Starweb

by Warren James Palmer

  The Buddhist dropped the last couple of metres to the ground and rolled to his feet. Pausing only to check the contents of his satchel, the monk rearranged his robes and resolutely marched toward the power plant.

  A crimson pool of blood spread from the body of the security guard and stained the ground. Blossom fell from a nearby cherry tree and lightly covered the young man's dead body.

  Kamazoto collected his cup of tepid tea from the vending machine and with a sigh made his way back to the control room. He eased himself back into his seat, which overlooked the operational nerve centre and automatically scanned the information displayed on his panel—everything was as is it should be.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, he sipped his drink and watched the vast holographic projection which dominated the control room floor. It showed the power and water flow through the entire power station in a three-dimensional, graphical format, which helped the engineers spot any potential problems in the system. Not that there had been any in the three months since the power-station first came on-line in a flurry of media attention.

  Kamazoto had helped design the revolutionary power plant—the first of many. It was a matter of great personal pride that the Japanese Miyako plant was the world's first operational Point-Zero power plant, if only by a matter of a few weeks. Similar power stations were coming on line every day in some part of the world or other. It was the United Nations plan that the world's entire power needs were to be met using Point-Zero by the end of the decade. However, Kamazoto knew that when historians looked back on the 21st century, it would be the Miyako plant that would be remembered, a Nipponese triumph.

  It was when the shift was quiet like this, that he sat and reflected on the incredible manner in which limitless power was generated and what the beneficial effects on humanity would be.

  The discovery of the reaction, which split water into its constituent parts of hydrogen and oxygen in a manner, which created vast amounts of excess power, was a direct result of the Dyason wars. It was ironic that conflict, which had led to the near extinction of all humanoid races, should lead to such an important discovery. It was widely regarded that the invention of Point Zero power plants was as important to human evolution as the invention of the wheel. What the long-term effects of limitless, clean power would be on civilisation, only time would tell.

  The process itself was very simple, however, controlling the resulting reaction was not. Seawater passed through a desalination plant first, then entered the main chambers. Microwaves were then passed through the purified water, which excited the molecules in such a manner that the hydrogen separated from the oxygen. The frequency of the microwaves was critical to the Point Zero reaction. A few hertz each side of the required frequency and the reaction simply did not take place, but when it did—the result was spectacular!

  The heat released in the reaction produced steam, which turned turbines, and in turn, created electricity. The megawatts of power generated was then fed to all the cities on the main Japanese island. But, the real beauty of Point Zero, was not the vast amounts of power the reaction generated, but the by-product, which of course was pure-water.

  There were no chimneys spewing sulfur and carbon into the atmosphere, no radioactive waste—just pure water, which was then recycled through the power station. Point Zero did indeed create unlimited, clean, environmentally safe, power.

  Of course, like all forms of power generation there was a small risk, although those involved in Point-Zero were a fraction of those in nuclear power stations. The reaction caused by the excitement of the water was controllable through only a very small frequency band. The microwave projectors in the main chamber were set very precisely and were constantly monitored and controlled by the central computer. Were the frequency to lower, the reaction would simply cease. If the frequency were increased within certain parameters, the reaction would become uncontrollable.

  Of course, the numerous safety measures included in the plant ensured a chain-reaction was impossible, but it was a small danger Kamazoto was well aware of. There was no risk to anybody outside the plant, there would be no radioactive fallout, or seas of oil and pollution, but it was something to be avoided, so human controllers constantly monitored the microwave projector.

  Kamazoto's eagle eye noted a small increase in the pressure within the number four recycling chamber and he was about to mention it to one of the engineers on the control room floor. However, they rectified the matter before he could say anything. He grunted with satisfaction; the engineers he had personally trained were good, damned good. As he sipped his tea once more, he considered that maybe it was time to consider retirement. There was little more for him to do here, he'd made his contribution to the renaissance, and perhaps it was time to pass the mantle on to someone younger.

  Suddenly, there was flurry of activity from the entrance to the control room and Kamazoto turned just in time to see a canister roll along the floor and under a desk. What the hell…?

  There was a dull thud followed by a stream of gas, which erupted from the small canister. Within seconds, the control room was filled with a thick choking smoke that bought tears to Kamazoto's eyes and he fell spluttering to the floor. The alarm went off and a strobe light flashed eerily through the smoke.

  There was the sound of gunfire and cries of pain from the other engineers and Kamazoto desperately tried to pick himself up off the floor and go to the aid of his protégés. He tried and failed; his hand went to his chest, which felt as if it would burst with pain. The shock and choking smoke was more strain than his failing heart could take.

  As he lay in agony on the floor, he peered up through a haze of pain and could just make out the bizarre apparition that approached him through the thick smoke. The figure was small and wore the robes of a Buddhist monk, but his face was obscured by a rubber gas mask and he carried a short machine pistol in his hands. Kamazoto reached out a hand toward the angel of death and was rewarded with a burst of gunfire that finally put an end to his agony.

  The monk peered down at the chief engineer for a moment, then stepped over the inert body. He sat down at the control console and began to tap in the code sequence he had carefully memorised.

  Inside the primary chamber of the power plant, the frequency of the microwave projector began to increase. The water molecules began to excite at an ever-increasing rate until eventually a chain reaction became inevitable. In a nanosecond the entire chamber, millions of litres of water, instantly split into its constituent parts, then combusted in a flash of heat and energy.

  The blast ripped through the power plant devouring everything in its path. Smoke and steam rose thousands of feet into the air, forming a mushroom cloud reminiscent of a nuclear explosion. Miyako power plant suddenly ceased to be—Japan's symbol of a brave new age was no more.

  Palma Cathedral.

  The island of Majorca, Mediterranean. Sunday, May 13th 2057.

  The canon looked out upon her congregation as she completed her sermon. The bright Mediterranean sun poured through the huge leaded windows, casting multi-coloured beams of light upon the attentive faces of both local Majorcan's and the usual influx of tourists. Seeing the numerous pews were filled almost to capacity gave her a feeling of intense satisfaction.

  Despite the revelation that the human race had not originated on Earth, religion had not undergone the crisis that everyone had predicted. Sure, it had been necessary for the Pope and the Catholic Church to re-examine its beliefs and philosophy. In the face of irrefutable evidence, the church had been forced to accept the existence of other humanoid races and the possibility of non-human extraterrestrials. However, none of this contradicted their basic belief in Christ and His teachings.

  Indeed, the discovery of other extraterrestrial humans, in the view of the church, only supported their teachings that mankind was created in God's image. Otherwise, how could anyone explain the proliferation of the human species?

  After the devastation and genocide caused by the Dya
son wars, people needed to have their faith restored. There was hardly a family on the whole planet which hadn’t suffered some loss. When you considered the incredible changes that had occurred in so few years, it was no wonder that so many people suffered crises of identity. To the surprise of all, except evangelists, the masses instead of turning away from the church; returned in their droves. At a time of such instability and change in the world, the Christian faith was a solid pillar of support that people could cling onto. The Catholic Church was now stronger than ever and the congregation, which regularly prayed at Palma, was testament to this.

  Monsignor Maria de Santa Cruz completed her sermon and offered a prayer of thanks for the salvation of Majorca's cathedral. When so many of God's houses had been destroyed during the occupation it was a miracle that the ancient cathedral had survived unscathed. She hitched up her robes and climbed down from the pulpit. Then, with the help of an altar boy, she began to hand out the traditional bread and wine.

  One after another, the congregation made their way forward to receive their blessing. Each one would kneel before the Bishop, accept the communal bread and sip from the wine goblet. In the background, the vast organ pipes filled the cathedral with hymn music, which reverberated off the ancient stonewalls.

  The little old lady shuffled forward, patiently waiting for her turn to be blessed. Her shawl was tightly drawn about her and she was entirely dressed in black, despite the heat of the day outside the cathedral. He back was bent, her head hung low and in her hand she constantly played with a set of beads. Her lips moved silently and she mouthed the words to the Lord's Prayer, over and over again.

  When the old woman finally got to the altar, canon Maria de Santa Cruz looked down into the crone's eyes. She knew the woman was a regular visitor to Palma Cathedral—if she remembered correctly, the old girl was a widow who had lost the last of her family in the occupation and lived in a tiny apartment at the edge of the city.

  The canon began to give her blessing, but as their eyes met, she paused—something was amiss. A shaft of light fell on the old woman's face as she gazed up at Santa Cruz, the many lines and wrinkles coming into sharp relief as if they were mapping her sad life. But it was the eyes which really held the canon's attention. They were deep black pits, which stared unblinking right into the heart of Maria Santa Cruz. A shiver ran down the canon's spine and she froze in mid movement, the goblet of wine suspended in mid-air.

  There was something horribly wrong. It was as if all warmth had been drained out of the cathedral, despite the heat of the day outside. As the old woman held the canon's stare, Santa Cruz realised what was amiss—the old crone possessed no soul! A person's soul; that spark of life, is reflected in the eyes. It is something unidentifiable, but recognisable in every human being. However, when she looked into the dark pits that were the crone's eyes, the canon saw no life, no soul…

  As fear gripped the heart of the canon, she tried to move, tried to call out, but it was impossible. The soulless stare of the tiny old woman held her motionless; powerless to call out. Monsignor Santa Cruz, tried; the Lord knows she tried to warn the congregation. She tried with all her heart to shout a warning, but in some way, the old crone held her immobile with her intense, lifeless stare.

  Canon Maria Santa Cruz watched in horror as the crone removed a small box, inscribed with a strange pattern and fitted with one small switch, from beneath her robes. There was nothing she could do to stop the old woman from pressing the button on the control box. There wasn't even time for a last prayer before the explosives strapped to the crone's body exploded amidst the congregation.

  The offices of the European Federation

  Brussels, Belgium. 15.34 hrs GMT May 15th 2057

  'Prime Minister, I feel that I must point out that such an interest rate increase would have an adverse effect on the recovery of the German economy,' Luddendorf told Caileen Fitzgerald in no uncertain terms.

  'Sugar?' she asked disarmingly, pouring out the tea from an antique china pot. The prime minister of the European Federation had long ago learned how to deal with the aggressive and abrupt German chancellor. Born at a time when German industry dominated the European economy, Luddendorf found it hard to accept that his state was no longer in a position to dictate terms to the rest of the community.

  With an expansive sigh, which said more than any sentence could express, Luddendorf eased his bulk back into the armchair and looked at Caileen with disapproval. 'One lump please,' he answered through gritted teeth.

  With a smile, the prime minister passed the cup and saucer to the German chancellor and said quietly, 'I understand your fears chancellor, but I have the concerns of the whole federation to consider.' Luddendorf began to utter a retort, but Caileen held up her hand to silence him and continued, 'You know as well as I do, that there has been a massive rise in the sales of imported goods from Pacifica. After years of war and hardship, people are desperate to get their hands on consumer goods. Unfortunately, our factories cannot yet cope with these demands. So it is necessary to check the rise of consumer spending.'

  'Yes, yes I know all this Prime Minister,' Luddendorf snapped in irritation, lifting his obese body out of the armchair. 'However, the new factories in the Ruhr will be completed in a matter of months, and then we shall be in a position to fill the shops with consumer goods of our own!'

  As the German chancellor paced in front of the eighteenth floor panoramic view, Caileen Fitzgerald looked out at the sun glinting off the many sky-cranes that were busy rebuilding the European capital. She understood the chancellor's frustration, just as she understood and sympathised with the arguments of the representatives from the five other federation states she had already seen that day. However, she knew what had to be done to control the explosive expansion of the European economy, and was determined not to be swayed from her path.

  Caileen Fitzgerald had a reputation as a hard woman with a soft touch; an image she was careful to nurture. At the age of thirty-four, her rise to power had been meteoric and was the stuff of legends. Born in Cork in Southern Ireland she had been brought up as a good Irish Catholic girl and went to university in Dublin. There she showed an interest in european affairs and upon gaining a first in politics joined the Irish delegation in Brussels, as a junior diplomat.

  During the Dyason occupation, she had become an active member of the resistance movement and rose to the position of leader of the Low Countries cell.

  When it was revealed after the war that many Euro-MP's had actively collaborated with the Dyason occupation forces, the entire European government was dissolved.

  Seizing a political opportunity, Caileen Fitzgerald had capitalised on her wartime activities and won the hearts of the people of Europe. At the age of twenty-seven, against all the odds, she had become the Prime Minister of Europe. She was now into her second term and according to the opinion polls, still many points ahead of the nearest opposition. Attractive, with long dark hair, deep brown eyes and a trim figure, she was married to another diplomat and had a two-year-old girl. For the people of Europe, she was like royalty.

  Eventually, Luddendorf's arguments dried up and he collapsed back into the armchair with a look of resigned defeat; just as Caileen knew, he would. She leant forward and gently patted the elder statesman's hand.

  'Sometimes, we have to accept that which we feel is unacceptable,' she said in a soothing voice. 'Once your factories are up and running chancellor, then we can look at bringing the interest rates back down again.'

  Luddendorf looked up into her eyes with a look of distaste, knowing that nothing he said would make her change her mind. Without a word, he pulled his bulk out of the chair, rose and left the room. Caileen watched his retreating back until the door had closed behind him then let out a long sigh—it had been a long day.

  There was a knock on the door and her secretary entered from the reception area with a tray of fruit and sparkling water.

  'I thought you might like some of these,' he smiled at her
mischievously, 'particularly after being in the company of the “sour-kraut!”’

  Caileen laughed and moved toward her desk. 'Hah…I have to admit, there is one man who never suffered from a lack of food during the war. Either that, or he's made up for it big-time ever since!'

  The secretary put the refreshments down on the desk and she helped herself to some grapes off the tray and sipped some water. Looking down, her attention was drawn to the large manila envelope sitting on her desk.

  'What's this?' she asked.

  'It arrived by hand while you were in conference with Luddendorf,' he told her. 'It was marked private and confidential. I put it through the scanner and there's nothing nasty in there. Just some papers. Do you want me to open it?'

  She picked it up, her curiosity aroused. All her mail went through a careful screening process by her security staff, the majority of which was now electronic mail anyway. So, for an unmarked manila envelope to land unopened on her desk was very unusual.

  'No it's okay,' she replied, turning the unmarked envelope over in her hands, looking for some clue as to its origin. 'I don't get the chance to be surprised very often these days, so I'll be brave and open it myself. You never know, it might be fan mail!'

  'There's always a first time,' the secretary answered agreeably. 'I'll leave you in peace for ten minutes, but don’t forget you have a holo-interview with CNN at four Caileen.'

  'Okay,' the Prime Minister mumbled, her attention now entirely on the strange envelope.

  The secretary turned to leave, then paused for a moment. He looked back at Caileen as she sat down at her desk picking at the grapes and staring thoughtfully at the envelope.