Short of administering colonoscopies, TSA could not be any more obtrusive.
A speaker crackled. “You may now leave the security station and reclaim your belongings. Have a safe flight.” The door in front of him slid open.
As Marcus reclaimed his shoes and pocket gear, Ellen stomped—as best she could in stocking feet—to the carry-on inspection area. The security-booth air gusts had left her hair in disarray. A TSA screener had upended her purse into a tray and was sifting through the contents. She muttered, “Ah, the joys of modern air travel.”
“Tell me about it.” Marcus opened and reclosed his datasheet, which inspection had left more crumpled than folded. “At least we have time to get coffee before heading to the gate.”
“There’s that.” She raked her fingers through her hair, slipped on her shoes, and repacked her purse. “I know I feel safer.”
On cue, the airport PA system reminded them that the terror alert status had been raised to red. The week before, passengers on a Boeing 787 inbound from Dakar to Atlanta had subdued terrorists assembling a bomb in flight.
Oh, for the simpler era when color-coded security alerts had briefly gone away. What color would TSA proclaim after the next incident? Infrared? Microwave?
The terrorists (the Jihadi Alliance? The abortive attack had all the earmarks of their work, but no one was saying) had yet to admit how they had smuggled explosives aboard. Marcus guessed they had only to say they had carried the explosives internally to reduce air travel to utter chaos.
Infrared. That was when the colonoscopies would begin.
Cups of coffee in hand, he and Ellen rode the airport train to their gate. Marcus said, “Tell me again why everyone doesn’t just network into this meeting? The off-worlders will link in whatever the rest of us do.”
“It’s too important. Sometimes you just have to be face to face.”
“Then why don’t they come to us?”
“I run an energy program,” she said. “How would it look if I insisted lots of them travel so you and I didn’t have to?”
“But bosses have prerogatives.”
“I do.” She grinned. “That’s why you’re getting on the plane with me.”
As they exited the train and once again as they walked along the concourse, the PA reminded them of the alert level. And that unattended packages would be incinerated. Together with their owners, once identified. At least that was how Marcus chose to interpret the distorted announcement.
There was a blinding flash over the tarmac. Thunder, loud and rolling, rattled the concourse a second later. Marcus said, “We’re not getting out of here anytime soon.”
“I guess not.” Ellen slowed to read an airport monitor, on which DELAY was suddenly very popular. “It’s official. Our flight will be late.”
He offered his best long-suffering expression.
“Seriously, this is an important review. Just between us, I wanted to hold it in California. Lots more opportunity that way to interact with the techies.”
Without Phil Majeski stage-managing every conversation, she meant.
The Test Readiness Review was a big deal. If all went well, Kendricks Aerospace would get the go-ahead for preliminary operation of PS-1. Test beams sent to ground stations, starting at trivial power levels and stepping up. Device failures simulated to test autonomous repair by the onboard robots. Short-range maneuvering, exercising thrusters and the onboard navigation software. By year’s end, barring some unpleasant surprise, PS-1 would begin its long boost to geosynchronous orbit.
In his mind’s eye, Marcus pictured it: on station, motionless in the sky, streaming power on demand to converted solar farms across the country. The ultimate proof of concept, after which many more powersats would be built. The first step to energy independence …
“Fair enough,” Marcus said. “I admit it. Some things are worth a bit of travel.”
Ellen flashed an enigmatic grin. “I’m glad you think so.”
* * *
“The worst flight ever,” Marcus groused. “Storm delay. Air-traffic delay at the far end. In between, mewling and puking babies. Crammed in like cattle.”
Valerie let him vent, relieved he had called. “Did you get any dinner?” she finally asked. Body time, it was after 10 P.M. for him.
“Ellen’s talking to her husband, and then she and I plan to head out. Tex-Mex, maybe. Anyway, I wanted to say hi first.”
To let her know that his plane had not blown up. Terrorist bombs, even failed plots, struck way too close to home. And Marcus still had to fly home. “Go, eat. You must be starving, and I know you have several big days ahead of you.”
“I am, and I do.”
“Think you’ll have time to talk after you eat?”
He grimaced. “Sorry. The jerk contractor uploaded drafts of several briefings while we were in the air. I should check them out.”
“Understood. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“Maybe,” he said dubiously. “Good night, hon.”
“Good night.” Reluctantly, she broke the connection.
Their bots on Phoebe got to spend more time together than they did.
Wednesday, predawn, August 2
Dillon slinked along corridors and down stairways, feeling heroic and a touch theatrical. At two in the morning, he was apt to be the only person awake on the former oil platform, turned OTEC pilot plant. R & D types did not work nights.
He certainly hoped he was the only one awake.
Stepping off the bottom deck onto one of the massive pillars that supported the structure, Dillon’s mood crashed from self-conscious to terrified. A fall from the ladder to the ocean far below could kill him.
When Yakov had proposed this—mission?—it had seemed daring. Exciting. A stimulating change from Dillon’s usual subtle, long-term sabotage. He remembered feeling flattered by the suggestion that he might be a man of action. He remembered how good it had felt to figure out how to sneak men onto the platform, how proud he had been of Yakov’s praise.
But they had had those discussions by light of day, on solid land. Could he actually do something so bold?
Now, his heart pounding, Dillon wondered if he had been crazy to agree.
Or if maybe he had lost his mind long ago.…
* * *
Years ago, after a really bad fight with Crystal, he had had to get away. It had been two weeks on a Harley, biking all over the Southwest, with only nature and his own thoughts for company. On good days, not even his thoughts had intruded. He had picked the Southwest for no deeper reason than that he had never experienced it. Flown over it, of course. Flown in and out of Phoenix and Albuquerque on business, ditto. But never explored the countryside.
At first he saw only wasteland, but after a few days a curious thing happened. He started really looking—
And found wonders. Here, yucca plants peeking above the dunes, their roots hidden deep below. There, stunted but stubborn, clusters of oak and juniper. All around, stretches of piñon pine, sagebrush, and chaparral.
When he got off the bike, he found animal trails. Oddest were the delicate footprints with two toes pointing forward and two back. Roadrunner footprints, he learned, when he retrieved the datasheet from his saddlebag. And there were insects and animals, too, from tarantulas to armadillos to pronghorn antelopes. Everywhere he found a rich tapestry of life—
Except around towns.
Sodded yards, to his newly heightened sensitivities, were an abomination. So were the little yapping dogs, the thirsty ornamental trees, the swimming pools. And the big waterworks projects that made possible the other desecrations.
Camping one night in the desert, the gypsum sand ghostly pale by moonlight, the stars brilliant overhead, he had had an awakening. A revelation. An epiphany. If Gaia was a true deity, not just the embodiment of nature, then a religious experience.
And anyway, who was he to say who Gaia was or was not?
He had learned young how quickly a fool and his money were part
ed, and even earlier how many people, his parents included, could never manage to get any money in the first place. But from generalized contempt, he had awakened into a heightened realization.
Humanity was a plague on the planet, screwing up all that truly mattered.
He had returned from his road trip-cum-retreat a changed man. He apologized profusely to Crystal. They had not fought about her inability to have children, not exactly—but the tension because of it had strained the marriage almost to breaking. Now, he rejoiced. The last thing the world needed was more people.
But more—much more!—must be done. Only what? What could one man do?
Then, out of nowhere: the Crudetastrophe.
Finally, Dillon saw the way. Energy drove everything. Cut off energy supplies, and you starved the beast.
He would find ways to starve the beast, too.
* * *
Dillon shivered, chilled by the wind and spray. Back pressed against the immense post, hands clenching a railing, he felt that the wind could carry him off the catwalk at any moment. Twenty feet below, glimmering in the moonlight, the waters of the channel foamed and surged.
Subtle sabotage sounded better with each passing minute.
From the sea: a brief double flash, a pause, then a triple flash. A small boat, its engine muffled, emerged from the darkness.
Dillon released the brake that secured the gangplank cables. He cringed at the whine of the winch and, moments later, the thud of the gangplank against the floating dock, although he doubted either sound could be heard on the platform far above.
Three figures dressed in black and wearing black ski masks bounded up the ramp to his catwalk. Two wore tool belts; the third carried a clanking satchel. “Thanks, boss,” the man in the lead said. “We’ll take it from here.”
Lower the gangplank. After the unannounced visitors did their work and sailed off, raise the ramp again. The three men would be in and out within the hour, and no one would ever know they had been here. Just as no one would know Dillon’s role.
Only that another upstart energy technology would have gotten a black eye.
Tomorrow or the next day, when things went awry, Dillon would be as incensed as anyone. No, more incensed. And disappointed. And shamed. And compelled to pull the plug.
As for why direct action was so important at this particular time to Yakov? That, Dillon did not get.
* * *
Eve Moynihan sat in her bunk, flashlight in hand, sheet pulled over her head, reading a graphic novel on her datasheet. It was hot and stuffy under the covers, but Grandpa got up, like, a zillion times a night to go to the head. If he saw light under her door, he would tell her to go to sleep. That would not do: if she could sleep, she wouldn’t be reading.
Thinking about the heat only made it worse. She clicked off the flashlight and threw off the sheet. It was still hot and stuffy. She was dripping with sweat.
As a nightshirt she was wearing one of Dad’s old T-shirts. She peeled the damp fabric away from her skin.
Waves gently lapped against the side of the boat. Waves meant wind, didn’t they? Maybe she could cool off on deck.
Or not. She was not much of a swimmer, and Grandpa insisted she wear a life vest whenever she was topside. Nervy, really, because he was not much of a swimmer, either. Mom, who swam like a fish, was a pretty good authority on the subject.
“I won’t be falling off a boat,” Grandpa had rebutted when Eve brought up the double standard. “On my boat, you follow my rules.” Then he had ruffled her hair, like she was five years old or something, and added, “Captain’s orders. You have to obey the captain.”
So I won’t fall of the boat, she thought. It was too hot to wear a life vest.
As hot as Eve felt, the doorknob was hotter still. Odd. With a hand wrapped in a hem of the T-shirt, she pulled the door closed behind her. In their cabin, Grandma and Grandpa were both snoring.
Up on deck, air was moving. The wind helped evaporate her sweat and she felt cooler—for a few seconds. Then she was worse than ever. She even felt hot inside, if that made any sense.
By the second, she felt hotter, and hotter, and hotter.
She was sweltering, roasting, burning up. The deck seared her feet. It was suddenly more than she could bear and she screamed.
Cool and wet, the ocean beckoned. With a wail of despair, dashing for the side of the boat, she grabbed for a life vest. The metal buckle burnt her hand, and reflexively she let go—
As her momentum carried her over the side.
Cold water jolted her to her senses. The current was carrying her away from the boat. “Grandma! Grandpa!” she shouted. As she treaded water, screaming, a wave surged over her and saltwater ran down her throat.
Somehow, coughing and choking, she stayed afloat. “Grandpa!”
Her head was so hot! Only when a wave broke over her, or she dunked her head, did she get a moment of relief.
There! People on deck. Grandma and Grandpa. They were screaming, too.
“Grandpa!”
He threw her a line. It fell far short. Another wave washed over her, and when she came up this time, he was fumbling with a life vest. He screamed even louder trying to buckle it.
She went under again.
Fighting back to the surface she saw Grandpa leap from the boat. The unfastened vest flapped as he fell.
Her head was so hot. She couldn’t think straight.
Another wave washed over her.…
Wednesday morning, August 2
A day into the meeting, Marcus decided, the PS-1 test readiness review would put any three-ring circus to shame.
It was not that more than one presentation, demonstration, or closed-circuit 3-V inspection went on at a time. Ellen and Phil, seated side by side at the front of the Kendricks Aerospace corporate auditorium, in ongoing whispered consultation, kept the TRR on subject. But there was no way to avoid the multitude of viewpoints, offered by everyone from power-grid operators to aerospace engineers to radiation-health specialists from NIH and EPA.
As NASA’s program manager, Ellen got the final word whether to proceed with on-orbit testing. But until the review board, the menagerie of outside experts assembled by the National Science Foundation, decreed PS-1 was ready—and safe—go-ahead was simply infeasible.
With almost three days of the review left to go, the notes file on Marcus’s datasheet already seemed impossibly long. Still, he was exhilarated. Nothing major had come up. More than a meeting, this was a milestone. At the next coffee break, he had to give Phil Majeski full credit. No matter that Phil would take the compliment as sarcasm.
And then, during a presentation on RF noise simulations, an earnest-looking young man came scurrying up the auditorium’s center aisle to whisper into Phil Majeski’s ear. Phil’s expression flashed from irked at the interruption to … what? Marcus could not decide. Nothing good.
Phil leaned over to whisper to Ellen, who nodded. “Keep going, Brad,” Phil said when the engineer behind the podium trailed off. Phil and Ellen strode to one of the side rooms off the main auditorium.
What the hell? With Ellen doing—whatever—Marcus struggled to concentrate on the briefing. Kendricks engineers had come up with a way to detect and disable out-of-spec transmitters. Autonomous maintenance robots would be stationed all around the powersat anyway. With a software tweak and a minor electronics upgrade, the bots would triangulate the position of any malfunctioning transmitter and report it to the beam-control supervisory program. The program would take the failed unit offline, tweaking control parameters from nearby transmitters to compensate. Cheap, clever, and elegant.
If multiple transmitters went out of tolerance at the same time, to the point where triangulation failed, the supervisory software would shut off the beam. Transmitters would then be switched on and off in small groups and varying patterns until the individual failures could be isolated.
Pleased as Marcus was, and as pleased as he imagined Val would be, it was hard to mainta
in focus while wondering what kept Phil and Ellen away.
Then a real-time window flashed in his datasheet, with an IM from Ellen. Join us.
Bethany Taylor, folding her own datasheet, stood seconds after Marcus did. Summoned, too? They met outside the little side room.
“Do you know?” he mouthed.
Bethany shook her head.
The engineering presentation faded into an inarticulate murmur as Marcus closed the door. A vid, its audio turned low, hung over a datasheet that lay draped across the table. The Reuters icon glimmered in a corner. Major news, then. Behind the talking head, Marcus saw a rockbound coast and boats bobbing in a light chop.
What could this have to do with PS-1? Somehow it must, to pull Ellen and Phil away from such an important program review.
“Replay bulletin,” Phil said.
“This is Theresa Wallace, in the Santa Barbara Channel.” The camera panned away from the reporter to survey the backdrop. “We are anchored near Santa Cruz Island, off the Southern California coast. You don’t see buildings, or roads, or any of the accoutrements of civilization. That’s because Santa Cruz, like all the islands of the Channel Islands National Park, has been set aside to preserve irreplaceable natural and cultural resources. Only a few tourists and researchers visit this remote park each year, and the official population of Santa Cruz Island is just two.”
Back to a close-up on Wallace: “And yet, incredibly, high-tech tragedy has struck here.
“Ralph and Mary Moynihan planned to show their granddaughter a bit of nature. They anchored offshore late yesterday afternoon.” The viewpoint shifted, zooming in on one of the boats, its paint scorched. “And then, apparently as they slept, the Moynihan family was cooked.”
Cut to a trembling woman in her sixties, her face red and severely blistered. Beside her, the inset image of a girl, perhaps eight or nine years old. “Eve’s screaming jolted me awake.” Her voice cracked. The crawl declared TWO BRUTALLY SLAIN. “Then I was scr-screaming, and so was Ralph. The pain was unbearable, like I was on fire and—”
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