The Beginning of Sorrows

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Oh, here, Cap’n,” Rio said, handing over the shotgun. “I wasn’t liberating it, I hope you know. Seems like these old manual weapons are the only things that work around here. That’s a kick in the pants, huh? Well . . . gotta go, sir.”

  “Uh—Hold up there, Rio. Just exactly where do you think you’re going? Nowhere flammable, I hope.”

  Rio cracked a smile. “No, sir. Thought I’d go down to the quartermasters and see about some more ammo, sir.”

  “More? You’ve got enough right there to take down a Tornado! Change of orders—you’re coming with me.”

  Of course Rio immediately fell in with his captain. “Sir, yes, sir. Where are we going?”

  “To the Command Center first, then to the Apache. The GL’s aren’t working, did you know? No, you’ve been kinda occupied with the weapons. Anyway, I figure the team’s probably reconnoitered there.”

  “That’s affirmative, sir. Deac’ll be there, at least.”

  Slaughter and Valdosta found Ric Darmstedt and Vashti Nicanor just exiting the command center as they reached it. Con hailed them, and when they met he asked, “What’s the situation in there, Darmstedt?”

  Ric shook his head. “Don’t even bother, Captain, sir. That is unless you want to see a bunch of generals and colonels screaming at one another and everyone else. The whole thing’s down, and nobody knows what to do about it except yell at everybody else.”

  “What about the rest of the team?”

  “We haven’t seen anyone but Sergeant Mitchell, Captain. We told him to meet us at the Apache. Figure the team will go there eventually.” Ric looked at Rio’s gear and asked, “Was that you doing all that shooting, Valdosta?”

  “No, sir. Well . . . not all of it. The grunts were just happy to have something to use if the whole Chinese army showed up or something.”

  “Don’t laugh, Rio. We don’t know that’s not going to happen.”

  Con Slaughter grunted. “We don’t know if it hasn’t already happened.” This was a sobering thought to everyone, and he went on, “Okay, let’s head to the helo yard. I want my team in order ASAP.”

  Vashti hurried over to Con Slaughter’s side. “What do you think happened here, Captain?”

  He gave her an odd look. “What do you think happened, Colonel? Has the Mossad ever run across something like this?”

  Everyone knew that Darkon Ben-ammi and Vashti Nicanor reported to the Israeli intelligence agency, the Mossad. All Israelis did. It’s just that it wasn’t acknowledged in polite company. But Vashti Nicanor felt that they—she, her partner, and their fire team—were beyond such political considerations, so she answered Captain Slaughter honestly. “No, Captain, we’ve never encountered such a thing. Lieutenant Darmstedt said it may be solar flares. That would not be—an intentional strike, you see.”

  “Sure,” Slaughter grunted. “And it could be little green men from Mars, or cave worms from the center of the earth. But our systems should have warned us of any of those things. Especially solar flares, Colonel. We should have had warnings for months— maybe even years—in advance. Besides, if it was solar flares suddenly interfering with the electromagnetic fields, all of the planes should have gone down, too.”

  Vashti tucked a thick strand of black hair behind her ear, then nodded resignedly. “I know, you’re right, Captain, and Lieutenant Darmstedt did say the same things. It would be a neat and comfortable explanation—if it fit. Anyway, what bothers me the most is that we don’t know how extensive this is.”

  “If it took us out and Colorado Springs, I’d be willing to bet we’re not alone, Colonel Nicanor.”

  They were silent the rest of the way, each dealing with his or her own thoughts and night-frights. When they reached the Apache, they found David, Deac, and Darkon sitting with their backs to the huge tires, talking quietly. They got to their feet when they saw Con, who asked, “I don’t suppose I need a status report on the helo, Deac?”

  “She’s grounded, sir.” Deac refused to use the word dead.

  Vashti went to Darkon and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, Vashti.”

  She leaned close and, like the father figure he was to her, he gave her a rare comforting pat on the back. She whispered, “Home.

  Have you thought about it?”

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about it, Vashti. But what can we do?”

  Now this exquisite tool, this highly tuned weapon, Fire Team Eclipse, was together, healthy, at its peak and ready to fight—and they could do nothing. The team members looked at one another silently. For the first time, Vashti began to face the true impact of the blackout.

  The truth was, they were helpless.

  And they were alone.

  NINETEEN

  TO PRESIDENT ARISTIDE LUCA Therion, Project Final Unity was so pure and so perfect that he felt as if each moment of the past three and one-half days was like walking in his highest dream. Gazing around, an idyllic half-smile touching his woman-soft lips, he reflected that this room, these people, the images before his eyes and filling his mind and thoughts, were flawless, and the next moment would be equally whole and complete, and the next, and the next . . .

  “Play the speech again, Commissar Mays,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, with professional neutrality. This was the third time the president had wanted to review his speech.

  The room was a curious contrast of the old paths and the new. A formal sitting room, part of a bedroom suite on the third floor of the White House, Luca had never liked the coldness of the nineteenth-century furnishings, so he had set it aside for a secret Project Final Unity Situation Room. Two enormous Cyclops II screens had been added to the one, and now all of them were glowing, the images bright and sharp and compelling.

  The first screen was a map of the United States. The state lines were faint gray, with co-op cities and the Man and Biosphere Project facilities vivid color-coded flashes. Overlaid across state boundaries, in bright green, were designated boundaries of the fourteen biomes.

  The second screen was another map of the U.S., with major power grids depicted as spiky lines criss-crossing the continent. All co-op cities and other authorized directorate facilities were yellow dots, while areas blacked out by the ohm-bug were outlined in red, with major populated areas represented by red dots. For the last few days, since the execution of Project Final Unity, the cities, populated areas, and military bases that Luca and Minden had chosen to be blacked out had been without any power whatsoever. The German science team had achieved Project Final Unity with a 99.8 percent accuracy rate.

  The third screen, now, showed the president of the United States making his declaration of a national emergency. It was short and forceful, reassuring to his allies, a warning to his enemies, Luca thought with satisfaction.

  “. . . early this morning. The Sixth Directorate has assured me that their emergency management personnel and transports will reach every affected area by this afternoon. Wherever you are, soon our dedicated commissars will be arriving, bringing water and food and medical supplies and attendants, and arranging for your evacuation to the nearest available facility.

  “I must stress again: Do not leave your homes! And especially, do not evacuate to, or attempt to get assistance from, any military installation. At this time, I feel that I must tell you that I have placed our military forces on Priority Two Alert status, and our forces are therefore not available at this time for disaster assistance for our citizenry. But this alert, I assure you, is not because of outside threats. Though it grieves me greatly to confirm this, I feel that you, our peace-loving citizens of Earth’s America, must know:

  “We have determined that this massive blackout is the result of sabotage by disruptive forces within our own citizenry. The Secret Intelligence Division of the Sixth Directorate has found direct evidence of a conspiracy by an organization of religious fundamentalists— or perhaps I should say religious fanatics. As we have long known, these militant gr
oups believe they have a commission from God. These men and women and—though it bruises me to know it—even children, see as their goal on this earth to punish, and ultimately rule over, those of us who are more tolerant and less blinded by notions of ruling men’s minds. These religious conspirators have long been known to us as anarchists, but now we have evidence that they have committed this act of terrorism against the peace-loving people of Earth’s America. This, then, is our enemy, and I give you my word that they will be detected, found, and brought to justice.

  “In the meantime, my friends, remain calm and remain in your homes. Our dedicated Sixth Directorate commissars will soon be coming to your aid.”

  Minden Lauer, sitting close by him on the old Chesterfield sofa, smiled dreamily. “Your people love you, Luca, as they never did that hard and harsh Bishop Beckwith . . . already they have forgotten him as if he never existed. And after that passionate assurance from you, none of our people will fear.”

  That might have been true, at least for all of those who were not “religious fanatics.” The president and all of the Project Final Unity team (the American team, anyway) thought that their reassuring broadcasts of salvation were going to all Cyclops users in the blacked-out areas, as all Cyclops had internal batteries that could last for up to four weeks. Upon losing the main power source, Cyclops automatically switched to full battery power for the first half hour, allowing a user to interface with any of its capabilities. After that, it switched over to a receiver-only mode to conserve the battery.

  But of course, the ohm-bug had other uses for a 12-volt nickel cadmium battery. Cyclops’ red eye had been dead in the blacked-out areas of the United States for over three days now. President Luca Therion had been talking to people who could not hear, and could not see. Neither could they go anywhere, unless they walked. But President Luca Therion and his American Project Final Unity team were blissfully ignorant of this, too. It was the Germans’ greatest triumph of deception: The ohm-bug was airborne. It was, in fact, almost omnipresent.

  Luca and Minden resumed watching the tape of the broadcast, but soon Luca grew distracted by his chief commissar. Alia Silverthorne, a dark frown upon her tight face, paced back and forth behind the three commissars who were seated at the drones that were interfaced with the three Cyclops II screens. Her eyes darted back and forth, now between the first two screens only, as she ignored this third rendition of Luca’s passionate speech.

  Minden caught Luca’s displeasure, and called out lightly, “Alia, you’re like a cat in a cage. Come sit by me, and have some champagne, and stop making such grim faces!”

  Obediently Alia came to stand by the sofa, but she asked courteously, “If you don’t mind, I’ll stand, My Lady. This operation is very complex, and I think I’d better go access another Cyclops II to start monitoring my commissar squads’ status reports.”

  Minden laughed like a giddy young girl. “Did you hear that, Luca darling? Alia is being very grown up here, and she needs your Cyclops. Of course, she couldn’t dare ask for it . . . but I dare. I dare anything.” She dropped her eyes, then slid such a lascivious look up at Luca from under her thick lashes that it made his palms sweat.

  “Go ahead, My Commissar,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’ll attend to Minden . . .” He reached for her, and with a slight grimace Alia hurried to stand behind Kev Jamison, her former bodyguard who was now her second in command of the commissars Alia had chosen to staff the monitoring of Project Final Unity. Along with his partner Schor Evans, these two bodyguards had pleased Alia with their meticulous attention and instant obedience to her command. Alia had also chosen Commissar Bennie Mays for the team, as the tall, gangly woman had made an impression on her at the lab on the day that Bennie had tried to shield Alia from the ire of the military men. Or perhaps it was the fact that Bennie was not attractive, and was no threat to Alia. She would never have admitted such a weakness and insecurity to herself, of course, but she did have a tendency to surround herself with women who could not compete with her.

  Kev was seated at the third drone, and Alia murmured, “Incoming live comms?”

  “Yes, My Commissar, five: from Lansing in the Fifth Directorate, and Little Rock, Jackson, Montgomery, and Atlanta in the Fourth.”

  “Give me Lansing first. No—strike that. Put them all in conference, split-screen, and notify.”

  “Yes, My Commissar.” Kev’s fingers moved lightly over the drone’s keyboard; his small screen showed the commands he gave, while the large Cyclops II screens showed four men and one woman in separate boxes. “All stations, you are on tie-lines with Chief Commissar Alia Silverthorne,” he said.

  “Report, Lansing,” Alia said curtly.

  “All Unity teams are go, My Commissar,” he said tightly.

  “Any problems with the civilian population?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then Unity Teams Lansing are go. Little Rock?”

  “All my Unity teams are go, My Commissar,” she said in a soft southern drawl. “But I’ve received no communication from Hot Springs.”

  “None?” Alia said sharply. “No Cyclops comms at all?”

  “No, My Commissar. And no refugees. There’s been no— nothing.”

  Alia grimaced. “What about your civvies?”

  The hard-faced, soft-spoken woman shrugged. “They’re calm, My Commissar. A number of comm requests and questions have been directed to the commissary. But there has been no panic.”

  “Then Unity Teams Little Rock are go. Make Hot Springs first-line priority, Commissar. It will take how long for the team to reach Hot Springs?”

  “About two hours, My Commissar.”

  “Report back to me personally in two hours.”

  “Yes, My Commissar.”

  “Commissar Jamison, who are those incoming?” In-line lights on Kev’s drone keyboard were lighting up.

  “Albany, Jackson, Mississippi, Orlando, Seattle—”

  “All right, everyone’s reporting in. Schor, you take the First Directorate; Bennie, you take the Second and Third Directorates; Kev, you take the Fifth Directorate, and I’ll take the Fourth. Unless there’s a trouble spot, you three handle the routine reports just as I have. Got it?”

  “Yes, My Commissar,” they solemnly answered, then started speaking softly into their transceivers. Kev Jamison managed to talk to his stations and put through Alia’s Fourth Directorate commissars at the same time.

  This went on for some time, as Alia watched the maps obsessively and Luca and Minden drank champagne and talked and laughed in low voices. This irritated Alia, as the president and his consort seemed to have no concept of the enormity of the project they were undertaking. They seemed to regard it as lightly as an Ultimate Reality game. Alia thought dryly that perhaps that’s exactly what it was to them. To her, however, it was much more grimly real than any Cyclops-generated game.

  Alia was pacing, her arms tightly crossed, behind her three assistants’ chairs, her eyes continually scanning the wild colors and flashes of the map grids. Suddenly she stopped and stiffened. “Bennie? You have Albuquerque on-line?”

  “No, My Commissar, they have already reported in and are go.”

  Alia’s eyes narrowed to suspicious hazel slits. Bennie cleared her throat uncomfortably and said, “My Commissar? What is it?”

  “Look at the Second Directorate map. Northern Arizona. There’s a MAB Directorate facility . . . it’s a lab, a classified underground facility that just went red. Lab XJ2197.”

  Bennie’s fingers jabbed in the code. “XJ2197 is off-line, Commissar Silverthorne.”

  Alia stepped closer to Bennie, her eyes on the single flashing red dot. She made herself concentrate, though one little part of her mind was nagging, Niklas . . . not trapped in that horrible buried coffin . . . Niklas . . .

  Finally she snapped, “Double-check Power Grid 36-SW1 through 41-SW8.”

  While Bennie was keying in the commands, a single green power grid line on the second screen suddenly turne
d red. Then another spiky line started flashing red, then another . . .

  “Get me DFW right now!” Alia ordered harshly.

  Bennie cleared her drone screen, hastily pushed buttons, and a smooth-faced young man popped up on the third Cyclops screen.

  “Y-yes, My Commissar?”

  “Who are you?” Alia demanded.

  “I—I’m Eric Lees, Third Scientific Minister, Konza—”

  “Get me a high commissar. Now.”

  “Y-yes, yes—” He whirled and shouted in a high voice to someone out of range of the Cyclops eye. Helplessly he turned back to face the screen, swallowing hard. “One moment, My Commissar—”

  More power lines in the Southwest were going out. Alia said with desperate calm, “Listen to me, Minister Lees. Do you have any Vindicators in the air?”

  “Why—why, yes, of course, My Commissar. That’s why— oh—thank the goddess—here’s—uh—Commissar—uh—”

  A stocky older woman appeared, and Alia commanded, “Get me a flyover of Albuquerque and Santa Fe right now, Commissar! I’m on-line until your Vindicators report!”

  “Yes, My Commissar,” the woman said, and instantly bent over a drone keyboard; Bennie put her image in one-fourth of the screen.

  “Get me San Diego, Los Angeles, Denver on-line,” Alia said tightly. “No—delay that. Get me NORAD. Now.”

  “Yes—” Bennie began.

  One by one, beginning at the southernmost tip of California, the enormous co-op cities started flashing red, mocking winks from a vengeful Cyclops.

  The commissar in Dallas, bending over her drone, her face dark, disappeared.

  Minden and Luca stood up slowly, their faces blank.

  Alia raised her voice for the first time. “Hurry! Get me NORAD now! Anybody!”

  “Alia . . . ,” Minden said tentatively.

  “What—what’s going on?” Luca blustered. “Commissar Silverthorne, I demand to know what’s going on! Report to me right now!”