The Leaves in Winter

by M. C. Miller

  The

  Leaves

  in

  Winter

  A L S O B Y M. C. M I L L E R

  PW2 2012: The End of the Beginning

  Islands of Instability

  Uberwoot!

  M9D9 Enterprises

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, government agencies, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011 © by M.C. Miller

  All rights reserved.

  Published by M9D9 Enterprises, LLC

  http://www.mcmillerbooks.com

  ISBN: 0982930534 EAN-13: 978-0-9829305-3-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First E-Pub Edition

  To all the children yet to be

  who wait for us, the living,

  to find a path to human survival

  CONTENTS

  Leaves Verse

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

  21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

  31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

  41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

  51 52 53 54 55

  2050 Verse

  Blog Entry

  The Leaves in Winter

  The seasons have all kinds of leaves,

  yet unforgiving winter has only three.

  There are leaves that have fallen,

  leaves of hope for when warmth returns,

  and a third kind.

  Some leaves, caught by a sudden early freeze

  long before they have a chance to turn color and fall,

  stay green when nature would rather take its course.

  They don’t know they are dead.

  They linger on the tree long into winter,

  out of place for their time,

  and only nature’s blustery insistence

  finally brings them down.

  Equally unaware,

  the living are too close to life

  to realize that life itself has a season.

  The callous winds of winter,

  impersonal, capricious, and unrelenting as they are,

  not only clear the way for the leaves in Spring,

  they routinely, dispassionately,

  if less often,

  fell the ancient tree.

  Prologue

  “André, are you ready?” The field of view blurred.

  Off camera, a shout carried back on the wind. “I’ve been ready for months. Start the second camera; let’s be sure we get this.”

  The establishing shot came into focus. The horizon line dipped and yawed. The video frame filled with the restless motion of white-capped swells churning towards a vanishing point. Across the expanse of ocean, light blazed and faded as patches of clouds and sunbreaks rushed before a backdrop of blue sky.

  The camera’s viewfinder zoomed back to reveal the windswept deck of the environmental research ship PaxTerra. The captain cut the engines. Reacting to the signal, a man rocked into view wearing a black windbreaker. A ski mask hid his face. Its bright green color stretched in stark contrast with the surroundings. He raised a handmade sign and shoved it at the camera with outstretched arms.

  Les Déchirures de la Sirène d'Opération (Operation Mermaid’s Tears)

  Mer Des Sargasses (Sargasso Sea)

  Another man stepped in front of the sign. Leader of Les Amis de L'océan (LALO), Friends of the Ocean, André Bolard was stocky and powerful from working the docks of Marseille. He steadied himself and took aim at the camera with his eyes. The collar of his windbreaker flapped. He too hid his face behind the iconic green mask. The videographer adjusted the shot and captured André’s impassioned shouts in French.

  “A famous fairy tale says mermaids have no tears. Other tall tales claim the tears of mermaids turn into pearls. We’ve all been distracted by institutional fairy tales for far too long. If mermaids exist, they’re crying for what’s happening to our oceans. We’ve gotten very good at believing the lies we tell ourselves. Somehow we think we can go on living without proper regard for the oceans or the earth and get away with it. The governments and moneymen of the world are derelict in their duty to rescue the planet. The time for half-measures is over. The crisis is now. We are the Friends of the Ocean. Today in protest, we are staging Operation Mermaid’s Tears.”

  The man raised his hand before the camera and displayed a pearl-like object between thumb and forefinger. “This is what a real mermaid’s tear looks like today – it’s plastic. Before this contagion finds its way into the ocean, this tiny pellet is called a nurdle. Each year more than 250 billion pounds of nurdles get shipped around the world to plastic processing factories. They become our toys, our packaging, everything from disposable forks to lawn furniture. Why do they start like this? Because these little resin pellets are a cheap way to ship large amounts of the raw plastic material used in all kinds of consumer goods. Ten percent of all the plastic trash in the ocean are nurdles; the rest comes from our garbage or from accidental spillage. Incredibly, container ships lose more than 10,000 of their large, seagoing containers overboard each year.”

  André measured his steps across deck as video coverage followed his movements. At the ship’s fantail, he swept his arm towards the waves then turned back to the camera to face the onrushing wind. Staring into the lens from behind the militant green mask, his eyes burned with purpose.

  “We’ve come to the edge of the Sargasso Sea. It is here where ocean currents swirl and concentrate much of the Atlantic Ocean trash into a gigantic gyre. Every ocean now has some kind of trash gyre like this accumulating on its surface. At last count, in five seas there are now eleven gyres. The one in the Pacific Ocean is twice the size of Texas. Much of this trash consists of consumer plastics that don’t biodegrade. It will take hundreds of years for all of this to break down. Meanwhile, toxins and organic pollutants are easily absorbed by the nurdles. Birds and fish mistake the pellets for fish eggs or plankton and eat the plastic. If the nurdles collecting in their bellies don’t kill them, the toxins they hold accumulate and filter up the food chain.”

  André reached into his windbreaker and pulled out a narrow silver flask. He held it in front of him as a trophy, then brandished it as a sword. Emblazoned on its side was a single warning symbol.

  “Inside this container is something called a GAMA – a Genetically-engineered Anti-Material Agent. The living microbes inside this bottle were patented by the United States Naval Research Lab. The United States military genetically engineered this life form for a specific purpose – to eat plastic. These microbes eat plastic and reproduce until they can no longer find any plastic to eat. Without plastic, these little bugs have been designed to commit suicide.”

  André held the flask to his chest in a firm grip. “The time has come to put this GAMA to good use. Today we demonstrate our resolve to do whatever it takes to get the governments of the world actively involved in saving the earth. If they won’t, then the people need to act independently on behalf of all life on this planet. We want everyone to see what we’ve done. Some will call it an act of desperation in defense of Mother Earth. We see it as a call to action for all people. It’s time to wake up and do whatever is necessary to save the planet – before it’s too late.”

  With a flourish of resolve, André turned from the camera and unscrewed the top of the silver flask. In one defiant motion, his arm swept overboard and emptied the slime green contents into the sea. The wind caught the falling liquid and whipped it out over the waves. The microbe-infect
ed mist caught the whitecaps just as quickly and was gone.

  Zooming in, the camera captured the moment when the experimental GAMA was turned loose. Only a week before, the microbes had been guarded within the security of a government research lab. Now the GAMA was free to reproduce and interact in the wild. In an act that many in the world would call eco-terrorism, LALO, by releasing the stolen GAMA, had finally made good on its threat and honored its promise.

  André turned back to the camera. A fire of satisfaction danced in his eyes. “I challenge everyone who watches this to do something to make a difference – either that or suffer the consequences of a planet in peril.”

  “You have to admit; André has a point.”

  Eugene Mass stared into the flat screen TV and watched the gyrating decks of the PaxTerra rise and dip before a watery horizon. His voice was slight yet everyone in The Group had heard him. More importantly, they knew what he was insinuating.

  Cloistered in a conference room with eight other men of high finance and global position, Mass suffered those around him with rising irritation. An imposing figure, even in his mid-60s, Mass could command attention merely by clearing his throat. His distinctive accent was still intact despite leaving his Bulgarian birthplace as a teenager and never looking back.

  On his way to becoming rich, Eugene Mass had always been a global citizen. His only allegiance was to a consuming vision of the way the world could be. Always well-suited but never one to wear a tie, he was the billionaire with a signature tussle of white hair topping his lanky frame. As was his habit, he rubbed his right temple to feed energy to his thoughts.

  Curtis Labon was not one to be bullied. A decade younger than Mass and physically less striking, Labon resented the way Mass assumed the role of elder statesman at Group meetings. Labon squinted behind wire-framed glasses, anticipating the confrontation that was coming. He was too familiar with the shifting dynamics within The Group to be outmaneuvered now.

  For over twenty years, the private collaboration of influence and money had steered The Group’s shared altruism into practical, global applications, legislation, even social movements – with mixed results. A few strident causes had been carefully financed and nurtured until they were successfully finessed into the popular zeitgeist. Frustratingly, their most important goal was yet to be achieved. Only recently had The Group agreed to compromise and try a limited approach using more aggressive measures – the kind favored by Mass.

  Labon punched a button on his conference table and the recorded news footage froze to a still frame. “André Bolard is a loose cannon; a small fish. Now that the world has seen what he’s done, he’s served his purpose.”

  Pushing away from the table, Labon stood to face a wall of windows. Beyond the glass a pristine Canadian lake, the jewel of his expansive estate, stretched to a misty tree line. “Our alibi is established. If GAMA material is now discovered in the wild, it will be assumed it came from LALO’s publicity stunt.”

  “So we proceed with the 1st Protocol.” Mass’ slight, accented voice delivered a statement, but to Labon it sounded more like an order.

  Labon was reluctant to show agreement with Mass too readily in front of the others. The power plays between the two of them over the years were legend even if contained privately within The Group. An upper hand now meant so much more than ever before. Group direction was changing. Labon was acutely aware how their future course would impact the world.

  In principle, the goal of what they were planning was sound. Labon had only questioned the methods to achieve their lofty ends. Mass was eager for results. He was convinced that the escalating world crisis of climate change, limited resources, and burgeoning population demanded methods of social engineering more determined than anything tried before. Labon believed there still was time to use less invasive methods. The 1st Protocol was their compromise – seen as radical to Labon but indicted as incomplete by Mass. As such, the concession oddly satisfied no one but the other seven members – and only because they weren’t prepared to take sides.

  The rest of The Group had agreed with Mass’ plan for implementing what he called staged protocols – one they had decided on with others to be determined later. They had been convinced only after being fed a constant diet of dire planetary warnings over time by Mass. Labon worried that The Group’s sudden new willingness to listen to Mass might be the slippery slope into everything they’d once told themselves they abhorred. All Labon needed was an inroad, an issue, something to swing The Group back to his side – and to reason.

  A stable, appropriately-sized human population, sustainable and in harmony with planetary systems would come about – the only question was how. Would humanity respond to persuasion and education or would its recklessness precipitate a horrific collapse of civilization? The Group was in agreement – this was the primary issue facing the world in the 21st century. What were the alternatives? What would it take to nudge a natural balance back into the human equation? It seemed they had tried everything – within reason.

  Labon tensed at the thought of what other options were left.

  It was now clear; as different as they were, Eugene Mass and André Bolard had much in common. Both were impatient with the slow tides of progress on the world stage. Depending on how much of a world crisis one saw coming, a different devil was in the details. Depending on which devil of an idea drove them, there would be a custom hell to pay for someone.

  Was it better to keep Mass close or at arm’s length? Labon feared his own need to assert himself might make that choice before better instincts had figured it out.

  Curtis Labon exhaled a fateful breath and turned back to the table.

  “I see no reason why final lab work can’t begin.”

  Hasuru Tamasu was the overly cautious one. He rarely attended Group meetings in person, preferring videoconference from his office in Tokyo. His presence at Labon’s estate was testament to the security precautions demanded by today’s topic. “Are we sure nobody’s going to study LALO’s bio-container? Harmless pond scum is not an alibi.”

  “You aren’t suggesting we should have shared the real thing with those rabble-rousers are you?” Mass had a way of laughing without parting his teeth.

  Labon answered the question. “LALO made their point; that’s all they wanted. From what I heard, André deep-sixed the Navy’s container on his way back to port.”

  Another voice spoke up. Heinrich was a stickler for detail. He also resented that primary genetics work on their project wasn’t being done in Germany. “Are we sure the GAMA’s suicide gene will work in our configuration? I’m not convinced we have an adequate way to test it under real-life conditions.”

  “The lab is working on that. We simply have to take our time and do it right.”

  “How long?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Mass flicked one fingernail against another. “I thought we agreed to take action. Why endlessly test something that scientists in the United States have already proven? Our pathogen and payload are ready. Demonstrating that the suicide gene triggers apoptosis after delivery should be the easy part.”

  “Apoptosis?”

  Mass flashed annoyance at the one Group member who dared to question basic terminology this far into the game.

  Another member explained, “…programmed cell death.”

  Heinrich was only half-convinced. “I can’t help but wonder – the way we’re using the suicide gene is so different. The GAMA is a microbe – it’s nothing like the virus within a virus we’ll be using. These aren’t interchangeable parts we’re dealing with. We can’t take chances with the interaction.”

  Mass was unruffled. He lectured the German. “Perhaps the reason you’re so worried is because you know so little about this. Did you read the whitepaper that Kevin prepared?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Then refresh my memory – who engineered the microbe?”

  “The U.S. Navy.”

  “But who engi
neered the suicide gene inside the microbe?”

  Heinrich bristled. “I don’t need to be quizzed.”

  “The U.S. Army.” Mass tapped open the whitepaper in question on the display tablet before him and navigated the touchscreen.

  Labon relished the opportunity to take Mass down a notch. “Actually, it was Boston University – under contract from the U.S. Army. The work was done at Natick Laboratories near Boston. Natick is a division of the US Army Soldier & Biological Chemical Command.”

  Mass didn’t look up from his tablet. “Quite right. And oddly enough, the U.S. Army was granted a patent for their lethal gene ‘terminator system’ on 9/11/2001.” Mass looked up with a wry smile. “What a coincidence. I imagine news that the patent had been awarded didn’t hit anybody’s radar that day.”

  Heinrich leaned back. “What’s your point?”

  Mass donned reading glasses. “You have concerns; we need to deal with them.” Mass scanned the text. “It says here the Army specifically tailored their suicide gene systems to work in biodegradative microbes, especially the anti-material Pseudomonas species engineered by the Navy.”

  “But we’re not using a microbe.”

  Mass raised his hand. “Wait – let’s read from the official document. The Army’s patent claims ‘new killing genes and improved strategies to control their expression’ for the purpose of ‘controlling genetically engineered organisms in the open environment, and in particular, the containment of microorganisms that degrade...’ The system is adaptable and the patent asserts that ‘a variety of bacterial and non-bacterial recombinant organisms can be controlled in this manner.’” Mass glared up over the rim of his reading glasses at Heinrich. “Did you get that? Non-bacterial recombinant organisms can be controlled by this suicide gene. Sounds like a virus to me. As a matter of fact, that sounds like what we’re using. That’s clever of them. They left the door open to many things besides microbes. They said it themselves – it’s adaptable.”