by Jeff Carlson
Also By Jeff Carlson
The Frozen Sky
The Plague Year Trilogy
Plague Year
Plague War
Plague Zone
Short Story Collection
Long Eyes
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons either living or dead is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
Copyright © 2013 Jeff Carlson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-10: 1612183646
ISBN-13: 9781612183640
Diagram of the sun and Earth’s magnetosphere © 2013 Meghan Mahler. Reproduced with permission.
Schematics of Silver Lake Hospital and Bunker Seven Four © 2013 Jeff Sierzenga. Reproduced with permission.
For Diana
CONTENTS
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR INTERRUPT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE SOLAR WIND AND EARTH’S MAGNETIC FIELD
SILVER LAKE HOSPITAL
BUNKER SEVEN FOUR
PROLOGUE
PART ONE RISE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
SILVER LAKE HOSPITAL
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
PART TWO FALL
BUNKER SEVEN FOUR
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR INTERRUPT
“Let’s be honest: Carlson is dangerous. Interrupt is riveting, high concept, and so real I felt the fires and blood. Thumbs up.”
—Scott Sigler, New York Times bestselling author of Pandemic
“Interrupt is an edgy, exciting thriller full of adventure and surprises. This book has it all—elite military units, classified weaponry, weird science, a dash of romance, and horrific global disasters. Carlson writes like a knife at your throat.”
—Bob Mayer, New York Times best-selling author of the Green Berets and Area 51 series
“Terrific pacing. Dimensional characters. Jeff Carlson delivers everything and more in a killer thriller. You won’t put this one down.”
—John Lescroart, New York Times best-selling author of The Hunter
“I’ve been a fan of Carlson’s work since he unleashed his nanotech on the world in Plague Year. This new book is exciting. Interrupt is a quantum leap in storytelling. I love the concept unreservedly. Love the writing to the point of jealousy. Carlson is so ridiculously talented, he makes me want to poke my eyeballs out. Interrupt is a phenomenal read.”
—Steven Savile, international best-selling author of Silver
“An extremely exciting global thriller. Jeff Carlson’s Interrupt is based on strong science and a dangerous new scenario that reminds us of our sun’s instability, the consequences to our planet, and how powerfully influenced our species may have been when we first began in the Paleolithic. The ideas fly as fast as jets. This thriller has brains!”
—Kim Stanley Robinson, Hugo and Nebula
Award-winning author of 2312
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is a work of fiction. All of the science and weapon technologies are real, although I’ve taken some liberty with our current level of comparative genetics. What if is an intriguing question, but there is no firm evidence yet to link the Neanderthal genome to modern human conditions, only compelling theories.
The notion that autists exhibit stronger traits of Homo neanderthalensis than “normal” people was not my invention. Fascinating discussions of this idea can be found in articles in Science, Science News, the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the databases of the National Center for Biotechnology Information, and on the websites and forums of www.rdos.net, www.wrongplanet.net, and www.aspiesforfreedom.com, to name just a few.
For their generous help and expertise, I’d like to thank many people, including James Han and Bridget Swift with the Joint Genome Institute; Ben Bowen, Ph.D., at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory; James Noonan, Ph.D., Department of Genetics at Yale; Michael Stein, M.D., with Diablo Clinic Research; Seth Shostak, Ph.D., senior astronomer with the SETI Project and author of the spectacular memoir Confessions of an Alien Hunter; Captain Chris Earl, U.S. Navy; Commander Thomas Korsmo, U.S. Navy; Lieutenant, Colonel Brian Woolworth, U.S. Army Special Forces; Lieutenant, Colonel Brian Lihani, U.S. Air Force (ret.); and, as always, my father, Gus Carlson, Ph.D., former division leader at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory.
Other experts wish to remain anonymous due to the sensitive, sometimes classified aspects of this book. You know who you are. Thank you.
I’d also like to express my appreciation to John Koziol for sharing his skills in the ways of computers and software; Robin Burcell for her experience with DOJ programs, databases, and facial recognition software; Jack Welch, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus of Astronomy at Cal Berkeley; Charles H. Hanson, M.D.; and Penny Hill, super genius.
My editor David Pomerico is like Thai food—fiery, evocative, nutritious, and good. Working with him is a pleasure. Katy Ball, Justin Golenbock, Patrick Magee, and Jill Taplin are also integral to the team at 47North. They brought years of experience and great insights to Interrupt, which means this novel is partly theirs.
Also a tip of the hat to my agents on all sides of the continent, Donald Maass, Cameron McClure, and Jim Ehrich. These guys are like Batman—a team of Bat People—well-equipped and poised to strike. Having them on my side is awesome.
Most of all, I’d like to thank my wife and sons. They’re remarkably patient with me and supportive of my writing.
Enjoy!
27,000 B.C.
SOUTHERN FRANCE
Nim’s tribe always hunted in packs. Their world was too dangerous for anyone to walk alone. Even his scouts traveled in threes, and those men never left the valley beyond sight of their camp. The instinct to stay together was as powerful as the urge to breathe.
Sunrise touched the valley as Nim led five hunters over a ridgeline, each man glancing back in turn. Below them, the horse-skin tents of their home had dwindled to six small specks. Now the shallow contours of the land separated Nim’s pack from the tribe entirely.
“Follow me,” he said.
It was more than the law. It was the best Nim could offer them. He put himself in front as much as possible, shielding his people.
The wind was cutting on the ridge. No trees grew from the earth, only patches of short grass and isolated shrubs. The wind tugged at their bodies, rushing southward as they moved east.
The men ignored the cold. If they reacted, it was to tighten their formation even more, using
each other for warmth as they jogged into the barren steppe plains.
They did not speak. There was no need. Nim worried about En’s leg and Han’s cough—En had wrenched his knee six days ago, and Han’s throat had bothered him much longer—but they would have sent other men in their places if they thought they couldn’t keep up. Nor did anyone ask where Nim was going when his direction and pace began to change, slowing, sprinting, then slowing again. They kept their eyes down to search through the rock and brittle earth.
Silence was a survival trait. In the cold, each breath whipped away as white gusts of fog. Talking made their lungs more vulnerable. They trusted Nim to guide them.
It was a dreary world. Gleaming through the clouds, only the sun wasn’t gray or brown or dark green. Nim was less attuned to color than to the shape of the land, which varied sharply. Mountains filled two horizons. The men themselves were brown in every way, brown-eyed, brown-haired, clad in tan skins and leggings. Their faces had been burnished by the weather where their skin was exposed between their manes and beards.
Skirting a lake’s ice-rimmed muddy shore, Nim found reindeer tracks. “Good,” he said.
Unfortunately, the adults of their prey weighed several hundred pounds with antlers and stamping hooves. Three of his men ran with limps. Han had a withered forearm he’d broken twice. Every hunt was a risk.
Nim led his pack north—upwind from the reindeer. Scents and sounds carried for miles because there were so few of either. Nim hoped the smell of his pack would drive the reindeer toward the mountains.
The mountains were important because the foothills acted as a wall. Nim used box canyons for traps or stampeded the animals over cliffs, anything to minimize his casualties. Only twenty-six of them had survived the winter. Five were children. Three women were pregnant. That was it. They were aware of two other tribes living in the south, but otherwise Nim’s people were alone.
Discovering new tracks ahead of him was like stepping on knives. Nim felt a sharp thrill of fear. “Stop!” he hissed, looking downwind first in case they’d walked into an ambush.
Man-shaped footprints had disturbed the pulverized rock—fresh tracks—intruders.
The sun was higher now, dull white behind the clouds. Snow gleamed on the mountains. Nim paced slowly over a wide area, examining the ground. Then he made his decision.
The reindeer had shied north to avoid the other men, so he took his hunters east. East was away from the herd but away from home, too. Han grunted his approval as they ran from the other men’s tracks, recognizing Nim’s intent.
Soon they hooked northward again, maneuvering behind the enemy.
Twice they found more footprints where the other men had followed the wider trail left by the reindeer. Each time Nim adjusted his course, threading through the terrain. He was careful never to cross the highest points, which would allow him to see but also to be seen. The wind was enough. He had their scent, so he stalked after both targets.
Finally, he spotted one of the intruders near the base of a hill. Nim dropped into a crawl with his best knife in hand. Each of his hunters carried several blades of flaked granite in addition to clubs of horse bone.
“Be ready,” he said as a second intruder joined the first.
The other men touched the earth again and again, clumsily examining the herd’s spoor. They were hideous. They had small heads, flat faces, and pebble noses. One had diseased-looking hair that was yellow and thin. They were taller than Nim with longer legs and arms.
He knew of them from his father’s legends. His father had called them Dead Men because they uttered nonsense if they spoke and because their tools and clothing were pitiful efforts like things imagined by ghosts. The Dead Men even walked like spirits, with strides as long as the reindeer.
Nim’s pack had caught up because the Dead Men appeared to need a lot of rest, which was good. For any advantage the Dead Men possessed in height and reach, Nim’s hunters compensated with their stamina. His people were stronger. They had natural armor in the dense bone of their foreheads.
The Dead Men were Cro-Magnon men, the early race of Homo sapiens.
Nim and his tribe were Neanderthals.
“Now. Before they smell us,” Nim said. He stole sideways against a crease of bedrock. Han and En came after him while the other three stayed behind. They would attack in two prongs, although they were outnumbered.
Nim didn’t need to see all of the Dead Men to know there were eleven. From their tracks, he’d learned a great deal about them. The Dead Men wore leather wrappings like his people, but they had smaller feet and didn’t push as hard into the earth. They were insubstantial.
To his eyes, their movements also lacked focus. As they traveled, the Dead Men meandered with the same flighty behavior as the reindeer, never holding position. Nim didn’t like it. Everything his people did, they did with unity.
The adrenaline in his veins felt loud and good as he ascended the lee side of the hill. Near the top, the wind increased. Nim was acutely aware of each gust sweeping his skin with the oxygen-thick scent of the glaciers.
This is our land, he thought.
Beside him, En wore a feral grin. Han flexed his bad arm in a repetitive, habitual motion that Nim found calming.
“Go,” he said.
They charged over the hill. The Dead Men were exactly where he’d expected, kneeling at a spring. One fell backward in shock. The rest scattered to Nim’s right, where they would meet his other hunters.…
But their speed was breathtaking. Nim’s pack had no chance to engage the Dead Men, not even the one who’d fallen. Han got in a single slash of his knife, opening the Dead Man’s shoulder before the Dead Man sprang onto his long legs and ran.
“Haaaaaaaaa!” Nim shouted, chasing them with his voice.
His father had defended this territory before him. Nim would find the enemy camp and kill them in their tents if necessary. With luck, the Dead Men would return to their tribe and leave, taking their women and children. Why did they keep coming?
Seconds later, Nim saw the Dead Men sprinting up a hill to the southeast. Han laughed and sank his knife into the mud by the spring, rubbing off the enemy’s blood.
Nim had only superstition to explain what happened next. The moment Han’s knife cut the earth, the sky sputtered and dimmed. It was as if Nim blinked with his eyes open. Darkness buzzed inside his mind.
Magic, he thought. Evil.
Something in the daylight had undergone a profound change. The sun flickered. Then there was pain. When Nim could think again, he found himself on the ground, his cheek bloodied by a rock. The hunk of granite obscured his sight.
Nim shoved himself upright. His hunters sprawled nearby, dazed. The Dead Men must have unleashed a power beyond comprehension. Nim had no proof the Dead Men were to blame, but he trusted his hatred of them. He remembered how the sky had dimmed. Those shadows had been worse than any eclipse, unnatural and silent.
He swung his head to look at the sun. Was its light changing? Terrible currents roiled the clouds on the horizon, turning the sky black. The storm would reach them soon.
He realized instantly how this magic would tip the balance between his kind and the Dead Men. If his people couldn’t think during the shadows, they would be helpless.
“Get up!” he said.
En was the first to stand. Nim’s heart surged with defiant strength.
“Track the Dead Men and kill them,” he said.
The sun flickered again. Nim sagged to one knee, fighting it. The shadows felt like a club smashing him. He went blank, woke, went blank, and woke again. Each moment of clarity lasted seconds, allowing him no more than glimpses of his surroundings.
When it stopped, his environment had changed wildly. Rain fell through the dark of night. He was alone. Freezing water swirled at his feet, coursing over an open field where the hill had been. Other things had changed, too. His belly was as tight as if he hadn’t eaten for days. When he felt his cheek, the wound had s
cabbed. His senses screamed that he’d moved across the land while forgetting everything he’d done in coming to this place. It was two or even three nights later.
Nim’s feelings of loss were gut-wrenching. He howled in rage for his tribe.
“Where are you!?” he cried. Then another black bolt seared through his mind, and this assault did not stop.
The Neanderthals’ time had come to an end.
Part One
RISE
LOS ANGELES
Emily’s vision went white as she drove down West 4th Street. For an instant, she thought the sky had flashed with lightning, but the air was clear and perfect like most summer mornings in California—and when she blinked, a red car was swerving into her lane. The front of her new black Nissan Altima crunched against the other vehicle.
Emily shouted, “Oh!”
The jolt wasn’t hard enough to set off her airbags. She’d barely been going twenty-five between two stoplights, but that was enough to ruin her entire day at six in the morning.
Fortunately, she had an arsenal of bad movie dialogue for any occasion. “It looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue,” she said, stunned, trying to laugh at her misfortune. Had she been blinded by the sun reflecting from the glass face of a building?
Her next thought was work. I’m going to be late, she thought, reaching for the files on the passenger seat. Impact had caused a landslide. She grabbed at her lists of IgA proteins and the nonconfidential summaries written by her biology team.
Down the block, a horn blared. Much closer, someone was yelling. Emily glanced at the mini-mall on her right, where two men knelt over someone else in front of a McDonald’s.
Her view was obstructed by the cars lined up for the drive-thru. If the men over there were mugging the third guy, it wouldn’t be the first crime she’d witnessed in L.A., but she stepped out of her car anyway. It was the right thing to do.