Winter World

by A. G. Riddle

  “What’s next?” I ask.

  “Rowing. Then a break.” He holds his hand out, ushering me toward the rowing equipment. “You’re doing quite well, ma’am.”

  “Oscar, you don’t have to call me ma’am.”

  “It’s no trouble. Courtesy is costless and benefits all involved.”

  Ma’am it is.

  Between rowing sessions, while I pant, desperately trying to catch my breath, I manage to ask, “How long have you known James?”

  Oscar gets a faraway look in his eyes. “My whole life.”

  That lends evidence to my theory that Oscar is his son. I have to know.

  “Is he your father?”

  Oscar is silent for a long time. I’m about to ask another question when he finally responds.

  “If I had to name anyone as my father, it would be him.”

  What does that mean?

  I meant what I told James on the way back to Earth: I intended to look up what happened to him. But the AtlanticNet has no details on him. And I’m not exactly spry enough to go bouncing around the camp asking anyone who might know. Oscar will have to do.

  After the rowing session, I sit at the dining table and wipe the sweat from my face with a towel. Oscar is standing behind me, making a snack in the kitchen.

  “Oscar?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “When James got in trouble, were you there?”

  “I was.”

  “Will you tell me what happened?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “I believe James would want to tell you himself, ma’am.”

  “What can you tell me? Anything would be helpful.”

  Oscar doesn’t respond. He simply motions to the stopwatch he’s holding, which indicates that it’s time for another session.

  Once again, I row, my anger flowing into the strokes. Oscar’s just being a good friend. He’s probably doing the right thing. But I still feel shut out, the two of them with this secret they won’t let me in on.

  When the interval is done, I pant, and as soon as I can I say, “Why did he get in trouble?

  “The real reason?”

  “Yes.”

  “He tried to save someone he loved.”

  “That’s not a crime.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The actions he took were extreme. They threatened to take power from the most powerful people in the world. He underestimated their reaction.”

  For two weeks, our routine is the same: breakfast, James leaves to work with Fowler, Oscar and I do physical therapy, lunch together, I nap, then more physical therapy, then dinner together.

  Tonight is a welcome change. The outer door opens and Madison, David, Owen, and Adeline rush in out of the cold, carrying preheated rations. Our own rations lie on our dining table, already steaming. It’s a humble assemblage of food, but here, now, it’s a feast. And we devour it like one. I haven’t seen my sister or her family since the hospital. I’m a bit stronger now, and I feel this strange sense of pride in showing that off. Despite my protests, my physical therapy sessions with Oscar have helped.

  Our dinner conversation isn’t as free-flowing as I would like. I want to tell Madison and David everything, but the first contact mission and what happened aboard the Pax is still classified. James and I only say that the mission was a success and that there’s more work to do.

  Madison, naturally, is protective and curious about James. She grills him. I admit, I’m listening closely. I have questions of my own, and a part of me hopes she’ll make him answer some of them.

  “Where are you from, James?”

  “I grew up near Asheville, North Carolina. Went to school at Stanford.”

  Madison finishes another bite of mashed potatoes. “And what about you, Oscar?”

  “The same,” he says softly.

  “How did you two meet?” Madison asks, the question undirected, hanging between the two of them like a lunch bill placed on the table equidistant between two diners.

  “Through my work,” James says quickly. “How do you all like the camp?”

  He’s changing the subject. It buys them some time. David has some complaints about the accommodations, but he and Madison seem genuinely happy. And that makes me happy.

  After dessert, we serve coffee. Only Madison partakes. It seems to give her more energy for her interrogation of James.

  “Have you reconnected with your family, James?”

  “No. But I know they’re okay.”

  In the escape module, he mentioned that he had a brother he didn’t talk to. This is the first time I’ve heard him talk about him since we returned.

  “That’s good news.” Madison pauses, eying me over the coffee. “Are they here, at Camp Seven?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother and father?”

  I catch a glance from Oscar to James. What does that mean?

  James begins picking up the plastic dessert plates from around the table. “Both of my parents have passed.”

  “Brothers and sisters?” Madison asks.

  I can tell James doesn’t want to talk about it. I kick her under the table.

  She tilts her head, silently asking, What?

  “Only one brother,” James says, his back to us, running water over the dishes before placing them in the washer.

  Thankfully, Madison lets it go at that.

  When they’re gone, I stick my head in James’s office nook. It’s a pigsty. Drone schematics, maps of the solar system, the asteroid belt in particular, and on the wall is a handwritten note with six names: Harry, Grigory, Min, Lina, Izumi, and Charlotte. Those we left behind. They’re why he’s working himself to the bone. For them. And for those still here.

  “I’m sorry about Madison. She can be a bulldog.”

  He doesn’t look up. “She’s just protecting you. As she should be.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Not right now. Thank you though. Soon.”

  That’s something to look forward to.

  The next morning, James is waiting for me in the living room. Or my rehab room. It’s both, really.

  “Fancy a walk?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  That’s new. But a welcome change. Maybe he thinks the fresh air will do me good.

  Outside our habitat, I lean on the cane and hold his bicep in my other hand. It’s morning and the camp is coming to life. The sun shines dimly in the sky, and a smattering of snow flurries blows around us like ash out of an extinguished fire.

  “You’re getting stronger,” he says.

  “Not fast enough for my liking.”

  “Nothing ever seems to go fast enough these days.”

  He stops near Barracks 12A and stands and stares. The building’s shape reminds me of a long greenhouse with an arched roof—like a long, narrow white barrel sunken into the sand. Only its top is black, due to the solar cells. People are pouring out on their way to work. Breakfast is ending and the day is starting.

  This isn’t Madison’s building. Or Fowler’s. He has a habitat where his wife and their adult children and their families live.

  “Are you looking for somebody?”

  “Yeah.”

  He keeps staring at the barracks, at the people venturing out. Finally he says, “There—in the green parka. Blue knit cap.”

  The man is roughly as tall as James and resembles him vaguely.

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  After a pause, James continues. “I come here every morning. To see him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s as close as I’ll probably ever get.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He hates me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of something I did.”

  I have learned James’s boundaries. There are few of them, but the ones he has tower like million-foot walls. They only come down when he
takes them down. This is one of those walls.

  And I wonder: why has he shown me this? It’s something that bothers him. Something that he wants to talk about but doesn’t want to do anything about.

  I realize then that I’m not the only one who’s trying to rehabilitate themselves here at Camp Seven. He has his own injuries. They are unseen, but just as limiting as mine.

  I squeeze his arm tighter.

  A week later, I’m pedaling the recumbent bike when the door flies open. James is home early from work. I stop, instantly aware that something has happened.

  “We got a signal,” he says, panting.

  “Signal? From whom? Where? The Pax?”

  “Midway. The fleet found more artifacts. A lot more.”

  Chapter 38

  James

  Fowler and I have analyzed the data from the Midway fleet. It’s staggering—the scale of our enemy. We’re now calling the artifacts solar cells, and as I suspected, there are many more of them.

  Yesterday, we received another mini comm brick, this one from the Helios fleet. The information is timely—and has convinced us of what we have to do.

  We turn Fowler’s office at the new NASA headquarters into a war room. And that’s what we’re planning: war. We’ve found our enemy. And we’re going to fight back. The thing is, it’s going to take every last person on Earth working together if we’re going to have any shot of winning this thing. Our first great challenge is convincing the politicians that we’re right.

  The frigid apocalypse that has gripped the globe leaves a lot to be desired. There are, however, some highlights. The one I’m appreciating right now: no more business suits. In America’s grand exodus from our homeland, formal business attire didn’t make the list of things to save. Formality and style are buried in ice, probably gone forever.

  So I dress in my gray slacks and black sweater and polish my boots and shave because this is the most important day of my life. I’m about to propose that the human race launch its most important scientific endeavor in history. We’re going to strike back. And if we don’t, I don’t know what will happen. If I can’t convince my audience, it might truly be the end for the human race. This presentation is the most important I will ever give. And I’m nervous.

  Emma seems to realize that.

  “You’ll do fine,” she insists.

  “These are politicians. Anything could happen. They could say no.”

  “They won’t.”

  “But what if they do? This is our last chance, Emma. The final roll of the dice. It’s this or nothing. If we don’t go out there and fight, we’ll die a slow, cold death.”

  She takes my face in her hands. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just take one step at a time.”

  She is my rock. I know the weeks since landing have been agonizing for her. But I think she’s getting better. I know she’s frustrated with her progress. I wish she weren’t.

  “Is Oscar going with you?” she asks.

  “No.”

  I can’t risk taking him. That’s the truth.

  To Emma, I say, “He needs to stay here and help you.”

  “I’m fine on my own. Besides, I wish I were going with you.”

  “Rehab is the most important thing in your life right now.”

  “Rehab is far from the most important thing in my life.”

  I wish she’d finished the thought. I wish she’d said what is the most important thing in her life. But like so many conversations between us, it’s left unfinished.

  The meeting takes place in a gym. We don’t have schools here at Camp Seven, but they built a gym for exercise—and, I think, because basketball and volleyball, and watching kids play, makes the world seem normal, makes it seem like we’re going to get through this.

  There’s a screen hanging where the basketball goals used to be. The bleachers have been taken out. The floor is covered with rows of desks on platforms that step up like a stadium.

  In the pit, looking up at the rows of desks and faces and people waiting patiently, I stand beside Fowler, like two men awaiting a firing squad. It’ll probably be a lot like that.

  Fowler starts things off. He summarizes the activities of the mission—the launch of the Pax and the Fornax, the discovery of the second artifact, the dispatching of the Midway and Helios fleets, the encounter with the artifact. This information is already known to the audience—it was in the briefing distributed beforehand—so he goes through it quickly.

  Finally, he introduces me, and across the audience I see glimmers of recognition, as if they’re thinking, Oh, that James Sinclair.

  The menacing stares don’t help my nerves. I feel like a kid who signed up for robotics camp but wound up on the debate team at the state finals; making presentations and arguing with people just isn’t my cup of tea. Desperate times, however, require sacrifice.

  I clear my throat and start my slide deck.

  “As Dr. Fowler has indicated, the crew aboard the Pax went to great lengths to acquire the information I’m about to share with you. As of right now, it’s probably the biggest secret in the world—and the most unsettling news we have ever had to confront as a civilization. We face a decision about the future of the human race. And these are the facts.”

  I click the remote pointer, and the screen changes to a map of our solar system. In the black expanse are two white dots that I’ve circled. The positions for Earth, the Sun, and the asteroid belt are all noted.

  “The circles you see are the last known locations of the two artifacts. Until yesterday, these were the only artifacts we knew of. But now we’ve heard back from the Midway fleet. And we have data to share.”

  I click the pointer, and the map updates. Where there were two circles before, for two artifacts, now there are hundreds. The screen looks like a smattering of breadcrumbs. All in a line. All leading from the asteroid belt to the Sun.

  “The Midway fleet has found 193 artifacts thus far. All of the same design. All of the same shape and size. All with relatively the same velocity curve and vector.”

  Like a wave crashing to the shore, a ripple runs through the crowd. The expressions on their faces, the way they sit up straight, look up from their laptops, whisper to each other. I have their attention now.

  A hand goes up in the front row. The Atlantic Union is made up of fifty nations. Fowler was very diplomatic when he described the formation of the union and the dynamics of the member states. Reading between the lines, it boils down to this: most of the authority was seized by those nations with the greatest military power and the largest industrial base to move their populations. In short, the US, the UK, Germany, Canada, Italy, and France are the real superpowers.

  The prime minister of the UK speaks in a calm, even voice, her demeanor stoic. “Dr. Sinclair, can you cut to the chase? What exactly does this imply?”

  “Madam Prime Minister, this data point is just one of several I’d like to share with you today. I think when they are all taken together, the implications will be quite clear. But I do think it’s important for you to have all the data first. I would never presume to draw conclusions for you. I’m just a scientist.”

  I thought that last part was a nice touch. Maybe I’m catching on to this politics thing. The prime minister seems to like it.

  She inclines her head. “Do continue.”

  I click the pointer, and the screen displays a grainy image taken from an extreme distance. It shows a cluster of the hexagonal artifacts joined together like the honeycomb of a beehive. They float before the Sun like a vast blanket covering part of it.

  “This is an image captured by one of the Helios drones. These drones were sent to the Sun to confirm what several of us aboard the Pax had come to believe: that the artifacts are nothing more than solar cells; I’ll refer to them as such for the remainder of this presentation. We have also come to believe that the solar cells were created with the express intent of harvesting our Sun’s output.”

  The first r
ipple that went through the crowd was like a gentle wave crashing to the shore; this one is a tsunami. I hear gasps. Questions yelled. Most I can’t make out. The gym is a sea of turmoil. Confusion, anger, fear. And here and there, stoic resolve.

  Fowler rises from his seat and comes to stand beside me. He holds up his hand and says loudly, “Please, ladies and gentlemen, please. Dr. Sinclair needs to finish this presentation, and we’ll have a discussion right after.”

  The noise dies down, and I continue.

  “At this point, we are certain of a few things. One: the solar cells have been made or perhaps evolved to fit together. This much you can see for yourself.

  “Two: the cells are drawn to our Sun. Their acceleration increases as they move closer to the Sun, implying that they feed on solar radiation and are able to propel themselves faster as they come into contact with more of that radiation.

  “Three: their intentions toward us are hostile. The decrease in solar output that Earth is experiencing is not uniform in the space around Earth. We are, frankly, orbiting the Sun in a small pocket of diminished solar output. This cannot be a natural occurrence. The Earth has been specifically targeted.

  “The solar radiation reaching Earth is falling in a geometric pattern. I believe that pattern is based solely on the arrival of additional solar cells at the Sun or at some point between the Earth and the sun. And as you can see from the Midway fleet’s preliminary survey, more cells are due to arrive at the Sun and are probably arriving as we speak. The 193 cells discovered are likely only the tip of the iceberg. Space is vast, and the Midway fleet is comparatively very small.”

  A hand goes up in the front row. The chancellor of Germany. Fowler stands again and is going to stop the man, but I nod to the chancellor. I think it’s important to our cause to give these leaders the information they want at the exact moment they want it. Our fate is in their hands.