by Ron Rayborne
And while we did make it to Mars, the job of terraforming it in a way that would make it amenable to our existence proved to be impossible. Maybe in a couple hundred years. Problem was, it became painfully clear to intelligent people, that we didn’t have a couple hundred, nor even an appreciable fragment of that time left.
When the reality of our dire situation was undeniable, a great disillusionment began to settle on us. That’s when we began to hear fewer and fewer patriotic speeches. That’s when the Blacksuits began to be seen more frequently. There were still some who shilled the inevitable “breakthrough” that would finally take us off “this old barge”, as one called it, but blind trust in official reassurances was evaporating. Signs of this disaffection began discreetly: officially approved posters quietly removed in the dead of night; flags that people had worn on their lapels or put in their windows, disappearing.
A general feeling of gloom, even dread, seemed to descend upon the world like a shroud. Most hoped that this was just a temporary state and that any day now would come the good news that the ships were finally ready to carry everyone off to the heavens to continue life in the great spheres which surely must be there. No doubt the reason essentials were running out here below was because these great spheres were being decked out in magnificence. Indeed, lay artist’s depictions of the high-tech vessels were popular for a time. In any case, people knew that something was imminent, they just weren’t sure what. But deep beneath it all, it was hard to shake the unease.
Around that time, forty years after the inauguration of the Great Awakening, a chilling stage in our fall commenced. It began when one man, a famous journalist, wrote an essay claiming that, while it was true that the great spheres existed, there was simply not enough room for all the billions of humanity to come aboard. More likely, their number would be in the thousands. Thus, it had been decided that only the most faithful would be allowed passage. The rest would be left to their own devices on a rapidly declining planet. Evolution was like that, he stated cynically at the end; only the best survive. That was his last article.
It was a stunning betrayal, but few dared reveal their bitterness. Those who snapped and did, did so but once.
And that’s when the “Worth” campaign began. With thirteen billion people all vying for the same limited resources, it was inevitable. At first, it was just a handy measure of a person’s value to the community of man, a value determined by a formula based on right-wing ideas of patriotism and servitude. Was a person an actively contributing member of society, or just a leech that only took while giving nothing back? “Worth” caught on quickly, and soon a “Worth Index” was developed and aggressively propagated. People were interviewed and assigned their personal worth, or usefulness, ratings. These were numbers on a scale of one to one hundred and fractions thereof. Those with higher ratings often attached a small pin to their shirts, under their flags, proudly stating that number. All, however, were required to keep their numbers somewhere on their persons to be presented upon demand. A person with a low Worth rating was advised to get his or her numbers up.
The Worth campaign naturally made many suspicious of its ultimate intent. Eventually, it set off a cascade of spying and counter spying, charges and counter charges, finger-pointing and kangaroo courts. Sentences were delivered and executed, and people fell over themselves to prove that they and their family were more worthy than their neighbors.
The next phase was the surreptitious physical installment of “trackers” within the human body. This was done by way of mandatory injections, purportedly to prevent devastating epidemics. RFID devices, small enough to go through hypodermic needles, were inserted and their numbers logged. Most now had a permanent personal ID and could be followed and watched anywhere they might be in the world. That information was added to an individual’s computer profile, indelible records of data continually collected in myriad ways and stored, documenting every aspect of his or her life, birth to death. Privacy, once a natural birthright, was a privilege reserved for the select few.
Around the edges, ferocious battles for resources were spreading, the barbarians ever at the door, while on the sidelines, dedicated scofflaws, anarchists and apocalyptos bided their time, always ready to bring it home. Though the government tried hard to suppress unfavorable disclosures, a new paranoia descended, one unequaled in history. From this resulted the Second Great Purge (and some noted the serendipity that, in a world devoid of other animal species, a world with so much shortage and privation, there rarely seemed to be any lack of protein).
Those that remained after the second purge lived day-to-day with their flags firmly fixed. None of them, however, were the naïve, undoubting believers they’d been previously. They were simply too afraid to air those doubts.
Thus, pale and gaunt, dark rings under its eyes, humanity stumbled its way to its appointment with fate, as, piece-by-piece, the world careened towards chaos and collapse.
Chapter 3
Though Julie protested that she was fine, Peloste insisted on the head scan. Legalities, she murmured. When it was done, the images showed no damage beyond a bruise to the skull. After an additional hour lying in bed and drinking fluids, she was released. It was a long hour.
A de Physica orderly was waiting just outside the door in a small electric cart.
“How are you, Professor?” he asked politely, extending a hand toward her. “I’m Don Mack. I work in tours and was asked by Doctor Karstens to show you around.” Julie took his hand, warmed by his boyish smile. Smiles were rare currency these days; one accepted them gratefully.
“Thank you, Don,” Julie replied. “But what I’d really like to see are your recent, uh, zoological additions, if you know what I mean.” Julie was quite eager to examine the floral and faunal specimens she’d observed earlier, though hopefully this time sans the fainting spell.
“Of course, Professor. I understand.”
“Julie is fine,” she said.
“Of course, Julie.” Mack continued. “Thing is,” and here he lowered his voice and shielded his next words so that only Julie could hear, though she suspected that Mack was being playfully dramatic, “I was instructed not to speak about that matter with you. You are to be given a ‘walk-through’ of our facilities here, first.”
“And I appreciate that, Don, but what I’d really like to do is get back in that room and inspect ...”
“Understood,” Mack cut in. “And you will. I believe that Dr. Karstens will be attending to that personally. Please climb aboard, this train’s about to leave.” After seating herself and buckling in, Mack activated the vehicle, which hummed quietly and started slowly down the hall.
The walls were the usual antiseptic white, lit overhead by embedded fluorescents. Other than that, they were bare. People walking by, singly or in groups of two or three, clipboards in hand or arms loaded with books and papers, would step out of their way to let them pass. Occasionally, one would lift a head to acknowledge them. Strangely, several seemed to know who she was. A couple of times a passerby nodded, saying, “Don”, “Professor.” She wondered about that last. Did they mean Don? She turned her head slightly to look closer. He wasn’t wearing the standard white, she noticed. His was a casual, yet, neat and not unbusinesslike combination: Tan Rakii slacks and tweed sweater. That must be it, she thought, why he gets to wear what he wants. Mack noticed her watching him out of the corner of her eye and smiled. Julie quickly looked away and flushed.
“Uh,” she stumbled.
“Yes?” Mack asked helpfully. Just then another business suit walked by. “Afternoon Don, Dr. Pine,” he said in passing.
Julie turned around to look at the man. He too was looking back and waved, unsmiling, then continued quickly on. Julie thought, “How did he...” she broke off, wondering.
“Excuse me?” inquired Mack.
“That man, he knew my name.” Then pausing, she said, “Ah, silly me. That must be it. I was wondering how that man knew me. He must have been in t
he Observation Room when I, um, when I was there.”
“Tom Gordon? Oh no, Tom’s in administration. He never involves himself in the details. Great guy, though.”
“Okay, then how...” Julie began.
“Coming up on the right is the door to the firing room. This is where we send our protons on their way,” Don said, apparently intent on ignoring her question. He stepped out of the cart, and walked to an innocuous-looking door marked “Section One” above and opened it. Julie climbed out, looked peculiarly at him, then walked past and into another, narrower, hallway. It was short and led to yet another door. Humming could be heard through it, machine-like. It increased in volume as she entered and was suddenly in a very large room, more the size of an airplane hangar. All manner of piping was here, and in all sizes, floor to ceiling. At regular junctures in both directions, metal staircases wound up to other levels, and on each were more smocks, some white, some blue.
“These pipes carry mostly electric cables, but some, like that one,” Mack said, raising his voice above the drone and pointing to a cluster that surrounded a larger pipe, “carry refrigerant. That’s so we make sure the ‘A’ tube, that’s the acceleration tube you see there in the middle, doesn’t get too hot.” Indeed, Julie could see frost on the outside of the cooling pipes. A sort of foggy mist hung in the air immediately around them. She noticed an aluminum pan underneath that ran the length of the pipes. In it was flowing maybe an inch of water. She looked both ways. The piping setup stretched off into the distance, finally occluded by other apparatus.
“Where does the water go?” she asked.
“Oh, we use it. It’s clean. We could probably drink it if we wanted to. On top of this, we have dehumidifiers set up all along the path to remove the rest of the excess.”
“Hmm,” Julie nodded.
“Now this is the important one, Julie,” Mack said, pointing at the larger tube in the middle.
“The ‘A’ tube,” Julie repeated.
“Right,” Mack said. “That one is a perfect vacuum. Just making it cost quite a little bundle. I can’t tell you how much exactly, because officially I don’t know myself, but it and these other tubes are twenty miles long. There could not be one internal flaw in it, not one thing that might cause the slightest deceleration or throw something else off. That could happen if, say, even a millimeter height weld were to incur even the slightest friction. To reduce that possibility further, the inside of A tube is also lined with mirrored Teflon.
“We are trying to recreate the conditions leading to the Big Bang, what some refer to as the Genesis Event, as closely as possible, without actually doing it - another Genesis Event - that wouldn’t be good.” Mack paused here as a technician strode up, looking at Julie. Short crew cut, he had a certain military aspect about him. He and Mack walked off a ways and spoke briefly. A few minutes later they shook hands, then the technician approached, and smiling, said, “Hi, Professor. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Julie shook his hand, “Thank you, er...” she looked at his name tag, “Dave.”
“I understand that you have an interest in our little project?”
“Aspects of it, most definitely. That is, if I can ever get past the preliminaries. No offense, Don,” she said. Dave smiled.
“You’re in good hands, Professor,” he said, smiling at Mack. “Hopefully we will be seeing you again.”
“Yes, thanks,” Julie replied uncertainly. Dave walked back to his station where two other men stood, looking at readouts.
“Dave supervises this part of our complex. Good man,” Don stated. He broke off a moment, then pointed to a large, round shaped object, almost like a doughnut, encircling the tubing about a hundred feet away. “That little gem, or rather, a whole bunch of them, are key to our work here. Can you guess its function, Julie?”
She looked at it. Thirty meters past it was another doughnut.
“Well, I suppose it has something to do with the A tube, since it’s surrounding it.”
“Go on,” Mack encouraged.
“All right. Well, the idea behind particle accelerators is to fling an element, often a proton, at another element, often an anti-proton, so as to cause them to smash into each other, thus giving off huge amounts of energy.”
“Right.”
“So once you launch ‘the package’,” she continued, “you’d like to try to get it to, or as close to, light speed as possible, right? So that you can get the biggest bang for your buck. A good way of doing that, then, would be the use of powerful magnets, or electromagnets.”
Mack was smiling.
“So my guess is that these doughnut shaped things are your version of gas pedals,” Julie concluded. Don laughed.
“Seems you know more about our operations than I was led to believe, Professor!” He exclaimed.
“No, not really,” Julie answered. She reached into a breast pocket and pulled out a glossy brochure, neatly folded, and handed it to Mack. He took it, immediately recognizing a flyer that he himself had written, complete with helpful diagrams of the accelerator. It was meant for the few official visitors that occasionally came by to see where all the money was going. Of course she’d gotten it at the meeting earlier, a little stack of them on the table next to the refreshments. He laughed out loud.
Mack drove Julie around the rest of the complex, showing her the various departments and important sections, but the longer the tour drew out, the edgier she was becoming. All she really wanted to see was the miofauna, an animal that she knew had been extinct for millions of years. And Mack hadn’t answered her more detailed questions having to do with the experiment itself, things not covered in the presentation earlier.
She wanted to know, for instance, about reproducibility. Could they do it again, and what were the larger implications of the incident? She knew that once a discovery had been made, science could not leave it alone. Rather, it grabbed hold of the tree of knowledge and shook hard until every last morsel of information and material benefit fell like fruit from its branches. What were their plans now? Were they going to try again? And what about the specimens, where would they be kept, and would she be allowed to have unfettered access to them?
Julie thought about the other notables in her field. There was her mentor, Jim Hodges, Curator at AMNH in New York. He knew his stuff, certainly. Maybe they’d send the animals there. And Fukushita at São Paulo University. He, too, was quite published, specializing in Neogene felines. Jere Roddick, Paleobotanist in Amsterdam, had made more contributions to our understanding of Tertiary plant life than anyone since the great Daniel Axelrod. As for geology, Abdul Ammad, the diminutive professor at the University of Morocco, was unsurpassed. There was also a host of excellent, if perhaps less qualified, names: Hansen, Fredericks, Johannsen and others.
Still, with the exception of Hodges, none of them truly had the kind of broad expertise, or, she believed, level of interest in Miocene fauna that she had. On the other hand, though well published and well regarded, she was still only an “Under-Curator.” Robert Burns’ hold on the office of Curator was white-knuckle, even though he was well past the normal age of retirement. She could probably add his name to her list of experts, but didn’t want to. His interest seemed to be mainly in preserving his lucrative position. He’d never had any real love of the subject, she suspected. So she bided her time knowing that one day the stubborn cuss would have to step down, if he didn’t pass away first, and then maybe she could change things.
Burns had been an all too willing accomplice of the technocrats when they’d suggested their ridiculous revisions to the “Past Ages” dioramas. What they wanted was the removal of background scenes depicting a different world, one that was wild and free, only allowing to remain the bones themselves and their physical descriptions. Julie hated petty micromanagement which had political censorship as its aim.
Unlike Burns, she’d loved these dioramas, and should, seeing she, with the help of museum staff, both designed and built them years ear
lier. She spent many an afternoon having her lunch, not in the cafeteria, but in these rooms. When the government people finally came by one day “requesting” their complete removal and replacement with various “halls of the future,” she nearly lost it. Bit by bit, piece by piece, it seemed the magnificent story of earth was being changed. New Man revisionism. Everywhere it was becoming the story of our inevitable conquest. But where was our modern Galileo to stand up and declare that we were not the center of the universe? Then she remembered that in the end, under threat, Galileo, too, recanted.
Still, Julie knew that there were other quietly disgruntled witnesses to this raping of science and culture, people just as angry, but alas, like her, resigned to a mute grumbling. Her feelings, though, festered and burned. It was like a dark chasm in her soul. She knew that the earth had survived many a natural disaster over billions of years, but this one, the cancer of man, was an assault on so many fronts that she was often sick with dread.
Mostly, though, Julie kept these feelings to herself and wrote them in journals, which she locked away. Certainly Tom knew of her sentiments, but not their depths. No one knew or could know, even accidentally. It might be the end of her. Of them. She and Tom. Strange world where the truth was now impounded in the repository of a few minds. And increasingly, even that wasn’t a safe place. The rest of humanity, fraught with other concerns, were content to exist in the bliss of total ignorance.
“You must be hungry.” Julie startled a bit, turning to look at Mack. He was slowing the cart some as they came to another large room where people were coming and going. He parked behind a row of other such vehicles and looked at her while she gazed around the corner. From where she sat, she could see that this must be the complex cafeteria. Yes, she was hungry.