The War of Immensities

by Barry Klemm

  “And now, Mr. Carrick, if you are able, we would like you to make the formal identification of the body.”

  “Why me?”

  “It would be best if neither myself nor Mr. Fabrini were formally connected to this matter. And perhaps some advantage may be gained if the documentation was made to recognise the project with which you are associated.”

  “If you say so.”

  “She will remain in state until the next pilgrimage. Do you wish to view the body alone?”

  “Thanks,” Brian said. He had no idea of how to address this man, certainly dared not call him Don, and so offered nothing except his hand.

  “A pleasure to be of service. Even in such regrettable circumstances. Good luck, Mr. Carrick.”

  He turned and walked, taking Fabrini with him. Brian watched him depart for a moment and then turned to the nurse, who silently admitted him to the darkened room.

  *

  The Orion sat in the shimmering heat haze of the tarmac at Kuwait airport. It made you sweat just to look at it. In the coffee bar in the air-conditioned terminal building, the heat glared at them enviously from outside. Felicity stirred her Earl Grey tea and regarded Harley Thyssen grimly. Thyssen drank coffee, strong and black.

  They had talked of Chrissie and of Jami in cold deliberate terms, neither allowing their emotions to show. They had talked of the estimated ten million deaths attributable to the Shastri Events. They maintained cold analytic terms, non-judgmental, unemotional. And now millions more were to die while they sat helplessly. They were dying now, even before the real terror began.

  “They were the youngest of us, those two sweet girls,” Felicity said, stirring her tea although she took no sugar. “It’s so unfair.”

  “I’m sorry,” Thyssen said grimly. “I seem to have grown completely immune to tragedy.”

  The Zone would be mostly located in the Caspian Sea where there had been little research to determine the presence of underwater volcanoes or fissures, but it would take in the southern coast, penetrating two hundred miles onto the land, engulfing the Elburz Mountains of northern Iran, one of the most populous regions of that country, and might even overwhelm the city of Teheran itself. Fifty miles from that city was one huge volcano—18,000 foot Mt Damavand, which would certainly erupt catastrophically. Another danger area was 500 miles away to the northwest where the borders of Turkey, Armenia and Azerbaijan interlocked—a region of many volcanoes dominated by Mt Ararat.

  “Is that why you were able to risk Lorna’s life in such a cavalier fashion?” Felicity said, because she was so frustrated and had to lash out at someone.

  “I’ll probably have to risk all of our lives before this is over,” Thyssen said quietly. “In fact, I already am.”

  Together they had watched it all on the news, CNN by satellite, and it seemed that the news was all about them and yet, strangely, it wasn’t. Because it was happening in America, Lorna Simmons came first, along with items concerning President Grayson’s budget problems and difficulties with policing the world’s trouble spots. A spokesperson expressed a fear that a new Waco, or worse, Jonestown, incident was brewing, based around Lorna’s plea to all the Californian pilgrims to proceed to Brazil. An FBI chief assured the nation of his agency’s readiness to move in take appropriate action. There was a medical man who declared that the pilgrims were medically normal and that their pilgrim status was almost certainly a mass delusion.

  Two items later was a brief mention of Joe Solomon and how a judge had been unable to find any charges against him sustained. However, Mr. Solomon was still in custody, while another line of inquiry was being pursued regard in purchase of properties elsewhere. There were two other crooked billionaires who received similar treatment, and there was no mention of a possible connection between the activities of Lorna and Joe.

  “Can they really be that stupid?” Felicity wondered.

  “No,” Harley Thyssen said. “They know exactly what they’re doing.”

  Deeper in the bulletin, the death of an aging movie star was reported, and then that of Christine Rice, an Italian nun who was being considered by the Vatican for Canonisation, had died under suspicious circumstances. A funeral appropriate to so saintly a person was planned, and a few words from a Cardinal Valerno saying what a great loss to humanity she was. And, toward the end, graphic pictures of the mass migration of the Malawi people from their war-torn homeland across Africa. Professor Daniels of the Smithsonian pointed out that such migrations were common in the history of Africa.

  There was discussion of whether the US should send food-aid. Andromeda Starlight appeared in the manner of those movie stars who visit starving regions on behalf of aid agencies. She said regular supplies of food were getting through for the moment. There was no indication that she might be more than a casual observer of the event.

  The sports reports took them out of the spotlight for a few minutes, but then they were back again with the weather, unseasonably smoggy due to the high levels of dust in the atmosphere from the volcanic eruptions in Java, displayed against the backdrop of one of the remarkably brilliant sunsets being seen all around the world. There was even a meteorologist there to explain that such periods of excessive vulcanology had been noted throughout Earth’s geological history.

  “They got through it all without a single mention of either Project Earthshaker, or the Shastri Effect,” Felicity said in amazement.

  “Nor any suggestion that these matters might in some way be connected,” Thyssen pointed out.

  “Why are they doing it, Harley?”

  “They’re still hoping to get away with calling me a crack-pot.”

  “If only it was true,” Felicity said without thinking, and then turned in horror as she realised.

  “It’s all right,” Harley said sadly. “I’d like it to be true myself. Better a padded cell or academic odium than what really lies before us.”

  What the news broadcast didn’t mention was the events presently taking place in Iran, despite continual footage being shown on the local Kuwaiti network for which you didn’t need to understand the language to grasp the essentials. The word had spread of the coming disaster and the population of northern Iran was scattering in all directions, but such was the nature of their history that they found enemies waiting no matter what border the refugees tried to cross. Massacres were taking place everywhere, including inside Iran as the military strove to maintain control. The Islamic Fundamentalist government cursed the Americans for the chaos they were trying to create in their country with their vicious rumours and malignant lies.

  And, denied permission to enter Iranian airspace, the Orion waited it out in Kuwait, and Harley and Felicity with it. “I feel so helpless,” Felicity said.

  “You imagine there is something you can do to prevent this madness?” Thyssen asked her.

  “If we can’t do anything, what the hell are we doing here?”

  “Just in case there’s something we can do, that will help a little bit.”

  Felicity was stirring her tea again. She looked at him from under her brows and spoke very slowly and determinedly.

  “Harley, stop being so bloody pragmatic for a moment, and tell me how all this effort is somehow worthwhile.”

  “You mean the whole project, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Tell me that Chrissie and Jami died for some decent purpose.”

  “I can’t do that. The most probable outcome is that those people who believe me to be a charlatan have about a ninety percent chance of being proven right.”

  “Oh, thanks Harley. Thanks very much. So how the hell do you go on?”

  “I’m in the ten percent, most of the time.”

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “On the face of the evidence, yes.”

  “Well fuck you, Professor Thyssen. Only let’s drop the professor charade for a moment and let’s have good old Harley, decent human being. What’s he think?”

  “He doesn’t think because h
e doesn’t exist.”

  “Don’t evade me, Harley. I need this. Come on. Tell me about the ten percent. Tell me what you think might happen, or what you hope might happen?’

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Bullshit, Harley. You won’t do it. But you must have some idea because you certainly do have a plan.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. You plan to manipulate the Focal Point so it falls inside the Zone of Influence and cram as many pilgrims into the spot as you can. That much I know.”

  “Fine. I admit that.”

  “That’s why you dumped Lorna in Sulawesi. You needed to be sure a pilgrim could survive a double dose of the Shastri Effect.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you got a better result that you expected, because in fact it cured her.”

  “Actually, we’re not sure it did. We have to wait and see if the participants in the next linkage are also cured, not to mention unknown long term effects.”

  “Rhubarb, rhubarb. You can’t tell me you don’t believe it, Harley. You’ve dumped all those Japanese on Joe’s Ranchos in Brazil. And I know you planned to move the Italians there as well...”

  “Which is probably why they killed Chrissie,” Thyssen said coldly.

  “Oh no, Harley. You can’t have it both ways. There’s no evidence that anyone killed her.”

  “I killed her,” Thyssen said. “Just as I also killed Jami.”

  “There’s no proof that Jami is even dead.”

  “Still my responsibility...”

  “Oh no, Harley. You couldn’t have known how Jami would behave, and you have no idea how or why Chrissie died. I’m sorry. You just don’t get away with blaming yourself all the time.”

  “I got them into this...”

  “They got themselves in. And they both knew the risks. You coerced no one, and it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I was giving the orders. I sent Jami up the mountains. I instructed Chrissie to move the Italians. My orders. My fault.”

  “One minute you try and tell us you’re not in charge of the project, then you take full responsibility when it goes wrong. I’m sorry, Harley. You’re being inconsistent.”

  “I thought you wanted my unscientific opinion.”

  “I do. But let’s drop the maudlin crap and get back to the point. You’re piling pilgrims into Brazil. Lorna is busily exporting every Californian she can into the place. Come on, Harley. What do you expect to happen?”

  “They’ll be cured.”

  “Cured merely to die three months later when the planet comes apart at the seams?”

  “And to see what other effects might take place.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like whatever happens.”

  “Not convincing, Harley. You aren’t interested in curing pilgrims. That was just a fortuitous side-effect. That wasn’t why you did it because you didn’t know it offered a cure. There was some other reason why you did it.”

  “Anything we learn might help...”

  “Help do what?”

  “Whatever we can.”

  “Don’t give me the run around, Harley. Brian told me all about it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That you’re planning to try to kill a black hole. All by yourself. Super-Harley versus a planet-eating singularity.”

  “If it’s a black hole...”

  “Which is an interesting way of not denying it.”

  “Well, if there was some way of stopping that thing, it would be a pity if we didn’t try and find it.”

  “Do you really think you can?”

  “No. I definitely think I can’t. Neither me nor anyone else.”

  “Then why are you bothering?”

  “Because, if you haven’t noticed, its the only chance we have.”

  “So you believe there’s a connection between the Event and the Effect.”

  “That’s the possibility I’m exploring.”

  “And you hope that somehow you can reverse the Shastri Effect and turn it back against it’s source.”

  “No. I don’t think that.”

  “But that is what you’re setting up here.”

  “I guess.”

  “Without believing in it.”

  “Haven’t you noticed that it’s the only game in town?”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Felicity. This is no time for believing in miracles.”

  “Yes it is. You just said so. If a miracle is the only chance you have, then all you can do is go for it.”

  “Elegantly put.”

  Felicity drank her tea in a single triumphant gulp. And then leaning back in her chair, she smiled. “You’ve heard that theory, haven’t you, that rocks are actually living things but just with too slow a metabolism for us to be able to recognise it for what it is.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard the theory.”

  “Well, Harley Thyssen. I think we’ve just seen the living proof of it.”

  “Oh really? How?”

  “Because, in case you didn’t notice, I just managed to get some blood out of a stone.”

  *

  It is possible to live in California without a house, but not without a car. Even those who still prevailed in tents on farm properties in the general area between Mexicali and Mojave Desert, and the region around San Francisco, first needed a car to fetch the tent. Detroit’s surplus was swallowed at a single gulp, and any caravan for sale anywhere in the United States was snapped up and towed to the increasingly crowded beauty spots on the San Joaquin or the California Aqueduct and all along the San Luiz Canal. All settlements doubled and tripled their populations, all accommodation was devoured and extended and the outskirts were swallowed by enormous shanty towns. Four million refugees were housed wherever it was possible to house a person, everywhere except the one region at the centre.

  There was a circle that swung from just south of Bakersfield to just north of Fresno, and from Coalinga on the coast to Coyote Peak in the Sierra Nevadas, around which the National Guard and the US Army had joined forces to throw a cordon and very hurriedly built a cyclone wire fence and barbed wire entanglements. When the sleepers awoke, they found they were prisoners in their own homes. Thousands of aid workers prowled amongst them, keeping them comfortable and maintaining drips until they woke. Then the sleepers were free to go about their lives, provided they stayed within the 440 mile diameter circle that encompassed them. For most, after they had repaired the earthquake damage to their homes, not a lot changed. Except they paid very close attention to the things Lorna Simmons said on television.

  “When the time comes,” she told them over and over, “get in your car or ask your neighbour for a lift—it’ll be okay because you’ll all be going the same way. We’re heading due north by the compass because the Focal Point is up near the Magnetic North Pole but there’s no need to go that far. Head out toward Yosemite National Park where we can have some nice picnics along the road, and then it gets a little complicated but all that volcanic dust in the atmosphere means the snows are melting early and we can get over Tioga Pass and onto US395, heading for Carson City and Reno. You’ll know when the time comes. A day and a half later, you’ll just turn around and come home again, if you want to. Don’t forget to have a nice time.”

  Just ten miles outside Fresno, the Highway Patrol stopped them at the road block and refused to let them pass. The stationary convoy built up back beyond Tulare. Lorna watched it all happening from a helicopter as she was flown to the scene. In her mind were sad thoughts of Chrissie as she prepared to lead her own pilgrimage.

  “You just stand yourself ahead of them, the people at the front see you and the word spreads like wildfire and they all follow. It’s amazing,” Chrissie had said. The words gnawed at Lorna’s brain as much an anxiety clutched her stomach. It was so much easier doing these things through the filter of a television camera—facing a mob of real people was something else again.

  The helicopter banked in
toward the twin black belts of the highway. The vast clutter of people, vehicles and trailers piled with belongings obliterating the roadway and spilling off the edges on one side, the clear open road on the other. The Highway Patrol had made a barricade of twenty cars, and they huddled behind them with their guns drawn. Already, the pilgrims had dropped the trailer off a big rig and were positioning the prime mover up to the front to ram their way through. The helicopter was equipped with a loudspeaker and Lorna was shouting into the microphone.

  “This is Lorna Simmons. Please stop what you are doing, everybody. I’m coming down. Everyone stay where you are and stop whatever you’re doing.”

  Magically, all of the frenzied movement on the pilgrim side of the line ceased and people and police alike paused to look upward at the helicopter. Lorna smiled. Thank you, Chrissie, she breathed.

  The Highway Patrol Captain came down to meet her as the helicopter landed behind the line.

  “We got a situation here, ma’am,” he said urgently. “Sure appreciate your help or else I don’t know what woulda happened.”

  “Why don’t you let them through?” Lorna demanded of him.

  “We got orders, ma’am.”

  “The person who gave you the orders does not understand the situation,” Lorna said. “They have to go. It’s compulsive. If your men start shooting, they’ll just keep coming until you run out of bullets and then they’ll walk right over you. Don’t you understand that?”

  “I was gettin’ that impression.”

  “Then let them through.”

  “Can’t do it ma’am.”

  “Look, what on earth do you think is going to happen?”

  “Durned if I know.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. They’ll just make their way down the highway toward Nevada until sometime tomorrow morning when they’ll stop and turn around and come right back again.”

  “That don’t make sense, ma’am.”

  “Still, that’s what will happen. There won’t be any problem.”

  “You can’t be so sure of that.”

  “Captain, what harm are they doing? Just driving on the state highways, minding their own business.”