Some pundits had viewed appointing a Metis to oversee the country’s national parks as ironic. Others appreciated the gesture. There was no end to self-ascribed analysts of everything irrelevant yet potentially inflammatory, and their incessant babbling made for a constant background roar to public life. More than a few had crowed with savage glee at Alison’s own history working for Big Oil.
Alison and the ministers had not long to wait, as another door at the head of the room opened and in strode the Prime Minister. Lisabet Carboneau, the newest liberal darling of politics, had features sharper in person than they were on-screen. Her regard, which seemed honest to the tracking camera, held a predatory hint when face-to-face. Until now, there had been only one meeting between Alison and the PM, and that one had been awash with platitudes and the pronouncement of vague expectations.
Not this time.
Swiftly seating herself at the table’s head, the Prime Minister fixed Alison with a steady stare and said, “I have scanned the public statements issued by other countries. I have watched the newsfeed and sat through token experts doing little more than describing what we can all already see. I anticipate much of the same from you, not due to any disrespect for your competence, Doctor Pinborough, but because what we are facing appears to be inexplicable and therefore unanswerable. Am I correct?”
Alison had set her file folders down on the table in front of her when she had first been seated. She glanced down at them now, fighting an urge to open the first one and begin leafing through the summary. She already knew the contents, of this and every other file. “Madam Prime Minister,” she said, “there are some highly unusual properties to these forcefields—”
Will Camden grunted sourly, but added no further comment since Carboneau’s attention on Alison had not wavered.
After a brief pause, Alison continued. “Ground penetration radar gave no return signal. In fact, no above-surface radar gives a return signal.”
“How is that possible?” the Prime Minister asked. “Planes on flight-paths taking them toward the forcefields all report collision alarms forewarning the pilots.”
“Yes, Madam, and so naturally it was assumed that, since those collision sensors are radar-based, a solid return of the signal was implicit.”
“But now you are saying that’s not the case.”
“Correct.”
“Yet another impossibility,” Carboneau said. “If these forcefields cannot be detected by radar, then some other form of signal must be activating the collision alarms.”
Alison shook her head. “Madam, the sensors are specifically calibrated. They are not equipped to receive or interpret any other signal. Reinforcing this, on-site examination of the forcefields indicate no energy diffusion or emanation. In fact, application of energy against the forcefields also results in zero return.”
Lisabet Carboneau studied Alison for a moment, and then she said, “I understand that bullets disappear when fired into the forcefield.”
“Yes. They vanish. Furthermore, the impact zone cannot be measured. In other words, no energy escapes the point of contact. One might as well be shooting holograms at a blackboard.”
The Prime Minister frowned. “Is that an accurate analogy?”
“Not really, Madam. But this effect on hypersonic projectiles is unique. Slower-traversing objects, such as drones, simply break-up, in the manner one would expect if they had flown into a wall. In those instances, energy is transmitted outward as a consequence of the impact, following natural laws relating to mass and velocity.”
“This is not your area of expertise, is it?”
“No, Madam Prime Minister. Geologically speaking, the force-field, when passing through, for example, Precambrian bedrock, effects no structural change in the area of intersection. This too defies all expectation. At least,” she amended, “no structural alteration that we can detect from outside the field. But visual examination is in no way impeded.”
The Prime Minister sat back in her chair. “Let’s return to the subject of radar and the triggering of collision alarms in aircraft. Speculations?”
Alison hesitated, fighting down a sigh. “The forcefield is selective. It possesses agency.”
At that, Mary Sparrow broke protocol by speaking. “The Wall of God.”
The statement was startling enough to draw Carboneau’s attention.
“What’s that?”
“Pardon my interruption, Madam Prime Minister,” Mary said. “A new meme. Someone online related the forcefields to a computer firewall, in that they seem to share the ability to discriminate. For example, there has been no confirmed report of any injuries directly related to the field’s edge. This isn’t Stephen King’s Under the Dome scenario, cutting people in half. Also, wildlife has been observed passing through it.”
Alison cleared her throat. “That’s confirmed. The exclusion properties seem to be limited. Human access is denied, including human technology.”
“Not entirely true,” Mary cut in again. “A report from Brazil reached me just an hour ago. As you know, I have been engaged with the Global Indigenous Peoples program—”
“Yes,” interjected the Prime Minister. “This report?”
Mary pressed her lips together, revealing a flicker of annoyance. “The forcefield now covering the pristine regions of the Amazon extends upward for a height of about three hundred meters. Flyovers are possible, and late yesterday a team of government officials recorded one of the un-contacted indigenous tribes known to exist close to the border with Peru. These are the very tribes being slaughtered by loggers, and we have confirmation that all logging and land-clearing activities inside the forcefield have now ceased, and the camps are abandoned—the invaders have been forced out, but the indigenes have not.”
Alison studied the satisfaction that softened Mary’s face with this last statement, and found no cause to condemn it. The ‘Wall of God’ no longer seemed so absurd. Her own thoughts had been circling the notion for some time, as the data continued to pour in.
“Agency,” said the Prime Minister. “Intelligence. Intent.” Abruptly she seemed to shift gears. “William, how badly has our access to natural resources been affected?”
“It’s bad, Madam Prime Minister. We’ve lost half the Tar Sands—every block opened in the past three years is now out of reach. Extraction hardware destroyed—and there were claims that some of the machinery had been singled out—”
“Singled out how?”
“The forcefield jumped ahead, broke its own steady line of growth. The numbers aren’t in yet, but the material loss will be in the tens of millions, maybe more. Production is much worse. We’re down to a trickle.”
“Vengeance,” stated Mary. “They were being punished for their stupidity. You cannot wound the Earth and expect to get away with it.”
“Enough of that, please,” the Prime Minister said. The PM was notoriously difficult to offend, and nothing in her expression now indicated anything but mild irritation with Mary’s pronouncements, or the pleased tone with which the Minister uttered them. “Alison, how many zones are still expanding?”
“Very few, Madam, and they have slowed down considerably. About a meter a day now, and no longer consistently along the line of advance. There are extensions now, like arms. But a more apt descriptor would be ‘corridors.’”
“As in … wildlife migration?”
Alison nodded. “Seasonal rounds: northern woods in the winter, summer on the plains.”
“So, preservation of nature appears to be the emerging theme,” observed the Prime Minister.
Alison nodded again. “Fisheries confirm this. Hook and line seems to be an acceptable practice. But not drift-nets, bottom-trawlers, or any other non-discriminating means of ocean harvest. And national boundaries are irrelevant, as the zones relate to fish migration, feeding and breeding grounds. Cetacean pods appear to be individually enclosed by forcefields, which travel with those pods and may well send extensions around outliers.”
>
“Makes me wonder,” said Will Camden.
The PM’s gaze flicked to the man. “William?”
He shrugged. “If eco-terrorists have hooked up with Satanists and someone, somewhere, is busy throwing virgins into volcanoes.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then Mary Sparrow burst out laughing. “Oh crap, Will! That’s a good one—can I quote you?”
“If you did,” the Minister of Natural Resources replied, “I doubt anyone would even notice.”
Abruptly the Prime Minister rose to her feet. She was tall, taller than Alison, leaving her with a moment of intimidation. Despite that, there was something to the woman that Alison couldn’t help liking. “Thank you,” she said, meeting the eyes of each of them in turn. “The general consensus among other nations—the ones prepared to discuss this matter—all concur with the inevitable conclusions you have drawn.” She paused, and then said, “We’re being—”
Washington DC, May 24th, 4:00 PM
“—royally fucked with,” the President of the United States finished.
Ben Mellyk winced. The Science Advisor was old school, and his president’s penchant for crass bluntness was beginning to irritate him. He withdrew his thick glasses and began methodically cleaning them with a silk handkerchief.
President Raine Kent, meanwhile, had shifted his considerable bulk in his chair to regard the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Albert Strom. Raine opened his mouth to say something and then visibly changed his mind, turning his attention instead to his Security Advisor. “Dan, if there are files you’re supposed to crack open right now …”
“Files, Mister President?”
“Files! X-fucking-files! The effect is global. No one with any credibility is taking credit and even if they did, this technology leaves the rest of us in the dust and research like that we’d know about—Ben! We’d know about it, wouldn’t we?”
“I think so, Mister President,” Ben replied, restoring his glasses only to take them back off and rub at his sleep-deprived eyes. “Energy fields remain in an infant state, and all require massive outputs from a recognizable power source.”
“So,” snapped the President, returning his glower to Daniel Prester, his Security Advisor. “Bug-eyed aliens. Roswell. Spill it, Daniel.”
“There are no X-files, Mister President.”
“Why am I having a hard time believing that?”
“Sir, you assume a greater capacity for security than is humanly possible. Conspiracies crack. People go rogue. Whistleblowers—”
“And how best to discredit them than by ridiculing everything they say?” Raine Kent leaned forward. “That’s a viable and common tactic, is it not? We’ve done it before, haven’t we? Enthusiastic disinformation—I happen to know you have full-time professional skeptics trolling the UFO sites.”
Daniel reluctantly nodded. “Experimental aircraft can be hard to hide one hundred percent of the time, particularly in testing and trials.”
“So that’s all they’re trolling for?”
Ben saw Daniel’s eyes flicker. “It is, sir.”
“And all the secret moon-bases and secret space fleets and ruins on Mars shit, it’s all rubbish, right?”
Daniel glanced at Ben, who sat straighter. “Mister President, there are ruins on Mars. We think. We’re pretty sure,” he amended upon seeing Kent’s visage darken. “We’ve been actively smudging images prior to releasing them to the public.” They had been doing the same for the Moon, but for a long time these had been matters in which Need-to-Know had not included presidents. For one very good reason. Presidents came and went, and most if not all of them were reluctant to leave the limelight once out of office. Sitting on the biggest reveal of all time would be tempting as hell.
This president was some time in calming down. Eventually he sighed. “Fuck me. And no one bothered telling me about it?”
“Sir, you have only been in office three months. Your slate has been pretty full, what with all the protests and riots and whatnot—”
“That shit takes care of itself,” Kent growled. “You’re sidestepping, Ben. This isn’t some climate change discussion we’re having here.”
Ben shrugged. “It was not considered a high priority.”
“Ruins on Mars. Okay. But ruins, right? Empty. Dead. Ancient.”
“Yes sir.”
“So, nothing to make me lose sleep over.”
“No sir.”
“Which is why you didn’t brief me, making me wonder how many other things you’re not telling me in the interests of the President getting his beauty rest.”
Ben said nothing. It seemed the wisest option.
Kent’s expression twisted to signal his disapproval. He shifted his attention to Albert Strom. “Al, tried lasers? Big fucking lasers? On the forcefields?”
The Chairman blinked owlishly, and then said, “Of course, Mister President. As well as microwave, sonic, and depleted uranium projectiles. The forcefields remain impervious and more to the point, entirely unaffected.”
“That’s American soil someone’s just stolen from us,” Kent said, his florid face deepening a shade. “Ben, what do the SETI people say?”
“Nothing detected, sir.”
“NASA?”
“Nothing detected, sir.”
“Are you on a fucking loop, Ben? I need more information. Daniel, crack down on the eco-terrorists. Haul ’em in. I want their computers. Their networks. All their contacts. I want the works.”
“We have all that, Mister President,” Daniel Prester replied. “Homeland’s been trawling that data since the first manifestation, as soon as the environmental angle became obvious. Lots of chatter but nothing concrete, sir. Thus far.”
“Thus far,” Kent muttered, as if the words were a personal affront. “Why now? That’s what I want to know? Why on my patch? What the fuck did I do to deserve this?” He sat up straighter. “Wait. Can we take credit for this?”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff choked on his coffee and the cup clashed ominously as he set it back down on its saucer. “Mister President, every country would declare war on us!”
Something gleamed in Raine Kent’s eyes. “And not one country can do fuck all about it.” He pointed at his Secretary. “See how that one plays with the egg-heads. Scenarios.”
After a long, tense moment, the Vice President, D.K. Prentice, cleared her throat. “Mister President, we cannot take credit for these forcefields.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t know what they are going to do next. Thus far, miraculously, there have been no definitive losses of life as a consequence of the manifestation. Nowhere world-wide, sir. But that is no guarantee that our luck won’t change. It would seem that our pre-eminent concern, at the moment, relates to the economic impact of these forcefields. That, and the already growing wave of displacement as entire populations get forced back into already-crowded and desperate urban areas.”
Kent frowned, but said nothing.
Prentice continued, “An extraordinary session has been called at the UN and I think we should—”
“Yeah,” cut in Kent, “you do that. Right. You go to that, D.K. See what they’re going to do about all those people because they sure as hell aren’t coming here. Report back to us on that.” He looked round the crowded Situation Room. “Meanwhile, I’ve got to address the nation, and I need something to say. I need to tell ’em we’re on this, working on this, figuring it out.” He looked to Ben. “Get your eggheads together, Ben, come up with shit. But not too complicated. Make it plain so the people get it, get what’s going on.”
“Mister President,” said Ben Mellyk. “That’s just it. We don’t know what’s going on.”
“Not good enough.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I wish it were otherwise.”
“I bet you do. So do I. So does everybody. On my fuckin’ watch, too. If it gets worse, people are going to panic. Should we wake up the National Guard again? Get pla
nes in the air?” He thumped the table with both fists. “How the fuck do we respond to this?”
Silver Steading Farm, Utah, May 24th, 5:16 PM
The Range Rover had always been an extravagance, Dave Ketchen’s mechanical cage of guilt making a serious dent in his carbon footprint. That and the ATC which he used whenever saddling a horse was just too much bother. In his mind, however, he figured he was still deep into the green, since the virtue of restoring the valley’s natural environment and then planting a tiered canopy of productive fruit- and nut-bearing trees and beneath that a whole host of undergrowth plants of varying seasonal yields … well, that had to count for something, didn’t it?
He’d stopped believing that about eight hours ago. Sitting in the Range Rover, parked on the open, unbroken scrubland that flanked their valley, he sat cradling a bottle of bourbon in his lap.
Down below the watercourse glittered between new green leaves. The pond had lost its ice and the family of beavers had been busy all day, thinning the stands of saplings on the banks. Ten years ago, the valley had been bone-dry, the stream a Spring occurrence in a good year. The beavers had changed all of that, a poignant reminder that Nature could turn a desert into a paradise if people just let it do its thing.
Sure, this list of virtues was as long as his arm. He and Ev had left the city, dragging their kids with them. Bought this valley. The ranch on the west side had been converted to Bison, with Jurgen Banks just about breaking even selling the lean meat to top restaurants back east. The other side was Reservation land, an isolated parcel of Northern Shoshone remotely connected to the Snake River group. It had been cattle land for some time before that, with a small ghost town connected to some failed mining operation being the first European settlement in the area. When the Shoshone bought the ranch, they’d sold the cattle off and left the buildings to fall into ruin.
Dave had done some research, curious about what the Shoshone wanted to do with the land, and as far as he could tell, the answer was ‘nothing.’ Which suited him just fine.
Rejoice, a Knife to the Heart Page 4