Extinction

by Ray Hammond

  ‘So you decided to become a tennis player?’ Perdy had already selected the Wimbledon Junior Championships footage she would insert at this point.

  Her subject gave one of his famous self-deprecating smiles and waved a dismissive hand in the air. ‘That was all I seemed any good at when I was at school. My mother moved with me when I went to a tennis academy in Los Angeles and while I spent most of my time hitting balls, she returned to her film-acting career.’

  Perdy then got Negromonte to tell how his elder brother had been assassinated by eco-terrorists during a space trip – there would be more archive footage available to insert at this point – and how he, Nicholas, had subsequently given up his professional tennis ambitions to study for an MBA at Harvard, before joining his father in the ERGIA Corporation. Then Negromonte explained how his corporation had bought up a raft of smaller companies that had pioneered solar reflection and climate management, and how ERGIA had become the world’s dominant service supplier of managed weather.

  Choosing her moment, Perdy pushed herself upright in her chair and began to probe seriously: ‘Many ecological experts claim that, far from solving the problems of global warming, climate management merely masks them, and thus delays the point at which humankind must deal properly with the problem.’

  Negromonte seemed totally unruffled by her change of direction. ‘Well, there’s little doubt that the climate has been getting warmer for several centuries. The choice is whether we control things to prevent the worst effects of this warming, or whether we just stand by and allow Mother Nature to flood yet more of our cities and coastlines.’

  ‘How do you react to claims that there is a causal link between climate management and the terrible seismic unrest that the world is suffering – such as the recent events in San Francisco and Hawaii?’

  Here Perdy planned to insert footage from Michael Fairfax’s press conference in Brussels.

  Now Negromonte did visibly stiffen, but Perdy saw his media training kick in as he produced yet another smile.

  ‘Well, I’m limited on what I can say about that – for legal reasons,’ he told her. ‘But there are thousands of wild theories being produced about climate management every year. The fact is that we are harnessing the most natural resource in our solar system, the sun itself, for the good of all.’

  Perdy was tempted to challenge him on this statement, to suggest that there were many communities – such as the abandoned hulk people – who gained no such benefit. But she didn’t want to get diverted from her main point.

  ‘So you would say there’s no truth to the claim that climate management is interfering with the Earth’s magnetic field – that your manipulation of the solar energy swirling around this planet is inducing a weakness that could make the magnetic poles flip?’

  Negromonte’s smile disappeared for a moment. Then he forced the corners of his lips upwards in a rictal grin from which his eyes totally distanced themselves.

  ‘Absolutely not. Once again, that wild and ridiculous scare story is the subject of legal action, so I can’t comment on it directly. But we are certain that climate management improves the quality of life for hundreds of millions of people every single day. And it has boosted the global economy into an unprecedented and sustained period of growth – as the OECD has confirmed in its most recent report.’

  ‘But don’t you think it unwise to be now turning the moon into a gigantic solar-energy reflector, when there is still so much uncertainty about the whole concept of climate management?’

  This interview wasn’t going exactly how Negromonte had hoped.

  ‘This uncertainly, as you call it, is entirely a media concoction,’ he snapped. ‘It’s just a fantasy dreamed up by those who see large corporations as easy targets for vexatious and frivolous litigation. What we need is more – not less – solar energy to turn this world of ours into a safer and more predictable place.’

  Nicholas Negromonte paused, then forced himself to smile again. Now was the time to change tack, to deliver the publicity coup that he and his perception consultants had planned for this interview.

  ‘And I’m pleased to use this opportunity to announce that the ERGIA Corporation is going to provide thirteen per cent of LunaSun’s output free of charge for distribution by the United Nations. Hundreds of millions of the world’s poorest people will now be able to benefit from ERGIA Climate Management Services, with our compliments.’ His smile broadened still further and he sat back in his chair.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Negromonte,’ said Perdy. She held her gaze on her subject for a few extra moments, then turned her head. ‘And cut,’ she said, looking at Torrance Olds.

  ‘Cut,’ Olds repeated to his floor manager.

  ‘Cut,’ shouted the floor manager to the crew.

  ‘That was a bit of a grilling, Perdy,’ said Negromonte, his smile now less forced. He sat forward in his chair as a soundman stepped in to retrieve the pair of sub-miniature wireless mikes that he had attached to the interviewee’s shirt front.

  ‘Are you having second thoughts about that live debate on the moon?’ Perdy asked, as she plucked the mikes from her own jacket.

  ‘No problem,’ Negromonte told her. ‘I was just getting warmed up.’

  *

  ‘You are not authorized to turn left at the next junction,’ the BMW’s navigation system told Michael Fairfax. ‘No public access is allowed.’

  The lawyer flipped the navigation system off, then muted all of the car’s other interactive features.

  ‘There it is.’ Steve Bardini pointed to a slip road 300 yards ahead. A sign at the bottom of the exit ramp read NO ENTRY: U.S. NAVY VEHICLES AND AUTHORIZED TRAFFIC ONLY.

  Their journey south from the devastated Bay Area to San Diego had taken almost two days. Michael had phoned Judge Sybilla Burns at eight o’clock on the morning following his unexpected skirmish at Emilia Knight’s house.

  Sybilla Burns had been a senior partner at Gravitz, Lee and Kraus when Michael had first joined the firm, and she had subsequently become something of a legal mother-figure to him, guiding him through both the political minefield of office politics and the intricacies of the Californian judicial system. When she had been made a judge, Michael had been delighted for her – but sad to lose a good and trusted friend from his workplace.

  At nine a.m. he was sitting in her spacious living room in the Marin County town of Hillsdown, sipping a cup of coffee and recounting how the government agents had threatened him with use of the old Patriot Act.

  Judge Burns sucked air in over her lower teeth as she listened to that part, then silently shook her head in disgust.

  Michael then explained about the death of Professor Robert Fivetrees, the apparent suicide of Carol Gonzaga and, most recently, the mysterious disappearance of his other key witness.

  ‘I have good reason to believe that Doctor Knight is now being detained against her will in a US naval hospital, either to interrogate her about supposed supplies of plutonium, or to prevent her from giving testimony,’ he concluded.

  Judge Burns immediately issued a court order providing him with unconditional access to his client. Two hours later Michael had picked up Steve Bardini and his all-important priority gas card outside Geohazard’s seismic monitoring centre in Oakland.

  Normally, a non-stop drive from the Bay Area down to San Diego would have taken twelve hours. But, after filling up with hydrogen gas, it took them over six hours just to travel the sixty-five miles to San Jose, using the long route around the east of the bay. As most civilian air traffic in and out of the Bay Area was suspended, the highways were jammed with cars, and almost every road seemed reduced to a single lane as construction crews busily repaired underground utilities that had fractured during the earthquake.

  By nine p.m. the two travellers realized they would get no further than San Miguel that day, so they found a motel for the night. They were on the road again at six a.m. and although they had expected to be in San Diego before noon, further heavy
traffic meant that it was almost four p.m. before Michael ignored the NO ENTRY warning and took the restricted turn-off from Highway 5. They had stopped on the road for more gas – not rationed in the Los Angeles area, Michael realized – and Steve had bought a bunch of flowers for the patient they were travelling to see.

  At the top of the highway exit ramp they followed the sign to US Navy Camp Marshall and a quarter of a mile later they saw the turn-off for the naval base itself. There was no commercial or residential building in this part of the city – everything was military.

  They swung into the heavily fortified approach road leading to the base and were immediately slowed by concrete bollards and chicanes designed to prevent potential suicide bombers’ vehicles approaching the guard post at high speed.

  Signs warned drivers to slow down to five m.p.h., but Michael’s low-slung BMW was already having trouble negotiating the rutted surface. Two armed US marines were at stand-easy outside the guardhouse.

  As his car approached the first of them, Michael lowered his window and brought the vehicle to a stop.

  ‘Are you lost, sir?’ barked the young marine, his M-24 gripped purposefully in both hands.

  ‘I’m here to visit a patient in the Naval Hospital,’ said Michael.

  ‘Do you have an appointment or a pass, sir?’ shouted the marine.

  Michael shook his head. ‘I’m a lawyer.’ He produced his Bar Association ident and offered it through the window for inspection. ‘I’m here to visit a client who’s currently in your Naval Hospital.’

  The marine studied the card with its ID chip, biometric sampler and photograph. Then he nodded sharply.

  ‘Pull over there, sir, for a vehicle inspection.’

  More marines now spilled from the guardhouse. Michael and Steve got out of the car as the soldiers lifted the hood, the trunk lid, examined every interior cavity and inspected the underside of the vehicle with robot video cameras. The two visitors were asked to step through a multiple-weapons detector while their electronic idents were being authenticated inside the guardhouse.

  After ten minutes, the first marine returned Michael’s ident and ignition key and told him to take the perimeter road to the right, for a mile, before turning left into the centre of the camp.

  ‘There’s a signpost, sir,’ he shouted as Michael rolled up his window and drove onto the base.

  Michael and Steve arrived at the hospital building itself shortly before five p.m. It wasn’t hard to find – it seemed to be the only high-rise building on the base. About sixteen floors, the lawyer estimated, as he and his companion – Emilia’s former lover, carrying a bunch of flowers for her – strode from the parking lot towards the hospital’s ground-floor reception area.

  Two more armed marines were on duty beside the main doors, but they allowed the visitors to enter without further challenge. Inside, Michael and his companion scanned a departmental guide on the wall.

  Radioactivity Exposure Clinic, 14th Floor

  A female receptionist and an older male clerk were seated behind a central desk in the foyer.

  ‘I believe you have Emilia Knight as one of your patients,’ Michael said. ‘She’ll be on the fourteenth floor, I think. We’re here to visit her.’

  The woman tapped at a keyboard, frowned, then produced an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, sir, we have no patient by that name.’

  The lawyer had half anticipated, half dreaded this response. He knew that the navy was likely to have a dozen different medical facilities dotted around San Diego; it was the US Navy’s home town, after all. Which one might they have taken her to instead?

  ‘Are there any other radioactivity clinics in San Diego?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ said the receptionist, smiling. ‘This is the centre for the whole of the West Coast.’

  ‘Then would you mind checking again?’ asked Michael. He was aware of Steve Bardini scowling behind him ‘The patient’s name is Knight – that’s K.N.I.G.H.T,’ he said, spelling it out.

  The woman jabbed at her keyboard again and then shrugged. ‘Nobody of that name. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Doctor Bowman does work here, right?’ Steve spoke up suddenly, with real aggression in his tone.

  At this point, the male clerk rolled himself along the counter on his wheeled chair to join his colleague.

  ‘She just said we have no patient by the name of Knight,’ he repeated emphatically.

  Michael heard the glass doors leading into the reception area open behind him. He turned to see one of the marines step inside and take up position halfway between the door and the desk. The male clerk must have triggered some sort of alert.

  ‘Does Dr Bowman work in this hospital?’ insisted Steve.

  ‘You didn’t hear me, son,’ said the male clerk loudly. ‘We have no patient named Knight.’ He paused, then glanced at the guard. ‘Now I have to ask you to leave.’

  Michael reached into his jacket pocket and produced the document signed and sealed by Judge Sybilla Burns, along with a copy of it that he had made when they’d stopped for the night at the motel.

  ‘This is an order issued by the High Court of California in Sacramento.’ He unfolded the original document and displayed its seal to them. Then he produced his California Bar Association ident and slapped it down hard on the reception counter top.

  ‘I am Counsellor Michael Fairfax, Emilia Knight’s personal attorney, and this court order demands any person, organization, state, federal or military institution with knowledge of, custody of, care of, or responsibility for Emilia Patricia Knight to grant me immediate, private and unhindered access to her on production of this document. Failure to do so, or obstruction of the court’s due process, are offences punishable by fine, imprisonment or both.’

  Michael delivered his speech slowly, carefully and distinctly, holding the gazes of both the receptionist and the clerk in turn as he spoke. They stared back at him, now visibly alarmed, and Michael came to the conclusion that these two, at least, were not hiding anything.

  ‘Does a Doctor Bowman work here?’ he asked, repeating Steve Bardini’s earlier question.

  ‘Yes, in the REC – the radioactivity exposure clinic,’ said the male clerk.

  ‘Is he here now?’ asked Michael.

  The woman receptionist touched her screen and nodded. ‘He’s on the fourteenth floor,’ she said.

  Michael unfolded the copy of his court order and smoothed it out on the counter top. Then he removed one of his cardidents from his wallet and handed the two documents to the female receptionist.

  ‘Would you be kind enough to have these taken up to Doctor Bowman?’ he asked. ‘We’ll wait here.’

  *

  As Michael Fairfax and Steve Bardini took their seats in the ground-floor waiting area at the San Diego Naval Hospital, on the other side of the continent James T. Underwood, fifty-sixth President of the United States, and only the nation’s second African-American leader, strolled through the wooded grounds of Camp David. With him was a special guest – one of the Democratic Party’s most generous supporters, Nicholas Negromonte.

  The world-famous businessman was visiting during the President’s late-summer vacation. But as James Underwood neither owned a ranch nor a holiday home in Cape Cod nor in any other Brahmin resort, he frequently chose to mix a little business with the pleasure he took here in this retreat’s countrified but ultra-secure surroundings.

  Negromonte’s two-day stay at Camp David was unofficial. There would be no announcement that it was taking place, no press calls and no statements issued. These two men had private business to discuss.

  ‘My thanks for agreeing to open LunaSun,’ said Negromonte as he bent to pat the President’s golden retriever, Sandy. ‘It will mean a lot to all of us.’

  It was shortly after eight p.m. and they were walking through a grove of pine trees leading down to the lakeside.

  The President stopped in his tracks, slightly lower down the slope. ‘It’s a privilege, Nick.’ He glance
d up at his guest. ‘I consider your efforts in harnessing the moon to control our weather on Earth as signifying one of this century’s greatest technological achievements. And I intend to say just that in my speech.’

  ‘Very kind, sir,’ said Negromonte, throwing the dog’s ball towards the lake.

  ‘And I’m particularly proud that this is an achievement of an American corporation,’ continued Underwood as they fell into step again. ‘Or aren’t I supposed to mention that fact?’

  ‘Better not,’ agreed Negromonte, smiling. ‘We’re also ferrying up officials from the EU and the East Asian countries. I think the Japanese prime minister is coming too – and the Australian PM. As well as a few African leaders. We want everyone to think this is something beneficial for the whole world.’

  ‘And not another example of American capitalistic colonialism?’ Underwood articulated Negromonte’s unspoken thought for him. ‘I understand. Still, it makes me proud.’

  Sandy returned with his ball, shaking his wet coat all over their trouser legs, with no obvious regard for rank. Negromonte bent down for the ball and threw it again, this time far out into the lake.

  ‘How much of the globe will you be able to provide for when the moon’s fully on-line?’ asked Underwood.

  ‘Well, together with our competitors, about seventy per cent of the main land masses.’

  There was a sudden sharp movement in the trees over to their left, then one of the normally invisible Secret Service agents stepped out and waved an apologetic arm, identifying himself to other watchers all around. It looked as if the agent had accidentally revealed his position by tripping over something, or stumbling into a rabbit hole.

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure that there’s nothing significant in this idea of weather management triggering unexpected earthquakes?’ asked Underwood, coming to a halt again.

  Negromonte met the older man’s gaze full on. ‘We’ve grilled our own scientists, sir – they come from the world’s most prestigious universities. None of them can see any link whatsoever. That was just a crackpot idea – although I gather the poor man who dreamt it up is now dead – killed in a car accident.’