The Savants

by Patrick Kendrick

  When he awoke from a coma a few months later, Jeremy’s body had shrunk from not moving his muscles, but he could move. Moreover, he could talk. His first words were: “Eet ees 9:23 am.”

  Those were the only words he could say for the first several weeks, as he embarked on an arduous regimen of physical therapy and struggled to learn to walk again. One day, when the nurses took him to the exercise room, they gave him a lump of clay to help him develop some hand-eye coordination. Jeremy stared at the clay, but did not see it as a lump; he saw it as an animal—a horse, in fact—though he had never actually seen a horse at that time.

  The sound of the nurses’ voices disappeared as he began to mold the clay. The only sounds he heard were from the machines surrounding him and the other patients. He could hear the cold air coming through the vents of the air conditioner, the belts inside of it that turned the fan, the chemicals that moved through its pipes. He could hear the pumping sounds of ventilators, like robotic breathing, and the whirr of bike sprockets and belts and beeps from the rehab machines.

  When he could hear the nurses again, they were standing in front of him, gawking at the small but perfect horse that stood between his hands. “Did you make that, Jeremy?” one asked. “Have you done sculpture before?” He could understand them, but, when he tried to answer, all he could tell them was the time—the current time—three time zones away, over and over again.

  Jeremy learned to talk over the next two years, though his speech pattern would forever be altered with repetitive phrases, interspersed with announcements of the exact time, usually several zones away. He joined a gym. There, he lifted incredible weights until he became a mass of muscles, which was a good thing; people did not make fun of him. He worked with his father in the mechanic shop. There was no mechanical problem that he could not fix, though he usually worked alone as his social skills did not develop beyond those of an adolescent. And he continued his sculptures, but they grew to a larger scale, and slowly, the organic subjects he used to sculpt became more and more mechanical. He began showing them in art galleries, when one well-known reviewer commented, “Clemens is an artist whose work is so original, it is uncompromisingly unique. His work blends an unusual combination of organic and mechanical forms that causes the viewer’s mind to subtly twist. It is easy to imagine the sculptures are either a life form that is becoming a machine, or a machine that is starting to breathe. Thus, Clemens makes a discernible statement about what we are as a civilization and perhaps what we are becoming.”

  Jeremy had no idea what he was talking about.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In the piney woods of Pennsylvania, a horde of militia leaders gathered to meet with General Haufman and receive their orders. Behind them, scattered throughout the forest, were thousands of would-be soldiers. They came from all corners of the United States, deluded by a cause they felt was their right—their constitutional right—to not only question the government, but to change it, mold it into what they believed was right. They wore pseudo-military uniforms, mostly camouflage of varying types. Some wore the typical green, black, and brown swatched clothing. Some wore desert tan digitalized type, while others wore the forest pine type, popular with deer hunters. Still, many wore black SWAT type clothing. They all felt they were in proper military gear. The only common gear they wore was a grey corps ball cap, issued upon their arrival, that had a winged skull and the words “NEW U.S.” embroidered across the crown. This distinction would be most important when they began occupying cities that, inevitably, would fall victim to chaos, looting, hoarding, and murder.

  Haufman stood in front of them, standing in the bed of a military transport vehicle, a public address system in place. His own grey cap atop his head, uniquely adorned with four black stars across the brim. “Good morning, warriors!” he declared.

  “Good morning, sir!” came back in a thunderous wave.

  Haufman looked around, as if his gaze could meet the eyes of every man there.

  “Men, the time has come for us to take back our country. The plans we have been laboring on for years will come to fruition within the next few days. We must be prepared. We will be facing a disaster, the likes of which this great nation has never seen, and for which few have prepared.” He paused for effect, and to let the applause die down, then went on, “But, we have prepared. We have trained and waited for a time when we could offer our services and our devotion to this great country and its original Constitution. That time is now.”

  A cheer went out that echoed through the valleys. Farmers and residents in the area, believing a military training session was taking place, looked up but were not alarmed. There had been military exercises within the government-owned area previously. Locals believed they were safe and secure and even found comfort by the Army’s presence. They could not have known this was not the Army or any other sanctioned group of Armed Forces.

  Haufman continued, “Yes, there will be losses. But, we will not face them alone. Now, we have an ally, a leader who wants to see the changes we want to see. Vice President Proger will be our new President. He is with us, and he will be the strength we have wanted for our nation for years. Together, we will create a New Dawn for this country that our forefathers fought to hold free.” Loud cheers and applause filled the air again.

  “Our strategy will be this, gentlemen,” the general went on. “We will align our forces along the outer perimeter of the hazard zone until flooding has subsided. While survivors and their weak leaders are scrambling around looking for help, we will move in and we will help them. While civil unrest continues, we will restore order by taking and holding local governments, until President Proger has realigned the nation’s leadership. We are going to meet resistance from our brother soldiers, at least initially. Do what you have to do to hold our ground. We anticipate many of these soldiers will join us when they see the new leadership that President Proger offers. However, make no mistake: those who choose not to join us will be terminated with extreme prejudice. There will be no tolerance for traitors in our new nation.”

  Haufman gazed out across the sea of men, looking up as if talking to God. “Operation New Dawn begins now!”

  A cheer went up that could actually be felt in the ground, like the first rumble of an earthquake.

  “Before you gather your troops and move into place,” Haufman said, once the crowd grew quiet, “I have something to show you.” With no further explanation, Haufman leapt from the transport truck to the ground with surprising agility and strode toward the forest. “Follow me!” he commanded, motioning to his soldiers.

  Slowly, the horde moved behind him as he led the way down a path behind his makeshift stage that widened into a clearing, then rose up a hill. Standing at the top, he waited until a majority of the men could align with him at the crest. Some of them saw what he wanted them to see into the valley below, and murmuring began, erupting in a buzz of conversation like bees forming a hive. Some of the men high-fived each other, while others pointed and shook their heads in disbelief. Their dreams were coming true.

  Like a proud parent on Christmas morning, the general again addressed his troops. “I told you President Proger was with us. To show his encouragement and his good faith, he’s given us a few presents!” Haufman waved his arm out, like Moses parting the Red Sea. The field below was filled with armament. Tanks, cannons, missiles, Hummers, personnel and weapons transports stretched out before them. “This,” he announced, ending his speech with both fists raised in the air, “is the strength of our New Dawn!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  James entered the workshop that stood surrounded, almost hidden, by dense brush in the rear acreage of the Beehive facility. The scent of blueberries filled the early afternoon air. Inside the shop, however, it smelled of sawdust and machine oil and rodent musk. James’s nose twitched as he let his eyes adjust to the dim light inside.

  Jeremy was finishing mechanical adjustments on a small, unusual looking machine. It appeared to be a gun o
f sorts, like a small cannon. Made of a combination of shiny chrome and rusted parts, it culminated in a cylindrical barrel, with a gleaming gem attached at the tip. To James, it could’ve been a poorly made replica of a ray gun used in an old serial movie, like Flash Gordon or Buck Rogers. An array of wires ran away from it and attached to a small bank of solar panels.

  Etta worked quietly in the corner of the shop, leaning over a large sketch pad on a table; a rusty, old coffee can filled with sharpened pencils sat nearby.

  “Hello,” said James in his thick English accent. “What have we here?”

  Harvey abruptly barged in. “Etta asked me to look up su…su…some…cuss, cuss, eh, information about lasers. Uh, at least I think that’s what she asked me.”

  James looked at Etta quizzically.

  Etta smiled and nodded vigorously.

  Harvey went on, “I found everything I could, literally everything there is available on the subject of lasers, and discovered that with the right power source, you can build your own homemade lasers. Just like in the James Bond movies. Even better, we already had most of the parts on our solar vehicle.”

  James saw what was left of the solar tractor they’d built the day before. It was reduced to a pile of spare parts and looked as if giant metal-eating rats had fed upon it. He turned to Etta and spoke in Japanese. “Why a laser?”

  Etta shrugged and smiled demurely at him, but didn’t answer.

  James looked at the faces of the rest of the crew. “You know, I think Dr. Pevnick wanted those solar panels back.”

  Harvey shrugged, too, and scratched mindlessly at his groin.

  Jeremy looked guilty and tried to turn away and busy himself with something else, but there was nothing else. He turned back to Etta, and said, “Eet ees as you designed, Etta.” Then added, “Eet ees 2:39 in Sao Paulo.”

  Etta nodded and looked back to James, then tilted her chin toward the small machine.

  “Okay,” said James. “Let’s see if it works, shall we?”

  Etta went to one of the windows in the workshop and drew back a heavy curtain that shielded the milky glass. A wave of dust fell from the drapes and glowed in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window. Etta stood in the light and, for a breathtaking moment, it appeared as if she had a halo around her dark head of hair. She nodded to Jeremy, who flicked some switches and pushed some buttons on a small, handheld remote control.

  An intense red light appeared at the tip of the miniature cannon, like a bright red lipstick emerging from its case. A reflection of the red light appeared on the wall.

  “So, you’ve all been out here building a rather fancy pointer?” asked James, sardonically.

  There was an old, cracked mirror lying on a workbench in the shop and Etta picked up a shard of it. She sidled over to the window where a weak ray of sunlight managed to push through the clouded glass. Angling the mirror in the light, she maneuvered its reflection onto the solar panel powering the small cannon. The crystal tip grew brighter and redder, and the machine began to make a humming noise.

  James watched as the tiny red dot on the wall began to emit a small wisp of smoke, then more curled up as the light grew brighter. A bright white flame appeared, then grew as the wall opened, deteriorating under the intense heat of the beam. James could actually see beyond the shop wall as the beam made its way through and began to incinerate a bush outside. The laser cannon hummed loudly, shuttering under its own power. Then, it sputtered, made popping sounds, and its beam went dark. The crystal glowed for a moment before turning a deep, blood red.

  “That was…cuss, cuss, awesome!” said Harvey.

  “Yes, it was,” admitted James. “What is that crystal at the tip of the laser?”

  “What is zee crystal? What is zee crystal? Tip. Tip. Tip. Well, eet ees zee diamond. Oui?”

  “And where did you get a diamond?” James inquired.

  Jeremy looked at Harvey for an answer, grimacing, turning the corners of his mouth down. Harvey looked at Etta, who in turn, looked down and shrugged again. This promoted a round of laughter, until even James had to smile.

  Jeremy was the first to stop laughing as he looked out the window and saw something. The others ran to the window to see the President’s motorcade pull into the facility grounds again, dust billowing from the tires crunching over the gravel entry.

  “Ah,” said Harvey. “The king is back.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dr. Pevnick stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a familiar and comfortable terry cloth robe. There were days when he thought he could still smell his wife’s scent on it. This was one of those days. He was shaving, remembering how she used to teasingly mock the faces he made in the mirror as he slid the blade down his cheek, when he heard the knock on his bedroom door. Dropping his razor and reaching for a towel to wipe his hands, he stepped through the room and opened the door to the hall to find Mrs. Brown standing there. She was dressed nice, rather than her usual business-like attire, as if she were going out to a formal, late lunch. From her ears dangled exquisite earrings, though Pevnick noticed one of them was missing a diamond.

  “Did you get some rest, professor?” she asked.

  “A little,” he said, a drop of water leaking from his curled locks and trailing through the shaving cream on his face.

  “I hope it was enough,” she said, tacitly. “The President is here.”

  “Already?”

  “He’s in your office. I made him tea.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right there.” He turned to finish shaving, then turned back. “Oh, eh, by the way…you’re missing a diamond from your earring,” he said, his eyes focusing on the left one.

  Mrs. Brown jerked her hand up to her ear, surprised. “Oh, dear. So I am.”

  Pevnick finished up in the bathroom and hurried to his office, grabbing some papers along the way. President Cooper stood as he entered the room, and Pevnick handed him his completed report.

  “Thank you, Stephen,” said Cooper. “I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job, in spite of the lack of time. Now, let’s have a seat. Mrs. Brown has been kind enough to set up a conference call for me with some of my advisors in Washington, and I’ve asked Mr. Tramwell to join us.”

  Pevnick thought he’d heard wrong. “James?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the President answered. “He said something yesterday that got me thinking. I ran it by several of the scientists who are in my confidence, and they agreed with what he was saying.”

  “About making the mass smaller, thereby decreasing the force?” James asked, as he boldly entered the room.

  “Why, yes,” answered Cooper. “Hello, James. Please join us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” James took a seat and opened a laptop he brought with him. A voice came over the speaker, indicating the conference call was starting.

  “Hello, Dr. Hisamoto here…”

  “…and Dr. Heimel here…”

  “Welcome gentlemen, and thank you,” said Cooper. “I’m here with Dr. Stephen Pevnick at his research center. I know you are aware of his reputation in behavioral sciences. Also joining us is Mr. James Tramwell. He is a renowned mathematician.”

  “I’ve read some of your research, Mr. Tramwell. Really amazing material.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Hisamoto,” said James, beaming. “I’ve read your work, too.”

  James glanced at Pevnick, who smiled back at him and gave him a ‘thumbs up.’

  “Well, then,” said Cooper, “let’s get to it. I’ve asked you gentlemen here to discuss our situation. We’ve all agreed that if we can remove some of the shelf along the fault line, we could possibly reduce its force when it fails.”

  “Agreed,” said Heimel.

  “Yes,” said Hisamoto.

  “Okay,” said Cooper, “I’ve moved the Navy into position along the fault and they’re preparing to do whatever is necessary when we give them the order. Now, I’ve got some ideas from Doctors Hisamoto and Heimel, but I wanted ev
eryone to hear Mr. Tramwell’s thoughts. James?”

  “Right, then,” James began, taking a deep breath. “I’ve anticipated this discussion, Mr. President, and I’ve drawn up some figures and graphs I’ll forward on to your team. I’ve also put together an animation sequence of what I’m going to suggest, so we can all follow along easily.” He fidgeted with his laptop and shuffled some papers before stacking them neatly next to him. He took a deep breath, then began, “Basically, my suggestion is for your submarines to fire low-impact torpedoes into the fault shelf. The torpedoes can be modified per some suggestions that my team—Etta, Harvey, and Jeremy—have designed, basically using your Mark 54 Lightweight Hybrid model, but reducing the explosive to approximately one-quarter of what it normally is. Or, we could replace the warhead, altogether, with highly compressed air; an idea untried, yes, but one I like better. We need to crumble the wall, not blow it to kingdom come and possibly exacerbate the problem.

  Hisamoto pursed his mouth and nodded, then took out a mechanical pencil and began to scribble some figures on a pad.

  Heimel frowned and blinked his eyes repeatedly as if trying to make some calculations in his head, before he withdrew a calculator from an inside pocket of his coat and began punching at the keys.

  James looked at Pevnick for reassurance and the professor gave him a slight nod to continue.

  “The Australians utilize the Mark 54, as well as the U.S. Navy, in case we need more of them. We don’t have time for manufacturing, so these torpedoes could do the job for us with little modification as early as tomorrow.”

  “I see,” said Cooper. “Is that what you were thinking, Dr. Hisamoto?”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” Hisamoto replied, looking back and forth between his own scribbled figures and James’s data. “More or less.”

  “Dr. Heimel?” said Cooper.

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Hisamoto and I have been over this scenario numerous times since we met last night. We put it before a group of scientists we believe to be the best in the world as a hypothetical problem and, given the circumstances, we feel it is the best alternative. But, we…don’t all agree where the detonations should take place. Primarily, our lack of agreement comes from not knowing where the weakest areas of the fault line are; that is, the areas most likely to trigger an instant failure.”