feel even darker and emptier than it had the first time. Maybe that was just a reflection of Benson’s mood.

  Right now, his mood was pretty dark.

  For days, he’d been getting jerked around by his superiors, but worse still, his own instincts had led him straight into a dead end. Now instead of hauling in a killer, he’d given someone worse the time they needed to make a go at genocide. A fact that was sure to be pointed out once the sabotage was discovered, however long that took.

  Benson held no doubts that it had been sabotage. He could almost believe either the capacitor damage, or the reactor failure individually, but both? Someone wanted to turn out the lights permanently. But why? If this Mao was the anti-establishment revolutionary Benson suspected he was, what was the motive for destroying the power grid? If Hekekia’s jerry-rigged solution failed, everyone would be dead in a matter of days as the O2 ran out.

  Hardly a great plan for launching a revolt. Acts of terrorism needed someone left to terrorize into doing what you wanted. Unless they miscalculated? Maybe they didn’t realize how much capacitor charge it took to restart a reactor.

  Benson pondered the possibility as he moved deeper into the forest of pipes and ducts, holding the hand torch high over his head, trying to be as conspicuous as possible. It seemed improbable. Anyone with enough engineering knowledge, or access to said knowledge, to knock out both systems without being discovered would surely know to keep enough charge in reserve.

  Unless that was the point? Maybe they’d gamed out the entire scenario and expected someone to come up with the habitat plan. Maybe someone had even been in place to help it along. Mao’s people, if indeed that’s who it was, were still being helped by someone among the crew, Benson was absolutely certain of that. He’d just been wrong about who. What about that ensign who had suggested the plan? Had she planted the idea purposefully? She certainly seemed nervous. Damn, what was her name?

  But why stop the habitats? A show of force? No demands had been made, no threats. If anything, they’d played their hand. As soon as power was back up and the sabotage was confirmed, every man and woman who could be spared would be hunting for them. It might take from now until the Flip to search all the basement levels, but with enough manpower, they would be driven, cornered, and found.

  Which brought Benson back to genocide. The attack only made complete sense if it had been a deliberate attempt to kill everyone aboard and turn the Ark into humanity’s tomb. But why in the name of God would anyone want to do that? And if they had, how long before they tried again?

  It was the question that had brought him back down here in search of Kimura, hoping the old kook would have new insi
ghts to share. But he’d been wandering around far longer already than he had the first time.

  “Hello?” His voice echoed around a few times before dying away. No one answered.

  “It’s Benson!” he shouted. “I’ve come back to barter. I have hand torches and information to share.”

  Nothing.

  “Lefty? Mei? Kimura? C’mon, it’s important.”

  Silence. Benson headed off in the direction he thought their camp was located, but after a half hour he was on the verge of giving up and returning to the lift. Just as he turned to leave, a faint whiff of ammonia bit at his nose. He sniffed again and walked around, trying to get a bearing on the source of the smell. He followed the trail until he spotted one of the mushroom racks. It was completely empty. Someone had pulled up every last white head and shitake, leaving only disturbed soil behind.

  The rest of the camp was similarly abandoned. Even the altar of skulls had been emptied. Benson’s first thought was of betrayal. Kimura had fed him the line about this Mao to send him on a wild goose chase hours before the nutcase flipped the switch. He certainly had the resources.

  Benson stormed to Kimura’s shack and ripped the old shower curtain off the rings. Steam still curled up from a teapot sitting on his workstation. Benson growled at the near miss, then rummaged through the piles of old electronics. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he’d know it when he saw it, like a set of reactor schematics titled My Senselessly Crazy and Evil Plan.

  Instead, he spotted a genuine paper note hanging off one of the Bonsai. He pulled it off the delicate branch, careful not to break it in spite of his anger. In carefully handwritten ink, it read:

  * * *

  Detective Benson,

  * * *

  I apologize for our hasty departure, but my people voted to go into deeper hiding. We are aware the habitats will be stopped and are taking precautions. Our arrangement is still in place. We will be in touch soon.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  * * *

  David Kimura

  * * *

  Frustrated, Benson twisted up the note and threw it back on the table, then turned around and stalked off towards the lifts.

  Chapter Twenty

  Benson reached the lift, but as soon as he got command on the intercom to approve an override, he met resistance.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in Avalon, Chief Benson?” It was Commander Feng’s voice. “Why are you still in Shangri-La?”

  “I was coordinating with Chief Bahadur, as ordered. I’m trying to get home presently, commander.”

  “From sub-level three?”

  “Hit the wrong button.”

  “I see.” Feng’s voice sounded suspicious. “I’m sorry, chief, but our power margins are just too thin. We can’t afford to waste another watt. You’ll just have to stay put, unless you feel like huffing it, of course.”

  He’s enjoying this, Benson thought. Fair enough, let him get some of his own back.

  “I wouldn’t mind a climb. What’s the door code for the maintenance shaft?”

  “Ah…” Feng consulted someone off the line. “Seven, four, two, zero, five.”

  “OK. Good luck with the repairs. Benson out.”

  Annoyed, he walked to the side of the lift tube and found the hatch that read “Maintenance Access.” He punched in the door code, and was a little surprised when the light turned green and popped the seal. He stepped inside and looked up. Illuminated by only the faint amber glow of emergency lights placed every ten meters, the rungs of the ladder seemed to stretch up to infinity.

  He sighed, and put his foot on the first rung. Theresa would be furious if he decided just to sit this one out.

  Every little emergency light was attached to a small platform, not much larger than a barstool, which gave climbers a spot to rest and recover before continuing. The paint had worn off, and the metal underneath was polished smooth by generations of athletic-minded people challenging themselves, or young lovers searching for privacy. Indeed, some graffiti had been drawn near one platform, displaying exactly the sort of artistic rigor one would expect of swooning teenagers. It declared “Charlie & Kendra 4EVER.” It had been worn down by a lot of sweaty palms. Charlie and Kendra had likely been dead for a century or more.

  He wished them well and resumed climbing. Fortunately, each rung shaved a few grams off his effective weight. As he climbed, he grew lighter at nearly the same rate as his muscles tired, downgrading the kilometer-long climb from “completely fucking impossible,” to merely, “really goddamned exhausting.”

  The climb gave Benson time to think. At first, he thought about what a petty asshole Feng was for not authorizing a lift. But could he really blame him? Benson had publicly accused him of murdering his lover. Even if the little shit had been acting suspicious as hell, that had to hurt deeply. Couldn’t really fault him for carrying a little vendetta.

  Vendetta. Feng had used that word to describe his investigation. Benson had dismissed it as an ugly smear. A transparent attack on his sullied ancestry, a last second effort to discredit his case.

  But was that all it was? Benson knew Feng was guilty before the BILD test, he could smell it. Looking back, though, how much of that had been built on the meager evidence, and how much of it had come from his own prejudice? He’d wanted Feng to be guilty. Had Feng become a stand-in for all of the frustrations Benson had been feeling since the polite veneer of society had started to peel off with Laraby’s death?

  Even worse, what clues had he missed by focusing all his attention on Feng?

  Benson was a good two-thirds of the way up the ladder by then, breathing almost as heavily as he was sweating. He paused to catch his breath and take a moment to look down, and immediately regretted it. Somehow, heights always managed to look higher when one looked down from them. The tunnel lacked the sense of infinity he’d felt out in space, but that was part of the problem; a fall from here would most definitely have an ending.

  Benson decided it was a sign to stop looking back and focus on the task ahead. Up here, he weighed scarcely thirty kilos. He sprinted up the ladder two, then three rungs at a time. Near the top, he bounded like a scorched monkey up a tree, until he was effectively weightless. He covered the last thirty meters in a single exuberant leap.

  * * *

  In fact, it took Hekekia’s teams almost seven hours to finish their work. With the plant network down, his engineers were flying blind for the first time in their lives. They’d discovered the hard way that no one aboard had any experience multitasking. Their plants had always carried the extra load and coordinated activities for them.

  This was enough of a problem for the team deep in the Ark’s stern racing to repair the reactor damage. It was doubly so for those on the EVA assignment to reverse the habitat’s drive motors, who discovered flying their pods while making delicate repairs was like performing thoracic surgery while dangling from a blimp.

  However, the delay had a silver lining in that it gave Benson and Bahadur’s constables enough time to secure the habitats for microgravity. Everyone had known for their entire lives that the Flip was coming. Countdown clocks had been running on billboards in most public areas starting at T-minus one year. But just like in-laws visiting for the holidays, nearly everyone was waiting until the last minute to get their houses in order. The attack managed to goad the population into doing more preparation for the Flip in those seven hours than they had in the previous seven months.

  Benson grabbed the last lift down to Avalon’s deck, saving him another arduous climb down the maintenance ladder. As he walked up to the stationhouse, Benson had never seen Avalon so empty, not even late at night. But the most jarring omission wasn’t the people, it was the hum. Vibrations from air exchangers, water pumps, waste disposals, and even the habitat drive motors themselves carried through the air, rose up through the decks, and permeated every cubic centimeter of the Ark. You could never escape the low hum of machinery. It was the hear
tbeat of the Ark. The silence was a sponge, soaking up any sound that did escape into the air.

  A siren blared through the seldom-used public address speakers, signaling that command was about to flip the switch. Theresa had everything in hand by the time he arrived. Nearly everyone was locked behind their doors. No one wanted to be caught out in the open when the gravity went away. The stationhouse was packed with constables waiting for the aftermath. Benson took a spot next to Theresa and braced against the wall.

  “Here we go,” she whispered.

  “How long will this take?” Korolev asked.

  “They said it could take an hour or more to stop completely.”

  “Could they really need that much energy? I mean, we’re spinning a million tons at three hundred and fifty KPH. Do you have any idea how many mega-joules of potential energy that is?”

  Hernandez shrugged from the corner. “OK, rookie, I’ll bite. How many?”

  Korolev’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Um… a lot.”

  “Pssh,” Hernandez snorted. “Great answer. We got us a regular Einstein here, boys and girls.”

  Korolev’s cheeks flushed as a round of nervous laughter traveled through the ranks.

  “That’s enough of that shit,” Benson said.

  Theresa patted Korolev on the shoulder. “I think they’re probably just covering all their bases, constable.”

  A tremor rumbled through the deck like an earthquake as the modified drive motors engaged and stole the module’s kinetic energy. It was subtle at first, but grew in intensity as the habitat’s structure twisted under the strain like a beer can.

  For all their immensity, the habitats were incredibly fragile. Without any internal bracing running through their two kilometer length, they were little more than glorified aluminum and composite balloons. The pressure differential between the inside and the vacuum outside kept them rigid like old Earth zeppelins.