Fires of Eden

by Dan Simmons

  “So, unless we hear that the wind’s shifted or the volcanoes have ended their show for the evening, we’ll be landing at Hilo International Airport right up on the east central part of the island. We’re sorry about any inconvenience that this may cause you, and before we land, our flight attendants’ll be giving you updates on contacting the United flight representatives at Hilo regarding hotel arrangements or alternate transport plans to the Kona Coast.

  “Once again, sorry for any inconvenience this may cause to your travel plans, but we should be arriving right before dark, so all I can suggest is that we all settle back and hope we get a good view of Madame Pele’s handiwork before we land at Hilo. I’ll be talking to you later to keep you advised of the situation. Mahalo.”

  Eleanor could hear the movie soundtrack muttering from earphones before the sound was drowned out by the soft but angry murmur of the passengers. The fat man on her right had awakened during the announcement and was cursing softly. The salesman on her left seemed less annoyed.

  “What’s mahalo mean?” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Eleanor.

  The big man nodded. “Well, I’m sure the Hyatt’s gonna get me over there tomorrow, if not tonight. What difference does a hundred miles or so make once you get to paradise, huh?”

  Eleanor did not answer. She had tugged out her briefcase and pulled out the map of the Big Island she had bought at the college bookstore in Oberlin. There was only one real road around the island—it was labeled Highway 11 around the south end from Hilo, Highway 19 around the north—and it would be over a hundred miles either way to the Mauna Pele.

  “Merde,” she said softly to herself.

  The microelectronics man grinned and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I say. Don’t sweat the small stuff. I mean, it’s all Hawaii, right?”

  The stretch-747 continued its descent.

  FOUR

  …only seven of the thirty-two eruptions of Mauna Loa since 1832 have occurred on the Southwest Rift Zone, and only two of these have impacted the project site.

  —Hawaiian Riviera Resort Final Impact Statement, December, 1987

  “What the hell do you mean we can’t land at Kona?” Byron Trumbo was furious. His $28 million Gulfstream 4 was twenty minutes ahead of Eleanor Perry’s crowded 747 and descending south of Maui, ready to begin its final turn along the west coast of the Big Island. “What kind of shit is this? I helped pay for the improvement of this fucking airport. And now they say they won’t let us land?”

  The co-pilot nodded. He was leaning over the back of one of the tan leather seats in the main cabin of the Gulfstream, watching Trumbo pedal his exercise bike in front of one of the large circular windows. Rich evening light fell on Trumbo, who was wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and his ever-present Converse All Star high-tops.

  “So tell them we’re landing,” said Trumbo. He was panting slightly, but the sound was almost lost under the background hum of the Gulfstream’s engines and the ventilators.

  The co-pilot shook his head. “Can’t do it, Mr. T. Honolulu Center is waving us off. The ash cloud is pouring right over the Kailua-Kona area and the Keahole airport. Regulations won’t let us…”

  “Fuck regulations,” said Byron Trumbo. “I want to be there tonight before the Sato people land…shit, this means that the Sato plane from Tokyo will probably be diverted too, right?”

  “Right.” The co-pilot smoothed his short hair back.

  “We’re going to land at Keahole-Kona,” said Trumbo. “So is Sato’s plane. Inform the airport.”

  The co-pilot took a breath. “We could send the big chopper from the resort to Hilo…”

  “Piss on the big chopper,” said Trumbo. “If Sato’s people land at Hilo and have to be choppered around the south side of the island, they’re going to think that the Mauna Pele’s a hundred miles away from everything.”

  “Well,” said the co-pilot, “it is a hundred miles from…”

  Trumbo quit pedaling. His stocky five-foot-eight frame was rigid. “Will you get the fucking airport on the fucking phone or do I have to?”

  Will Bryant stepped forward with the phone in his hand. The Gulfstream was rigged with a satellite communications system that would make Air Force One jealous. “Mr. T, I have a better idea. I’ve got the governor on the line.”

  Trumbo hesitated for only a second. “Good,” he said, and took the phone, waving the co-pilot back to the cockpit.

  “Johnny,” said Trumbo, “this is Byron Trumbo… Yeah, yeah, I’m glad you enjoyed that, we’ll do it again the next time you’re in New York… Yeah, listen, Johnny, I’ve got a little problem here… I’m calling from the Gulfstream… Yeah… Anyway, we’re on final approach to Keahole and suddenly there’s some bullshit about having to be diverted to Hilo…”

  Will Bryant lounged on the taupe leather couch that ran along the rear third of the main cabin and watched Trumbo roll his eyes and tap on the table still set with the remains of dinner. Melissa, the only cabin attendant, came forward from the galley area and began clearing the table in preparation for landing.

  “Yeah, yeah, I understand all that,” interrupted Trumbo. He dropped into the window seat and peered out the round window as Mauna Kea came into view, the observatory domes on its summit gleaming as white as the snow there. “What you don’t understand, Johnny, is that I’m meeting the Sato Group at the Mauna Pele this evening, and if we get the fu…pardon me, Governor…if we get the runaround… Yeah, they’re flying in about an hour from now…if we both get the runaround and are diverted to Hilo, then Sato and his boys are going to wonder just what kind of Mickey Mouse operation we’re running out here… Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Trumbo rolled his eyes again. “No, Johnny, we’re talking about eight hundred million dollars going into the area… Yeah…at least one more golf course, and it’s almost certain that they’d want a whole shitload of condos to go with that… Yeah…that’s exactly right…with golf memberships running a couple of hundred thousand bucks a shot in Japan, it’s almost cheaper for them to buy the place and ship the golfers over here… Yeah.”

  Trumbo glanced up as they passed west of the Mauna Kea volcano and the tremendous ash plume of the Mauna Loa and Kilauea eruptions came into view. The cloud of gray ash and steam billowed out of the southernmost peak, flattened as the powerful trade winds struck it, and plumed westward for a hundred miles, obscuring the southwest coast in a pall of thick smog.

  “Holy shit,” said Trumbo. “No, Johnny, sorry…we just came around Mauna Kea and got a good look at all this volcano stuff… Yeah…impressive…but we’ve still got to land at Keahole and so does the Sato plane… Yeah, I know all about the FAA rules, but I also know that I put my money into donations for the Keahole airstrip rather than build my own as a favor to you and the boys. And I know that I’m bringing more money into this recession-struck island than anyone since Laurence Rockefeller in the sixties… Yeah… Yeah…well, I’m not asking for another tax break or something, Johnny, I’m just telling you that if we aren’t allowed to land there tonight, then this deal will probably go down the crapper and we’ll be selling off the Mauna Pele to the lowest bidder. Yep…the place’ll look like fucking Royal Gardens…all overgrown by weeds and shit…the only residents will be the fucking marijuana growers.”

  Trumbo turned away from the window and listened for a minute. Finally he looked up at Will Bryant, grinned, and said into the phone, “Hey, thanks, Johnny… Yes…you bet I will…wait till the studio party we’re going to throw when the new Schwarzenegger comes out… Yeah, thanks again.”

  Trumbo clicked the phone off and handed it to Will. “Go tell the boys in the cockpit that we have to circle for a few minutes, but they’ll be getting clearance for Keahole-Kona as soon as the governor can get through to the dudes at Honolulu Center.”

  Bryant nodded and stooped to look out at the ash plume. “Do you think it’s safe?”

  Trumbo made a rude noise. “Tell me one fucking thing in life that’s worth the effort that’s sa
fe,” he said. He nodded at the phone. “Get me Hastings on the phone.”

  “He’d be on duty at the Volcano Observatory…”

  “I don’t give a shit if he’s banging his old lady,” said Trumbo, munching on some fruit from the compact refrigerator under the table. “Get Hastings.”

  The Gulfstream 4 circled ten miles off the Kohala Coast at 23,000 feet, staying north of the carpet of gray smoke and ash that billowed from Mauna Loa and spread west across the Pacific. The sun was low and particulates from the eruption turned the western sky into a riot of red and orange. The effect was unsettling, like watching a sunset through the smoke of a burning building.

  Occasionally as the plane banked counterclockwise on the southern edge of its loop, Trumbo caught a glimpse of the eruption itself through the haze—a plume of orange flame rising 1,000 feet or more above the 13,677-foot summit—with more orange glows through the smoke hinting at the Kilauea eruptions farther to the south. Steam from where the Kilauea lava flow hit the ocean rose higher than the ash cloud itself, the white plumes reaching 30,000 feet.

  “Jesus, every hotel on the island is booked solid for this show and we have five hundred some fucking empty rooms…”

  Will Bryant came out of the cockpit. “Keahole tower called. We can land in about ten minutes. I’ve got Dr. Hastings…” He handed Trumbo the phone.

  The billionaire set the phone in a speaker cradle built into the armrest of the chair. “I want you to hear this, Will… Dr. Hastings?”

  “Yes, Mr. Trumbo?” The vulcanologist was old, the connection was static-ridden, and the voice sounded like a recording from some previous era.

  “Dr. Hastings, I’ve got you on speaker. My executive assistant, Will Bryant, is here. We’re on final approach to Keahole in the Gulfstream.”

  There was a moment of scratchy silence. “But I thought that Keahole Airport was…”

  “It just opened up again. Doctor, I’m calling because we need some information about this current eruption.”

  “Yes, well, I will be very happy to discuss the events with you, Mr. Trumbo, as per our agreement, but I am afraid that at the moment we are very, very busy here and…”

  “Yeah, I know, Doc…but look at your contract. The fact of it is, our consultancy agreement takes precedence over your work there at the Observatory. God knows we’re paying you more than they are. If I wanted, I could order you over to the Mauna Pele and make you sit there and answer tourists’ questions.”

  The speaker crackled with the doctor’s silence.

  “I don’t want that, of course,” continued Trumbo, voice soft. “I don’t even like interrupting you there, what with all the neat volcano science you’re probably doing with this eruption and all. Still, there’s the little matter of the six-hundred-million-dollar resort we hired you to consult us on, and now we need some consultation.”

  “Yes, go ahead, Mr. Trumbo.”

  Trumbo grinned at Will. “OK, Doc, we need to know what’s happening.”

  Something like a sigh came through the static. “Well, of course you are aware of the concurrent activity at Moku’aweoweo extending along the southwest rift and the increased flow at the O’o-Kupaianaha event…”

  “Whoa, Doc, whoa,” said Trumbo. “I thought it was Mauna Loa and Kilauea that were acting up. I don’t even know where Moku-whatsis and O-o Crapola are.”

  This time the sigh was more audible. “Mr. Trumbo, it was all in my EIS report of August last year…”

  “Tell me again, Dr. Hastings,” said Byron Trumbo. His tone left no room for argument.

  “The Kilauea eruption is irrelevant to your concerns. The O’o-Kupaianaha eruption now taking place is merely a more violent continuation of a lava flow that has been going on since 1987. It is true that there is increased activity at Pu’u O’o and Halemaumau, both part of Kilauea Volcano, but the lava flow there invariably runs to the southeast and can offer no threat to your resort complex. Moku’aweoweo, on the other hand, is the summit caldera of Mauna Loa,” said Hastings, his scratchy voice taking on more timbre. “The current eruption began there three days ago. The actual lava flow and outgassing, of course, soon spread to numerous fissures and lava tubes along the southwest rift…”

  “Wait,” said Trumbo, leaning close to the window. “Is that the sort of curtain of fire I can see stretching down the slope from the big fountain?”

  “Yes,” said Hastings. “The current Mauna Loa eruption is following the same scenario as the 1975 and 1984 events—that is, the lava fountains begin at Moku’aweoweo near the summit and spread along the rift zones. The difference this time is that the fissures are spread along the southwest rift zone; in 1984 the activity was centered on the northeast rift zone…”

  “Toward Hilo,” said Will Bryant.

  “Yes,” said Hastings.

  “But this time they’re erupting southwest,” said Trumbo. “Toward my resort.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does this mean six hundred million bucks’ worth of my investment—not to mention me and the Japs who want to buy it—are going to be buried in lava in the next couple of days, Dr. Hastings?” asked Trumbo, his voice mild.

  “Very unlikely,” said the vulcanologist. “The current lava fountains extend along the rift down to about the seven-thousand-foot level…”

  “Wait,” said Trumbo, leaning against the window, “it looks like there’s fire and lava almost to the sea down there.”

  “Most likely,” came Hastings’s dry response. “The ‘curtain of fire,’ as you put it, currently extends about thirty kilometers…”

  “Twenty miles.” Trumbo whistled.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Hastings, “but the lava flow is south of your resort, and should reach the ocean in the relatively uninhabited Ka’u desert area west of South Point.”

  “Is that for sure?” asked Trumbo. The Fasten Seatbelt sign was blinking above him. He ignored it.

  “Nothing is for sure, Mr. Trumbo. But a simultaneous flow to the east and west of the rift zone is a low-order probability.”

  “A low-order probability,” repeated Trumbo. “That’s reassuring.”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Hastings, evidently missing the sarcasm in Byron Trumbo’s voice.

  “Dr. Hastings,” said Will Bryant, “in your paper of last August and in the EIS you did for us prior to the resort being built, didn’t you say there was a greater chance of a tidal wave catastrophe than of lava incursion?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Hastings, his voice perking up with something like the pride of an author whose work has been read, “as I explained in the report, the proposed Mauna Pele Resort…well, I guess it is no longer ‘proposed’…the resort you built is on the southwest flank of Mauna Loa and that flank extends far into the ocean. It is, actually, one of the steepest underwater slopes on the planet. This flank is what we call unbuttressed and is subject to major fault block slumps…”

  “In other words,” interrupted Trumbo, “the whole goddamn section of coast might just slide into the Pacific.”

  “Well,” said Hastings slowly over the static, “yes. But that was not my point.”

  Trumbo rolled his eyes and sat back with a squeak of leather. The Gulfstream was descending steeply now, the engines changing pitch. Ash and smoke whipped by the round windows.

  “What is your point, Doctor?” asked Trumbo.

  “My point…the point in both papers I prepared for you…is that even a minor fault block slump and the related seismic activity such a slump creates can and will cause a tsunami…”

  “A tidal wave,” said Will.

  “I know what a fucking tsunami is,” snapped Trumbo.

  “I beg your pardon?” came Hastings’s voice.

  “Nothing, Doc,” said Trumbo. “Finish up. We’ll be landing in a minute.”

  “Well, there is little else to say. In 1951, a six-point-five earthquake struck the area of coast where the Mauna Pele Resort now stands. There have been over a thousand seismic events plotted here s
ince this new series of eruptions began four days ago. Fortunately, the events are small, but pressure seems to be building…”

  “I think I’ve got it, Doc,” interrupted Trumbo, fastening his seat belt as the Gulfstream hit turbulence in the ash cloud. “If the Mauna Pele isn’t buried in lava, it’s either gonna slump into the sea or be carried away by a tsunami. Thanks, Doc. We’ll be in touch.” He slapped the phone silent. The Gulfstream pitched and bucked. “Will,” said Trumbo, “why does the FAA keep planes out of this kind of cloud?”

  Bryant looked up from studying a contract. “There are stones and ash particles in the cloud that could clog up a jet’s engines,” he said.

  Byron Trumbo grinned. “Now you tell me,” he said softly. The view out the window was almost black. The Gulfstream yawed and bounced.

  Will Bryant raised one eyebrow. There were times when he did not know if his boss was joking.

  “Well, shit,” laughed Trumbo. “It’d probably do us a favor if the plane crashes. Or the Japs’ plane. If that dipshit Sato doesn’t buy this place, we’re going to wish that we were dead.”

  Will Bryant said nothing.

  “Makes you wonder about people, doesn’t it, Will?”

  “How do you mean?”

  Trumbo nodded toward the ash cloud flying past the window. “Thousands of people will pay premium prices to come see an eruption like this…risk tidal wave and being buried in lava to catch the show…but have some pissant murderer running around, a mere six people missing, and they stay away in droves. Weird, huh?”

  “Nine people.”

  “What’s that?” said Trumbo, turning from the window.

  “Nine people have disappeared. Don’t forget those three guys yesterday.”

  Trumbo made a noise and turned back to watch the cloud whip by. There was a sound against the fuselage as if children were throwing stones against a boiler.