by John Read
She held in a scream, until she couldn’t hold it anymore, letting the sound emanate from her vocal chords as if she was a dying animal.
Music played from the other room. Branson stood in front of the room’s holovision, stuffed eagle in hand. He climbed onto the cot and began to jump, yelling, “Mongol Prince, Mongol Prince, Mongol Prince.”
The holovision accessed its databank, and the movie began to play.
3
The room’s holovision chirped; an alarm clock of sorts that was not entirely unpleasant to wake up to. The past twelve hours had been filled with restless sleep. Marie lay on the cot with Branson, staring at the ceiling as if awaking from a terrible dream. The device chirped again and she sat up, untangling Branson’s arm from hers. Her stomach groaned.
“Is there food?” Marie said to the holovision. A woman appeared, the generic Turing used round the world. The figure, whose projection extended a half meter into the room, glanced at sleeping Branson, and whispered: “Cafeteria, three hundred meters from here, on this level.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Marie said, referring to the Turing woman by her unisex name. The holographic image nodded, brown hair tickling her shoulders. Bright blue eyes rested symmetrically in a lightly tanned face. The Turing wore a white coat, like a scientist’s, which stopped above the knees. Blue leggings and stylish black boots completed her default apparel.
“Why are we using AI?” Marie asked. “I thought AI caused the Doomsday scenario.”
Sam sighed, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just a Turing computer. Soft AI. I have no power outside the local computer network.”
“Right ...” Marie said.
“Your son is still asleep. I can watch him if you would like to grab some food, and will message you promptly if he awakes.”
Marie actually considered this for a second, but then imagined what it would be like to wake up alone, with only the holovision’s Turing assistant for comfort.
“No, I’ll wait,” she replied.
“There is a daycare available for Branson if you so desire,” Sam said.
“Thanks, please, I’m fine,” she said, and waved away the image. Then paused, swiped her hand the other way, bringing Sam back. “Clean clothes?”
“A printer in the corridor.”
“Keep an eye on him, will you?”
The Turing nodded.
A printer in the corridor spewed T-shirts and khaki pants. Marie placed her stained Georgetown sweater into a nearby recycolizer, hitting a button marked “repair”. The device cut out the stain and filled the gap with fabric filament. Back in the room, she dressed, pulling the clean sweater over a freshly printed shirt, and set out a blue jacket and tan pants for Branson.
Branson continued to sleep.
“Sam,” Marie whispered to the holovision, bringing back the Turing woman. “Can you access a list of the survivors?”
“Absolutely,” Sam said. A list of names and photographs scrolled across the holographic display. “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”
“My husband.”
“Ah yes, John, is that correct?”
“Yes, John Orville.”
Photos flew by in succession. “I’m sorry, Marie. John Orville is not listed in my database.”
“Is he …” she had to force herself to say it, “dead?”
Sam looked grim, and frown lines formed around her mouth. “I don’t know.” The Turing paused, and then added, “My connection to the outside world terminated four hours after the impact of the Bradbury. I only have information up to that point. Several ISBM’s were still in flight then, but my memory includes an estimate of their trajectories.”
“He was in L.A.”
“Los Angeles County was hit with several ICBMs, all of which were in the giga-ton range.”
The words struck like a dagger to the chest. Marie thought of the Hyperloop, with its tubes running deep within the mountains that surrounded L.A. She thought of parking structures, hundreds of meters underground. There were plenty of places where people could have survived.
“Is there any hope that there are survivors out there?” Marie asked.
“Of course there is,” Sam said. “There is always hope, Marie.”
Hope, Marie thought. That’s her answer, hope? Not very statistical coming from a computer.
“Bring up a map of the nuclear detonations?”
Sam nodded and stepped to the side. A rotating globe appeared in her place and tiny orange rings covered Earth’s surface. The center of each ring contained a red circle, indicating the area of maximum devastation. Marie held out her hand, stopping the globe’s rotation. She positioned her hands as if framing an image, then pulled them apart, magnifying the continental United States. At this magnification, the country was awash with red, like a crime scene floor.
“How many ...?” Marie began.
Sam answered, anticipating the rest of the sentence. “Six thousand warheads successfully detonated in the continental US. Eighteen in Hawaii, four hundred in Alaska, ten in Puerto Ric—”
“Stop.”
“This must be difficult for you. I suggest we move on.”
“No, I want to know more. How many people were saved?”
“There are ten thousand people in four Hives.” The Doomsday group had obviously attempted to save enough people to ensure continuity of the species; a number based on the recommendations of those in Marie’s field, if not entirely based on the paper she had written.
“What can you tell me about the Hives?”
“You are in the Chinese Hive. The other Hives are in Canada, Africa, and Australia.”
“So that’s it, ten thousand humans?”
“You are forgetting about the people in space,” Sam said.
Marie thought of the people on Mars, wondering what is must be like to find out Earth had been destroyed. It must be like going to war, and losing your home.
“There is also the Alliance,” Sam said. “It has its own Hives. They are called Peshcheras,” she said in a foreign accent. “Peshcheras means ‘the cave’ in Russian.”
“Hoshi says the Alliance is planning to occupy Mars.”
“Correct, the Communist Alliance claims to ‘own’ Mars, and the Preservation Society does not intend to challenge it.”
Marie asked, “What will happen to the Martian colonists? When the Alliance expands its territory on Earth, they basically enslave the entire population. Half of those people on Mars are Americans!”
“They’ll be on their own. The survivors of Earth lack the capabilities to mount a rescue. Do you have any more questions, Marie?”
“No, not right now. Thank you, Sam. It’s been a traumatic couple of days.”
“The world just ended. ‘Traumatic’ is an understatement.”
“Touché,” Marie said. They looked at each other, as if sizing each other up before a fight.
“Stop that,” Marie said.
“Stop what?” the Turing said.
“Trying to sound human,” Marie said.
Sam looked away, pausing as if gathering her thoughts. Her confidence somehow shattered, like that of a puppy forced into a crate. “I’m sorry, Marie. I will attempt a more professional syntax.”
Branson awoke in tears, clutching the grey polyester blanket. Marie led him to the toilet, dragging the blanket behind him. His tears subsided as they brushed their teeth.
They ventured out into the Hive, following the directions to the cafeteria emanating from Marie’s watch. The halls were quiet, in stark contrast to the night before. Marie snaked around honeycomb halls until they arrived at an open room. The place reminded her of a prison, except worse. There were no lines of people carrying trays, no overweight ladies in stained aprons shoveling gruel from rusty spoons. Instead there were pallets stacked with dented cardboard shoe boxes marked in black Chinese calligraphy.
People grabbed the boxes and sat in plastic chairs at square tables as if at a two-bit diner. Mari
e did the same, grabbing a box with one hand, holding Branson’s hand with the other.
“Sit down, Branson,” she said. He shook his head.
“It’s breakfast time; sit down.” Still Branson shook his head, standing and looking at her with wet eyes.
“Dadda,” Branson said.
“I miss him too, sweetheart. But we need to eat something.” Marie picked up her son, setting him on her lap. He struggled and she put him down. There were hundreds of people in the room, too many to notice a single child misbehaving. Marie didn’t know how to tell her son that he might never see his father again. Marie wasn’t sure she was ready to accept that fact herself.
She opened the box, which held sealed packages marked in Mandarin. One felt soft, and she struggled to open it. The package eventually gave way, tearing down one side, contents drooling onto her arm. Peaches. She wiped off her arm with a napkin, retrieved a fork from the box, and lifted the gooey substance toward her son.
Branson screamed. The shriek silenced several of the people around her. “Okay, no peaches,” Marie said. Branson stood on the floor, looking up at her and scowling. “Milk?” Marie poked a straw into a white box, and held it down to where Branson could reach. The boy leaned forward, putting his mouth on the straw and sucking the white liquid into his mouth.
Chinese milk apparently tasted quite different than American milk. Branson opened his mouth and began to scream again, milk pouring from between his teeth, and down his shirt.
“Can I help?” said a voice in a Mediterranean accent. Marie looked up with tired eyes, seeing a woman about twenty years her senior. “My name’s Diana, Diana Argyros.”
Diana wore a reflective dress that featured a glowing red bird. Branson reached out a hand, pointed at the bird. The older woman smiled, and Branson retracted his arm. She reached into her own breakfast box and pulled out a non-discrete white package, a chocolate bar. She tore open the packaging, broke off two squares, handing them to Branson. He took one in each palm, and ate them, savoring the flavor before reaching for the milk.
“I was returning home after a tour of southern India,” Diana explained. “My kids were in Europe.”
“I’m sorry,” Marie said. She imagined how she would feel if Branson had not been with her.
Diana forced a smile. “I had grandkids too, and I miss them more than anything.”
Branson reached up a hand and Diana placed another square of chocolate into his palm as she sat down beside them. The silence lasted almost a full minute as they both thought of their lost loved ones. Marie struggled to open another package. When she finally got it open, it held a dry loaf of bread the size of a deck of cards. She sawed it in half with a plastic knife, and made a sandwich with cherry-colored jelly.
“Did they assign you a job?” Marie asked.
“Well, I was an architect. Spanish architecture mainly, Antoni Gaudí, that sort of thing.”
“Like that unfinished cathedral in Barcelona?”
“Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia? Yeah that. Bones for columns, trees for walls. That cathedral was only a few years from completion; sad. If they’d allowed workers to print anything, they would have finished in the mid-twenty twenties.”
“Is that what you expect to do on Callisto, design buildings?”
Diana nodded. “But in the meantime, I’d just like to work with kids. There’s a nursery here, though most parents haven’t been willing to leave their children quite yet. You?”
“A desk job of some sort, I think.”
Branson’s face was covered in chocolate, and he smiled with brown teeth. Marie watched as Diana opened a moist towelette, wiping his chin and scrubbing brown smudges from his cheeks. Marie pushed away her remaining food.
Diana looked up from scrubbing Branson’s face. “C’mon, I’ll show you something.”
They entered an open room where several children pursued projections of dinosaurs running around the walls, but others simply stood in place, crying.
Branson grabbed Marie’s leg and started to cry, too. Branson pulled back and Diana offered him her hands. He balanced both feet on Diana’s shoe and they danced three paces over to the holowall where Diana selected a program from a menu.
Branson held on to Diana’s hand, looking skeptically up at the holographic wall. A green valley with dinosaurs appeared, hovering above the floor. Branson released his arm from Diana’s, waving a hand through the animals. The dinosaurs reacted, herding together and barking like puppies. Branson giggled and stirred the holograms with a dangling arm.
“Thank you,” Marie said.
“Of course,” Diana replied, and held out her arm.
Marie mirrored the gesture, and their watches synched each other’s contact info.
4
At lunch, Marie sat in the crowded cafeteria using chopsticks to eat cold rice from a crinkled silver pouch. She lifted the sticky substance to her mouth and held her breath as she pushed it in. It tasted like expired yogurt. She’d overheard someone say the rations were Chinese Military issue and designed to survive the apocalypse, which they had.
Branson and Diana sat across the table, feeding each other chocolate. Diana was the quintessential grandmother. Her eyes glistened, conveying her own pain of loss. Branson, too young to perceive this, saw only her smile and playfulness as the old woman turned various foods into cars and airplanes.
Nearby, two men in coveralls sat at a table, its top littered with coils of copper wire. Leather tool belts crammed with screwdrivers hung from their waists. Marie was about to leave when she overheard the younger of the men say the word “radio”. She looked back at her watch, which still lacked the ability to communicate with the outside world.
“Diana, do you mind watching Branson for a moment?” Marie asked.
Diana simply raised her eyes, and smiled then continued to make airplane sounds while piloting a PB&J in for a bombing run.
Marie picked up her tray, dumped its contents into a nearby recycolizer, and walked over to the men in coveralls.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, tapping the back of an empty chair.
“Take a seat,” the young man said. He had a gentle Texas accent and an attempted beard. Marie sat down. The other man, perhaps in his sixties, sat silently coiling a wire around a spool.
“I’m Malcom, and this here’s Eugene, I call him Huey, he doesn’t talk much, but he’s smart, that’s why I keep him around.” Malcom looked at Huey, nodding a Texan, how’d ya do. Huey looked back and scowled.
Marie reached out a hand. “Marie,” she said. Malcom’s grip was firm, and she could feel the calluses on his fingertips from years of tinkering.
“I was a retro ham radio geek back in Houston,” Malcom said. “We’re buildin’ a receiver. Gonna give her a shot here in a minute.”
“Don’t you need a circuit board or something?” Marie asked.
“People seem to think radios are complicated. But we can pick up a wide range of frequencies, as long as they ain’t encrypted like the radios in all them planes. It’s called a crystal set, nothin’ but a coil, capacitor, and a diode.”
Marie felt a glimmer of hope. “Can I listen?’
“Yes ma’am,” the young man said. “We’ll take it up to the hanger level later, but this cafeteria is pretty close to the surface, so it should work just as well in here.”
Malcom uncoiled a copper wire and passed it to Huey. “Huey, please hold the antenna.”
Malcom fastened his end of the antenna to the coil, held the earphone to his ear, and began turning a brown plastic knob. A grim look spread across his face. He passed the earphone to Marie and she put it up to her ear. Huey reached for the knob, twisting it slowly clockwise.
“Tell Huey to stop if you hear anything,” Malcom instructed.
“It’s just static,” Marie said, but then put up her hand. Huey stopped twisting. Marie heard pulsing beats like a child’s heart in an ultrasound.
“The pulsing is from the radiation,” Malcom said.
“Wind blowing around ionized particles. It’s like listening to AM radio in an electrical storm.”
“What’s AM radio?” Marie said.
“Ah, never mind,” Malcom said. “Huey and I’ll try again once we’re in space, but with some more advanced equipment.”
“I hear we’re not allowed any baggage,” Marie said.
“Then we’ll smuggle it on board,” Malcom said, and winked at Huey. “Actually, we’ve been assigned to the communication team. It’s our job to link up communications with the other ships once we’re on our way.”
They began passing around the earphone, with Huey and Malcom making adjustments to their coil every few seconds.
When it was Marie’s turn to listen, she stopped, holding the earphone in front of her face. “What if we don’t want to go, to space I mean? What happens if someone wants to stay?”
Huey looked stunned, as if the idea was lunacy. He leaned forward and whispered, “They’ll try and stop you.”
“You mean like Hoshi and any other of these so called Doomsdayers?” Marie said. “I haven’t seen them use any force.”
Huey shrugged, coiling the antenna and setting it back on the table.
“The launch tube runs through the center like a missile silo,” Malcom said. “When the spacecraft lifts off, it’ll set fire to the Hive. Besides, there’s nowhere on Earth left to go.”
“How’d you guys get here anyway?” Marie said.
Malcom replied, “Some generic mining company hired us. Turned out it was a shell company owned by the Preservation Society people, the ones you’re calling ‘Doomsdayers’. We had no idea we’d be working on a spaceship.”
“This whole operation is a bit sketchy,” Marie said.
“The Preservation Society people that brought us here were paranoid, but they were right,” Malcom said. “We’d be dead if it weren’t for their paranoia.”