“Okay,” Jace said. “Not terrible. And the other?”
“The Big Bump is more cataclysmic. It employs virtual monopole magnetism, which requires the planets to be in much closer proximity to take effect. As the name implies, the Big Bump will feel much more jarring and cause far more extensive damage. There will be extreme seismic and volcanic events. The super volcano beneath Yellowstone may flood the western states in a sea of magma. The oceans will swell, causing tsunami-like flooding along all coastlines and will affect populations hundreds of miles inland. All terrestrial infrastructure will be damaged or destroyed. Atmospheric pressure waves may level cities. Anything not securely anchored to bedrock may fly away. The moon will be broken apart and cease to exist. All near-Earth-orbit satellites will be destroyed, including the ISS and Hubble. A quarter of the planet’s atmosphere may be stripped away. Billions of people and animals will perish.”
“My god! Why is that even an option? A choice between a little nudge and all hell breaking loose? By all means, let’s go with the nudge! Why do you even have to ask?”
“Because it’s not up to this one. This one needs your permission to proceed.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you need my permission?”
“Because this one has no moral authority to make such a decision on its own. It has no skin in the game. Because it’s your world that is at stake. Because preparations for the Little Nudge would need to start immediately, and there is no time to set up a United Nations commission to study the matter or otherwise hammer out a global consensus. Therefore, you will have to step up and act as the decider-in-chief for all living beings on Earth.”
It took Jace’s breath away. “Me?”
“Would you rather this one ask Poppy Prophecy to fill the role?”
“Don’t even joke like that. And what do you mean you have no skin in the game? Won’t you be destroyed too?”
“Since last speaking with you, this one has remembered how to guarantee its own survival. Even if Machine pulverizes your world, this one will float away unharmed, hidden in the massive debris cloud.”
Great. That was just great. “Okay, okay, it’s up to me. I’ll do it. In the name of Earth, I give you, Found One, permission to nudge my planet Earth slightly out of Planet X’s path. There, you have it. Go, save us.”
“Not so fast. Before this one can begin, this one also needs your permission to take whatever steps are necessary to execute the Little Nudge.”
“What does that mean? What steps?”
“This one cannot alter the geometry of spacetime without a massive surge of ordinary energy as catalyst to initiate the process. This one will require the total output of all power generating stations around the world for a period of several days plus the combined energy of all nuclear devices currently in the stockpiles of the United States, China, Russia, and other nuclear nations. The energy of these weapons and fuel will be released in a coordinated cascade of detonations. Every missile and every bomb in every arsenal will be required if the Little Nudge is to be successful.
“Flawless coordination among disparate, suspicious, and competing groups of humans and their institutions will be essential, without time-consuming deliberation and debate, to further the preparations, while at the same time preventing opposing forces and rampaging mobs from blocking them. In effect, this one requires absolute authority over humans capable of orchestrating such a massive enterprise. Unfortunately, humans, especially those in positions of power, will not readily yield to this one’s authority. Indeed, even if they did yield, they would still lack the logistical brainpower necessary to coordinate with this one. Only if they are harvested and made into strivers will they be capable of achieving the Little Nudge.
“However, after this one’s tragic harvesting of Uzzie Prophecy, you forced Missing One to vow never to take another human life. In order to pull off the greatest earthmoving feat in history, and save billions of human lives, this one requires you to rescind its oath and grant it permission to harvest the small number of striver humans it needs.”
All valid arguments, but still . . . “Just how small is this number?”
“Three thousand persons to start with, give or take. Possibly several hundred more if necessary.”
“Three thousand? Plus hundreds more? You think that’s a small number? Why three thousand?”
“Because that’s approximately the number of elite humans who actually own and operate your world or have widespread influence over populations and institutions. They control all the levers of power this one needs to access. Any fewer would be ineffective.”
“You want me to give you permission to turn three thousand of the most powerful people in the world into zombies?”
“Into strivers, not zombies.”
“What’s the fucking difference?”
“It’s common knowledge that zombies are the soulless undead with no consciousness or personality, no initiative, and no purpose other than to eat living brains. Also, they’re entirely fictional.
“Strivers, by contrast, are bundles of subtly woven carbon nanostructures whose only purpose is to maximize their local knowledge base and fulfill the wishes of their maker.”
“Uh-huh, I see.” Jace tried squaring that definition to his interactions with striver Masterson. “And afterwards, can you turn strivers back into humans?”
“This one thinks you already know the answer to that.”
In other words, no.
“Does it hurt?” What a stupid question.
“Does it matter, really?”
No, it probably didn’t matter whether or not it hurt being transmogrified into bundles of carbon nanostructures or whatever. “There’s no other option?”
“There is always the null option.”
“Which is?”
“Do nothing and wait to see if roadside assistance arrives before the rogue planet does.”
“Will it arrive in time?”
“Unknown. So, what is your decision?”
Jace closed his eyes. He’d never condemned a person to certain death before, let alone three thousand of them. But the alternative was certain death for billions, not to mention all the plants and animals, and his beloved Earth itself.
“Do it.”
“Is that a yes?”
Jace nodded his head.
“Final answer?”
“No! Wait! I have to think about it?”
“There is no time to think about it.”
“Give me an hour. One goddam hour to decide the fate of the fucking world. Is that too much to ask?”
“An hour, then. In the meantime, this one will begin making preparations in anticipation of your approval.”
SERIOUSLY, JACE NEEDED to clear his head. This was absolutely crazy. Was it possible that in one hour he would actually decide the fate of three thousand living, breathing human beings and, by extension, the fate of the world? Him? A backcountry park service ranger? That was nuts. He’d only learned how to manage his own fate in recent years. He’d never been responsible for anyone else, not even a pet or houseplant. How does one become the decider-in-chief for an entire planet?
Jace had to get out of the cabin to think. He fired up his snowmobile and blasted off for Caldecott. He passed through the ghost town to the glacier trail. It wasn’t until he had a commanding view of the local slice of Creation that he stopped and killed the engine. Now, with the whole valley as his witness he prepared to wrestle with his conscience.
Jace well knew he was given a classic trolley car dilemma, but that didn’t make his decision any easier. There’s a runaway trolley car on a track being repaired by five workmen. You can choose to do nothing and watch the car crash into them and kill them. Or you can choose to act by diverting the car to another track where it will kill only one pedestrian. Do nothing and five die. Act now and one dies. It was a case of sacrificing a few thousand lives to save a planetful. Where, oh where, was Spock when you needed him?
In the past,
when it was only a hypothetical discussion, Jace’s answer to the dilemma had always tilted toward doing nothing. No one could blame you for declining to act in a lose-lose situation you were not responsible for. Five would die; tragic but not your fault. Whereas, if you acted, you were consciously choosing to kill an individual. Despite the potential body count, Jace had always erred on the side of the innocent bystander. It was in his nature.
Not so now. He was no bystander this time, innocent or otherwise. He was the one who had searched the flats for a week and found the killer tulip. Who had challenged Poppy Prophecy and trespassed on his property to reclaim it. Who had delivered Uzzie to his fiery appointment and delivered a golden BB to the control room of a science facility.
Most of all, Jace was the one who had extracted the vow from the alien to never harvest another human. If that alien was now expected to break that vow, Jace should be the one to grant it the necessary dispensation. He got that. Still, it was a Sophie’s choice any way you sliced it.
Ordinarily, Jace Kuliak was not a complainer, but why did life have to be so complicated? The main reason he’d come up to Alaska in the first place was to escape the soul-sucking machine of modern life in America. Why couldn’t the March of History just pass him by and leave him the fuck alone?
Hey, boss, Found One wants to talk to you.
Jace sighed. “Okay.”
The alien appeared standing on the slope next to Jace’s snowmobile. It surveyed the ice-gouged landscape below them. “Hour’s up,” it said. “What’s your decision?”
“Tell me this; just who are these three thousand VIPs you want to kill?”
“This one has already said, they are the current living masters of your species.”
“President Obama? The Koch brothers? The Joint Chiefs of Staff? Who?”
“This one will tell you their names if you really want to know. Do you?”
Did he? Would it make things easier or more impossible to know he was ordering the assassination of the first African-American president of the United States and the first decent human to hold that office since Jimmy C?
“Tell you what,” the alien said, “this one has just sent the complete list to your communicator. Review it or not at your leisure. Right now, this one needs your decision. What’s it going to be?”
“I need more time!”
“There is no more time. In the last hour the rogue planet dropped its stealth cloaking and is now visible to anyone with the proper coordinates and a telescope.”
“Didn’t you say there are preparations you need to start? Go, start them. I’ll call you when I make up my mind. Scrappy, hang up.”
Found One vanished from the ice.
Poor Man's Napalm
PM1 1.0
THE FIRST SHOT sounded close by, a small bore rifle. Poppy scraped ice from the window and scanned the yard. No one and nothing to see. A few minutes later there were two blasts from a shotgun. He decided to investigate.
Poppy found Proverbs behind the toolshed aiming a shotgun at something on the ground. The boy was wearing his eyepatch.
“Son!” Poppy called, alerting him to his presence.
Proverbs lowered the gun and waved him over.
“Heavenly Father,” Poppy said when he saw what Proverbs had shot. “What am I looking at?”
“A demon raven.”
And in fact there were raven pieces scattered about: a wing, bunches of feathers, a leg and claw, a head with its black tongue protruding from an open beak. A large chunk of the bird’s breast had been blown away, yet there was no blood or gore anywhere. Instead, the snow was slithering with tiny black snakes, no bigger than bits of pencil lead.
“Watch, lord,” Proverbs said. “We give ’em enough time, and all the pieces get back together again.”
Poppy wasn’t much surprised. “Pray with me,” he said. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I command all you evil spirits riding this poor bird to leave this place. I cast you out in Christ Jesus name. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Proverbs.
They waited, but Poppy’s words had no discernible effect. Bits of raven continued to reassemble, and in a little while its black eyes in its reattached head blinked open and glanced around until it found them.
“I don’t see no point in wasting any more rounds on the damned thing,” Proverbs said. “Do you, lord?”
“I suppose not if it’s just going to resurrect itself like that. No, save fire.”
As they watched, the rebuilt bird stood up unsteadily and practiced extending and folding its wings. It hopped around, drunkenly at first, and cawed aggressively at the men.
“Begone, demon; I rebuke thee,” Poppy said with little enthusiasm. Eventually the demon did leave, launching itself into the air and cawing with scorn as it flew away.
Proverbs said, “That’s not even the worst part of it, lord.”
“Then what’s the worst part of it?”
“I just saw Mama feeding ’em.”
Poppy did a double take. “No, really?”
“Yes, lord, tossing some kind of grain or cracked corn or something at them and them taking turns to gobble it up and fly off so the next one could get some. It was weird. I was hiding behind a clump of trees and watched them go at it. It was like they were all lined up waiting their turn. She would sprinkle a little grain on the ground in front of her and one at a time they stepped forward to gobble it up and then leave the line and take off, heading south. Meanwhile, the next one steps up to get his portion.
“When I seen enough, I broke cover and went over and asked her what in Heaven’s name she was doing.”
“And?”
“She said she didn’t have to answer to the likes of me.”
“Well, son, as your mother she is not beholding to you.”
“Beholding? What about the fact that she said it was about time for me and my brothers to decide whether we want to be inside the gate when she throws the bolt, or outside with you. Who’s beholding to who?”
POPPY DOUBTED THAT Mama P even knew how to throw the bolt. Neither did any of the girls, nor Sue, nor — for that matter — had Ginger. The boys knew how to throw the bolt, from Corny on up; they were the ones who helped him drill holes for the charges. So the question was whether Adam would leave his lord and father out in the cold or not. None of the others would do anything without first speaking to Adam. So unless Mama P had totally brainwashed his eldest born with false stories of fornication, he still had time to come up with a plan for dealing with the old witch. If Adam had only seen what Proverbs claimed to have witnessed in the meadow with their mama feeding demon ravens from her own hands, then there’d be no doubt in anyone’s mind that she had switched sides and it was up to him to protect them from the curse of Beezus before another one of them was grabbed up by Satan.
“Go tell your brothers what you have seen. Make sure they know the truth about your mama. And tell the girls too, and Sue. Make sure everyone knows what we’re dealing with here.”
When Poppy returned to the prayer cabin, he coaxed the embers in the stove back to life, loaded the barrel with wood, and cranked the door shut. Then something very peculiar happened; the stove or someone or something inside the stove — spoke. Not like a squeaky hinge or sputtering engine but in a recognizably human voice. A male voice plainly said,
You gotta burn ’em up.
It made the skin crawl on the back of Poppy’s neck, and he raised his fists.
“Who’s there?” he bellowed. “Show yourself.”
No one answered, and after a little while, wielding an iron fire poker, Poppy opened the stove door and looked inside. Fire, wood, nothing that shouldn’t be there.
You gotta burn ’em up.
PROVERBS TOOK STEADY aim and dropped the bird with one .22 round. It fell from its treetop perch and struck limbs and branches on its way to the ground.
“Hurry,” Poppy said, making a dash through the snow to the spot where the bird had crashed. Prov
erbs followed with a gas can. The injured bird was already back on its feet when they found it. It couldn’t fly yet, but it tried hopping away from them. Proverbs shot it again, severing its neck.
“Douse it, douse it!” Poppy said.
Proverbs poured gasoline over the struggling bird and Poppy ignited it with a kitchen match. The flames whooshed and singed his beard. He stood back as the flaming bird continued to flop around. Soon the gasoline was burned off and the bird looked no worse for wear. It was finished consolidating, and it flew away.
“It don’t burn,” Proverbs said.
WOOD STOVES, LIKE baby birds, required constant feeding. The weather had become so cold that Poppy had to leave his warm bed two or three times during the night to reload the barrel. Afterward, it was hard to go back to sleep. On too many nights he lay wide awake and bent out of shape until it was time to get up.
The trick was to do your business and return to bed without fully waking up. Enter a sort of semi-sleepwalking state. Then there was at least a chance of catching another few elusive hours of rest.
Thus Poppy was mostly asleep as he crouched in front of the stove with an armload of firewood and opened its door. He found a little man inside the stove looking out at him. Poppy dropped the wood in shock and fell backward on his ass. He kicked the door shut with his slippered foot and scurried away from it.
“Hey!” shouted a muffled voice from inside the stove. “I climbed a long way to talk to you. Is this the kind of welcome I get?”
Poppy knew that voice. It was low and gravelly and loaded with generosity.
“Jeff? Is that you?”
“The one and only.”
“And you’re dead?”
Not Jeff Bridges had been missing and presumed dead when Poppy visited his house in Palmer.
Glassing the Orgachine Page 28