by Paul Anlee
“Hey, Jules!” Greg called again.
Jules didn’t answer. Maybe he’s out for coffee.
Greg peeked into the control room. He stopped just inside, eyes drawn to the body on the floor.
Jules wasn’t going to answer, not ever. He’d been shot once, expertly and efficiently, from behind. Greg checked for a pulse. The body was still warm but there was no heartbeat. The ugly wound made it pretty obvious he’d died instantly.
Who would do such a thing? A professional hit? Why?
Security around the launching and Shifting Stations was thorough, and had multiple levels of redundancies built in, just to be sure. Only a handful of people even knew what happened inside the Shifting Stations or how it all worked. This had to be the work of an insider or else a very sophisticated effort from outside.
Aside from pushing the all-important button, a Shifting Station technician’s primary responsibility was to keep the delicate equipment well maintained. Mostly, that entailed regular cleaning and keeping the superconducting material bathed in liquid nitrogen. If the technician failed to do this, the particles might lose their coherence, become un-entangled. Then there’d be a delay of days while more entangled pairs were generated, separated, and transported.
The button activated a superconductor, a short bar of yttrium barium copper oxide sitting in a bubbling pool of liquid nitrogen. The superconductor contained an intricate array of nano-electronic components: a circulating loop to store entangled electrons; a single-electron transistor to pull them out one at a time, and a detector to collapse the spin state of its half of the entangled particle pair.
When a single, spin-entangled electron was “read,” it caused the quantum state of its partner to be immediately determined. The entangled pair rang like a bell across the solar system. The shifting RAF generator followed the resonance from one particle to the other delivering more colonists to the asteroids.
The superconductor! Greg opened the access panel on the podium beneath the button. He removed the insulated lid. Normally, the grayish slug would be sitting in its bubbling pool of liquid nitrogen. The chamber was empty.
Huh? It took a second to process what he was seeing. Someone had removed liquid nitrogen and the superconductor with it. Not Jules. He was beyond reproach. Perhaps he’d been forced or tricked into it. Either way, he’d paid with his life.
Without that superconductor—and the single-electron, nano-scale transistor meticulously crafted in its interior—the RAF Shifter wouldn’t be able to send people to the asteroid colonies. It would take days to replace, and he didn’t have days.
The world leaders and VIPs would have to rely on the rockets, rockets that hadn’t been outfitted and tested for transporting humans in years. It was doubtful those decrepit units could even maintain a breathable atmosphere anymore. Sending anyone out in them would be irresponsible, it could be a death sentence for all aboard. Then again, anyone left behind on Earth was guaranteed a death sentence.
He had his own internal RAF generator, the one he’d grown in his head but that wasn’t going to be of any help to others. The big RAFs at the Shifting Stations were huge, specialized devices. His was intended for personal use only. It might have enough processing power to shift one other person—maybe—but no more.
There were five other Shifting Stations around the planet, six in total, one on each inhabited continent. They could gather the VIPs at any functional station, if anyone let them. Yeah, not likely. They’d have their own lines to contend with; why would they accommodate the VIPs from this one? Still, it was worth a try.
Oh, god. What if this wasn’t the only Shifting Station put out of commission?
Greg jumped to each of the other stations in turn. The same scene greeted him at each one. Someone had put them all out of action over a short period of time.
Why? What could anyone gain by doing this?
Conspiracy theories ripped through his mind. Could someone have found out about the specialized-RAF shifting technology? Even so, could they have duplicated it? There weren’t many people with enough knowledge to independently construct such a device.
Alum’s name stood out on that very short list, but that couldn’t be right. It didn’t make sense. Only a few days ago, Alum had congratulated them on finding a solution to the problem of the Eater, one that worked for everyone. He’d seemed pleased. He wouldn’t do something like this, would he?
Was releasing the Eater part of a plan, a sick conspiracy, or just some horrible mistake or coincidence? What’s the point?
He chided himself for entertaining such ridiculous, paranoid thoughts. To think that someone might have set out to prevent transporting people to Vesta!
And no one in their right mind—with full knowledge of the consequences—would release the Eater from its cage. Intentionally destroying the planet was pointless. Earth didn’t have much more than a year left anyway, though not many knew that. And everyone who did know was already on the VIP list, including Alum.
Who on Earth would benefit by shortening Earth’s life by a year? No one.
The two events had to be unrelated. The Eater containment grew weak and imploded. A horrible accident, nothing more, and purely coincidental that it happened today.
And how could he have suspected Alum of wrongdoing? He and his Church had been committed to saving people, as many as possible. They’d invested all their time and resources to that end. They wouldn’t benefit by letting the Eater loose prematurely. Still, there was something secretive, possibly dangerous, about the heir to Reverend LaMontagne that Greg couldn’t dismiss. Staging a coup wasn’t beyond him. Greg was sure of it.
Gritting his teeth, he shifted to the Diamond Cathedral, the principal place of worship for the YTG Church.
He half-expected to find the building empty. Morning service should have concluded hours ago. Instead, the place was full of people. Many looked lost; their sobbing and wailing was audible over the chaotic conversations.
Ushers were roughly escorting a good number of individuals out of the building, while hundreds more streamed in. Greg’s lattice identified most of those with displaced looks being shunted out the door. They were Vesta colonists.
People gathered on the main stage. Greg counted 250, ranging in age from young children to seniors. Alum blessed them, and they disappeared.
A second later, a roughly equal number of miserable Vesta colonists appeared in the same spot.
My instincts were right. Alum and the YTG Church has stolen the shifting technology. But this is crazy. He’s already on the VIP list, along with hundreds of others he recommended. Why would he do that?
Angry men with semi-automatic assault rifles pushed the confused colonists toward the broad stairs on either side of the stage. Greg couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
A coup? That’s crazy. They wouldn’t have a chance.
Eight years of Reverend LaMontagne’s resistance to making the miracle of instantaneous transportation widely available suddenly made sense. Greg was stunned by the scope of LaMontagne’s planning.
Had his intention, all along, been to replace the carefully selected colonists with Church members?
Greg sat down heavily in the nearest seat. He reviewed the evidence in his lattice, looking for anything that would argue against such a diabolical betrayal of humanity.
“I know it’s hard to leave, Brother, but this is for the best.”
Greg looked up at the friendly voice.
The speaker took one look at the dirty, bloody face and desolate eyes peering back and changed his consoling advance. He gave a whistle for help and was joined by one of his gun-wielding fellows.
Greg was seething inside but stuck between fight and flight. A righteous anger he’d never known coursed through him.
Alum and the YTG Church had betrayed two decades of planning, two years of selecting the best of the best, to give a drastically reduced group of humanity its best chance of survival. They were replacing prominent scientists,
engineers, artists, humanitarians, economists, and leaders with individuals whose only admission requirement was blind Faith, membership in the Church, and unquestioning loyalty to Alum.
As the armed man approached, Greg felt his fists flex. The desire to pummel someone, anyone, associated with this outrage was powerful.
The man stopped in front of him, gun in a neutral position but at the ready. The man gave Greg an appraising glance and his brow furrowed. He shifted the gun to a slightly more ready posture.
“What’s up, Tyrone,” the guard asked the other man.
“I think someone here got away from the returnees. I don’t think this guy’s one of ours.”
“Have you asked him for his card yet?”
“I was waiting for some backup.”
Tyrone turned to Greg. “Could I see your Church membership card, please, sir?”
Greg stared blankly at the two men. “I’m not a member.”
The rifle rose and pointed at Greg’s torso. “In that case, I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises, sir.”
Greg eyed the barrel. He could probably generate a microverse around the bullet so the gunpowder wouldn’t work, or put up a blocking field where it left the gun. Or he could turn their brains into non-functioning mush. He considered how satisfying it would feel to rid humanity of at least two bullies.
The moment passed. Greg sighed, shrugged, and nodded. No point in winning an inconsequential skirmish when the war was already lost.
He shifted out of the hall, leaving the two men gaping at an empty seat.
52
Greg popped back into existence in the office of Prime Minister Francine Hudson.
Her hand jumped for the security button under the ledge of the elegant maple wood desk but relaxed when she recognized the disheveled scientist.
“Greg? How did you get here? What happened?”
He was bleeding lightly from a dozen scratches on his face. His clothes were filthy and torn.
“It’s all over,” he whispered.
His voice was soft, but his eyes conveyed a depth of anger and despair that troubled her. She gently took his arm and guided him to a chair.
“What’s over? Are you okay? Sit down,” the Prime Minister invited. “Do you need anything? A doctor? Some water?”
Greg looked at this hands. They were covered in blood, dust, and grease. He fought back his tears.
“There was an explosion...at the lab.”
“Oh, no! Are you okay?”
“Yes, but Kathy...Kathy’s gone.”
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“We were heading out for lunch to celebrate. I had to go to the washroom first, and I stopped at the lab window to take a look because, you know, I…I still couldn’t believe it. We were going to save the Earth. Literally, save the Earth. We were so excited.
“And then it exploded. I was just standing there, looking in, and it exploded right in front of me. Or imploded. I’m not sure which. When I got back up, everything was cloudy and there was debris blowing around. I yelled, but I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t see anything.
“I tried to get in there, but the wind was too strong, and everything was flying toward the chamber. It was insane! The Eater was sucking air through the hole in the tank as fast as it could. It was like being in a tornado. All I could do was hang on for my life. Debris was flying everywhere.
“I finally spotted her. She was unconscious, pinned against what was left of the tank. Then she was gone.
“I couldn’t help her,” he sobbed. “I couldn’t help her. There was nothing I could do. She’s gone.”
PM Hudson stared at him, horrified disbelief on her face.
“What about the Eater?”
“It’s out in the open. Growing. And we can’t stop it. It absorbed those chamber walls like they were nothing. Now that it’s got air and the building around it, hell, that whole damn mountain to eat, it’ll be growing faster than ever.
“What about your tractor beams? Can’t we get them going?” the PM asked.
“They were on the inside of the isolation chamber. They’re gone now. And there’s no way to arrange an alternative with the Eater growing so fast. In a little over a week, all the air and the oceans are going to be gone. In two weeks, the planet won’t exist anymore.”
The Prime Minister ran over to the door and stuck her head outside. The office was a beehive of activity.
“Oh, Madam Prime Minister,” her secretary said, “something terrible has happened. There’s been an explosion at SFU. The Eater is loose. According to Security, Drs. Liang and Mahajani are missing. They were logged into the lab where the containment tank is—where it was—and they haven’t been found.”
“She’s dead. He’s with me,” replied the PM, calmer than she believed possible. Her secretary was stunned speechless. “Get Sturton in here,” she ordered, referring to her Minister of Internal Security. She ducked back inside.
“Greg, what can we do?”
“Nothing. It’s over. The planet is done.”
“Can we get to Vesta?”
“You can’t,” he replied. “The Shifting Stations have been deactivated. There’s nothing you can do.”
“What do you mean, deactivated?”
Her secretary tapped twice and opened the door. “Minister Sturton is here.”
“Show him in.” The Prime Minister rose to greet her colleague. “Michael. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
“Madame Prime Minister,” he responded as he shook hands. “Francine, all hell is breaking loose out there. What happened at the university?”
She gestured for him to sit down. He noticed Greg’s shabby appearance with some surprise. “Dr. Mahajani?”
“This is all related, I’m afraid,” she replied. “There’s been an explosion at the labs and the Eater is free of its isolation chamber.”
“Oh, that’s not good,” Sturton muttered.
“Greg doesn’t think we can do anything to control it now. I’m not even sure we can get away.”
“What about our contingency plans?” asked Sturton. “We can take the chopper to the Blaine Shifting Station and be in Vesta within hours, a day at most.”
Hudson’s secretary tapped at the door and poked her head into the office.
“Madam Prime Minister, excuse me, but I think you need to see this.” In the second it took Hudson to nod, her Secretary had already crossed halfway to the credenza. She picked up television remote, and hit the power button. A screen rose from the credenza and the picture came to life.
“It’s a report from the launching pad near Blaine,” she explained, and turned up the volume.
A mob was gathering at the site, and they were blocking access from the main road.
“...reporting to you, live, from the main Project Vesta launching site near Blaine, Washington. As you can see, things are chaotic.
“If you’ve just tuned in, here’s what we know so far. At 12:20 this afternoon, there was an explosion at the Simon Fraser University Science Complex, after which a large gray dome appeared at the site of the blast. At least two people have been reported missing. It is still not apparent who or what caused the blast, or the nature of the gray object. No one has taken responsibility, and no explanation has been forthcoming from the university.
“This mysterious object appears to be absorbing everything it comes into contact with, and it’s growing.
“Today’s story is adding to the widespread panic that began earlier this afternoon with reports of millions of parishioners disappearing from Yeshua’s True Guard churches around the world.
“According to listeners, Alum, Head of Yeshua’s True Guard Church, declared in his morning sermon that Judgment Day is upon us.”
Cameras panned the scene, before zooming in on their reporter being jostled by the shouting crowd near the front gate of the rocket launch complex.
“There’s new activity at the main gate,” the reporter announced, and the cameraman
panned the crowd.
A knot of people pushed past the small security contingent and terrified guards, opening the way for more to follow.
A distraught father clutching a curly-haired toddler yelled into the microphone, “The end of the world is here. I’m getting my family off the planet!” He followed the crowd as it broke through security and ran toward the rocket sitting majestically on its pad.
The guards stepped back and let them pass, eyeing the flow longingly. One young officer broke from his colleagues and joined the crowd. The older guard who’d been standing beside him straightened his posture and stood his ground.
PM Hudson was stunned. “What do they think they can accomplish? Do they believe they can pilot a rocket to Vesta? Do they think they can force the crew to take them?”
“People do stupid things when they panic,” muttered Greg. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter; the rockets were just a diversion. The Shifting Stations are what’s important, and they’re done. They’re totally useless now. I’m afraid you’re stuck here.”
“You said earlier they were deactivated. Can’t we reactivate them?” she asked.
“It’s not that easy. Somebody sabotaged every single one of them. They killed the technicians and stole the superconductors.”
“Can’t we just drop in a new one in and activate it?”
“No, its supply of entangled particles is gone with it. We’d need to generate a new supply, put half of them on a rocket, and ship them to Vesta.” He pointed to the television where the panicked crowd was circling the launch pad. “I don’t think they’re going to let us do that. There’s not enough time, anyway.”
“Okay, so what should we do then? Should we go to the bunker?” She looked at Sturton.
Greg shrugged. “That might give you an extra week before the entire planet is consumed. If it’s worth it to you to have an extra few days to spend with your family, go for it. Personally, I’d advise you to accept your fate and make your peace.”
“Accept our fate?” protested Sturton. “Just lie down and die? That’s what you recommend?”