by John Barnes
Really, it was all a question of getting the materials to do what needs doing. To effectively block sunlight from space, the shield that casts the shadow must be low. To use materials at all effectively the shield should be wide and thin. To get the maximum effect, the shield should move slowly enough to cast its shadow on the strategic area of the Pacific for the maximum time.
This in turn dictates that it’s no good just putting a big mirror up in geosynchronous orbit; the shield would have to hold together and stay in place, and no known material is strong enough to permit a shield that big, subject to such tidal stresses as the moon and sun will provide, to hold together. So the shield needs to be at lower altitude… but then it will move too fast, if it orbits, to accomplish anything. Besides, it won’t stay in any orbit at all. The tenuous outer wisps of the Earth’s atmosphere plus the solar wind will be more than enough to bring the shields down in short order.
Thus both Klieg’s balloons, and the scheme Louie is carrying out, depend on using not a single orbited satellite, but many thousands of projectiles. They are planning to take Klieg’s deal—and promise him whatever he insists upon—because there’s at least a decent chance of damping out some of the hurricanes, and because they know that he won’t hold the whip hand forever. Louie will have all the advantages—he doesn’t have to lift anything off the Earth, only to bring it in. And once he has the right materials on hand, that should be easy.
Which brings up the reason for using 2026RU. It is coming in rapidly, by cometary standards, and might have been one of the more spectacular comets of the twenty-first century, in 2047, if it were not needed sooner. It already has a substantial velocity toward the inner solar system, and electromagnetic catapults upon its yet-unmelted surface will have the benefit of the added velocity in sending their packages of ice down to the Earth-moon system. Each package, roughly two million tons of ice in the shape of a Frisbee a mile across and a yard thick, its ice woven in an elaborate internal braid for strength, covered with a millimeter-thick sprayed-on mirroring to keep it from melting, will carry a propulsion and guidance system, and as each approaches Earth, Louie—returned home by then—will take over the guidance system and direct it into a “grazing” approach over the Pacific, so that it will come in almost parallel to the Earth’s surface, descending to a height of less than twenty miles before the braking shockwave trapped in the hollow underside blows the melting ice apart and the fragments boil off.
Each Frisbee will be more than a mile across, and will cast a corresponding shadow, but it won’t be those shadows that defeat Clem, all by themselves. As the giant ice disks whirl down into the stratosphere and evaporate explosively, the water released, in the cold thin air, will be instantly frozen into clouds of ice crystals like the familiar cirrus (or mare’s tail) clouds that often appear on the forward edge of a storm. But these will be two to three times as high up, and there will be many more of them; the layer of ice crystals will be enough to make it dark at the surface, so that over a quite short time, the surface waters of the Pacific will cool enough to stop supporting Clem and Clem’s spawn.
There are of course many sources of ice nearer than the comet—but none that are already moving at such a high velocity in nearly the exact right direction. Moreover, of the other possible sources, Charon and Pluto will be on the wrong side of the sun, from the viewpoint of the Earth, for half of every year, forcing a longer and less efficient orbit, and all the others are deep in the gravity wells of the giant gas planets. Though energy itself is not a problem-the self-replicating industrial plants Louie is building insure that there will be plenty—acceleration is; to escape from Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, or Neptune’s gravitational grip as quickly as necessary would require accelerations at which the ice Frisbees would flow like water, distort, and become unsuited for their entry to Earth’s atmosphere.
But to get to 2026RU will take a long time no matter what, and since exactly what will turn up there and exactly what will need to be done are not at all clear at the incoming comet’s current distance (something over 56 AU), Louie will have to go there himself and improvise. It took Louie some time to invent a scheme that would permit doing it in any reasonable amount of time; even at the best pace he can come up with, he will still not be back until June of 2029, and god only knows what shape the Earth will be in by then.
For once Berlina Jameson is feeling well rested, and given the size of the story she’s putting out, this isn’t much short of a miracle. When Harris Diem and Diogenes Callare offered her their help—even though the first part of the process was bound to trigger some uproar about the U.S. government and Colonel Tynan’s extremely cavalier use of foreign property—she had just figured them for nice, dedicated public servants.
Maybe that was their whole motivation. They might only have known that Klieg was acquiring undue influence both in the UN General Assembly and in the executive offices in Washington. Maybe Rivera and Hardshaw just wanted him ambushed and taken down a few notches.
But with what she’s found since, she doubts they could have been completely unaware of what she was going to find. It took her many hours and not much sleep just to look at all the relevant videotape, listen to all the relevant voice, and search through the relevant records. By the time she had the picture assembled, she at least had the sense to realize that she was too exhausted and would look like hell if she presented it right away, so she took a day off to edit, put fine touches on things, eat, sleep, and indulge herself.
Now, her hair newly done, feeling fresh and scrubbed, she stands in front of the white wall in a hotel room in Richmond (having bribed hell out of everyone to make sure no one comes thumping along the corridor in the next few minutes) and narrates her wrap:
“And so that’s it for this edition of Sniffings. The pattern of power that spreads out from John Klieg and GateTech like the tentacles of an octopus is laid bare for your examination. Influence that penetrates the highest levels of both national and international bodies; ambassadors to the UN who take their orders from Klieg and their salaries from their home countries; Klieg’s deliberate scheme for a monopoly on global launch, and his maneuvering, at a time when the world desperately needs launch facilities, to secure not just his own rightful rewards for providing one, but a complete monopoly by preventing anyone else from doing so.
“And yet this is just the tip of the iceberg. What, we might reasonably ask, is the connection between Klieg and the Siberian government? Just how many connections are there between Klieg’s operation, the notorious Hassan drug-and-mercenary cartel, and elements of the Siberian armed forces that remain close to outlawed and arrested dictator Omar Abdulkashim? Is it not clear that while Klieg milks the UN with one hand, he aids its enemies with the other—and paralyzes his home government to keep it from investigating his activities?
“And if we are facing a global Klieg dictatorship, or Klieg as the gray eminence behind the UN and the big powers… what sort of a program does he have, other than sheer aggrandizement? We have shown you a dozen clips of Klieg talking privately, off the record, in which it becomes clear that he thinks the problem with the great bulk of the world is that it’s not ‘normal,’ or ‘regular,’ or any of a dozen other words that he apparently uses to mean ‘like white middle-class Wisconsin.’ I could show you fifty more. This is a man of limited imagination and tolerance—and of all but unlimited power.”
She signs off, rechecks everything once more, patches in the end piece, and uploads. Time to head south out of the Wy—she has a lot of great quotes from the First Wave refugees, as they call themselves, the people from the Gulf Coast who decided to get out early and are at this point mostly working in construction in Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado. Everyone who can seems to be buying land and putting crisis housing on it for the expected waves of refugees; the First Wave seems remarkably cheerful for refugees.
Some of the Clem 200 series of hurricanes are beginning to pound their way up the coast, and there are rumors about evacuati
ng the Duc. Once she’s headed down to Denver, she phones Di Callare, and he patches her into a three-way conference with Harris Diem. Diem, in particular, seems very pleased.
“I don’t think you know what you’ve done, Ms. Jameson,” he says. “And I have to admit I wasn’t happy about it when you started out. I had always figured that if anything useful was going to get done, it would be because the people who could have gotten in the way didn’t hear about it first. But what you’ve done is created a whole constituency for an intelligent global perspective—and you’ve done such a good job of it that I’m betting on you against Klieg.”
“It’s not really me against Klieg—” she protests, a little feebly because it certainly feels that way, but she doesn’t want to feel that she’s been out to “get” anyone or that she’s on anyone’s side.
“I understand. You think you’re being purely objective. Perhaps from your standpoint you are. Nonetheless, you got him and you got him good, as the boss and I used to say in Idaho. Things like GateTech depend on people respecting the rules even when it’s not to their advantage to do so—which is usually desirable, since it maintains public order. But when somebody is making his entire career out of using the rules to tie every productive project up in knots—well, all I can say is, he chose very intelligently in his location. I very much doubt he will be able to come back to the United States for a while, or to operate anything very effectively by proxy. He’s out of the game—though he’ll still get rich launching his balloons. But in terms of serious power, he’s gone.”
Berlina has been listening to this very seriously, trying to decide whether Diem is flattering her for some future purpose. She decides that she can’t tell, but he’s probably too good at it for her to be able to spot it.
They chat for another moment or two, and then Diem clicks off and she’s left talking to Di Callare. “We’re getting out pretty fast,” he explains. “Lori will get it all packed up and storm-proofed in the next couple of weeks—it looks like the hurricanes coming up the East Coast will be bad, but not the Big One we’re figuring will happen either this season or next.”
“The Big One? I thought that Clem—”
“So far there’s been nothing the size of Clem in the Atlantic. To get to be Clem’s size you’ve got to build up over very hot water for a couple of weeks, the way Clem did, or start with a huge eye on a hot sea the way Clem Two, excuse me, Clem 200, did. And other hurricanes do use up some of the available energy and bind some of the available wind flow. Once Clem 200 got into the Caribbean, we thought we were goners, but luckily it did that pinwheeling stunt with its outflow jets and started up so many eyes that they limited each other’s growth. With luck we’ll merely have four or five very large hurricanes out of this event, counting Clem 200 itself, which has shrunk quite a bit, never recovered the energy it had before it crossed Mexico.”
Berlina shudders. “Still, hurricanes haven’t been that common—”
“No, but they haven’t been uncommon either. And most of these guys will follow the Gulf Stream and the steering currents and stay off the American East Coast. So we’ll see some big storms, loss of property and life, all of that—but not the catastrophe that’s going to happen once you get a hurricane into the eastern Caribbean all by itself. That’s the one that’s going to blow up to Clem size and resist the steering currents enough to tear up the coast.”
Berlina nods at the camera. “I start to see it, I guess. Are the hurricanes we have going to make it across to Europe?”
“They might. The temperature in the North Atlantic falls off fast as you go north, so if they swing up that way they’re dead. But on the right trajectory one of them could slug Europe for sure, and there will be enough of them so that at least one or two will get there—”
There’s a flashing light at the corner of the screen, and each of them says “Hold on” and reaches to take the call off hold; they don’t have time to realize that it is odd for them both to get a call at the same time before they are unexpectedly back into a conference call with Harris Diem.
“Well,” he says, “have you seen or heard?”
Berlina says no as Di shakes his head.
“Congratulations, Ms. Jameson.” His smile is sardonic and doesn’t get up to his eyes. “You’ve made history twice in one day. It looks like the release of Sniffings has triggered Global Riot Two.”
The first Global Riot began in Islamabad and Seattle. No one can be that positive about Global Riot Two.
But Sniffings is almost certainly at the heart of it; at least half of the initial outbreaks of violence are, in one way or another, connected to Berlina Jameson’s exposé of the Klieg organizations, their influence, and their links both to organized crime and to the outlaw Abdulkashim regime.
Quaz, the guy with the attitude, Passionet’s bad boy, with an undeserved reputation for being brainy, is in Oran. He has been walking around in dusty streets all day, absorbing atmosphere, blocking out as best he can the knowledge that tomorrow he will be going directly to the place where he will be permitted to barge in and talk to some critical witnesses. He also ignores the fact that the reason the witnesses both seem very frightened and will tell him whatever he wants is that they were carefully left uninjured by the police in exchange for their cooperation with Passionet detectives. Passionet, lately, has been the net of choice for breaking organized crime in the Third World, as long as it’s reasonably sensational organized crime.
Quaz’s problem is that he’s bright enough to appreciate irony without being quite bright enough to get past it. A couple of times they’ve had to fake technical problems because he hasn’t blocked his knowledge of the next day’s script adequately. He gets too fascinated with how smoothly it all runs, and sometimes much too interested in Passionet’s detectives (who are anonymous gray types, eternally soft-spoken and reserved, the farthest thing that can be imagined from Quaz’s intellectual decadent aging-punk style).
Or, in short, he can never quite manage to remember that to be real enough for the experiencers, it’s got to be kept under control. Nobody wants to see what real detectives do, since nowadays that’s either cornering people and talking to them, or more likely writing lengthy search protocols for datarodents that spread out on the net, looking for the moment when a person, a dollar, an object linked with a crime, touches the great collective brain of capitalism.
It makes for dramatic phrases, and if you intercut five or ten seconds of it now and then along with an overload sense of weariness, you can make people feel like they stayed up all night catching crooks, but watching a person listen to a rambling witness is dull, and watching a person at a keyboard is duller than that. Especially if people see it taking as long as it really does.
Not to Quaz, though, and that’s the problem. Some strange part of the poor idiot’s mind refuses to understand that he is not out here to be a reporter, let alone a detective, himself. You’d think having both cheekbones broken and reshaped, or a surgically flattened stomach, would have given him a clue….
All these thoughts are running through the mind of Dennis Ysabel-Garcia, Passionet’s special bodyguard detailed to Quaz, as he follows Quaz about a hundred feet back, monitoring his mind through a local tap. It’s late in the day, getting dark, and Dennis has been walking around for all this time getting more bored and annoyed, his feet getting sorer and his clothes more caked with dust and sweat. God knows, Quaz is not his first choice of bodies to guard—Rock, or Synthi Venture, are always courteous and stay on the track marked out for them; even the new kid, Surface O’Malley, for all her puppyish enthusiasm, can manage to follow orders.
So it’s an unpleasant shock but no surprise that when gunfire starts up some blocks away, Quaz turns and runs straight for it, despite urgent orders not to from the control office here in Oran. Dennis flings himself after Quaz, around corners into an unscouted alley that is secure only at the near end, down a long block—
The demonstration is in front of the mosque, and se
ems to have been thrown together by one of the fundamentalist groups that are always ready whenever scandal hits the ruling family, nowadays, anywhere in the Arab world. They were burning pictures of the ambassador to the UN, who had been exposed as on Klieg’s take; they ran head-on into a group of pro-Abdulkashim enthusiasts who had come here to demonstrate against the lies the Western media were spreading about their hero. Afterward no one will quite be sure of how the two groups got into a brawl with each other; the best guess will be that everyone involved assumed that two different demonstrations in the same place were enough cause for a fight.
“The first shots were fired by the first cop on the scene. I think he shot into the air, hoping to get people’s attention. Then somebody shot him. Now half of them are breaking and running to get away from the scene and the other half are realizing that the looting’s always best at the start of a riot,” the controller whispers in Dennis’s mind. “What does that pretty fool think he’s doing? We keep telling him to break off and turn back.”
This is as much as Dennis can get speed-talked into his head as he rushes after Quaz, who with his typical sense of immunity from all harm wants to run up and ask the two sides what the fight is about. Nobody in his corner of the action seems to speak English, so he begins to speak loudly and slowly and gesture frantically.
Dennis has crossed most of the twilit square in front of the mosque when somebody shoots Quaz low in the gut, with a Self Defender, a twenty-dollar disposable hypervelocity derringer like you can buy at any 7-Eleven in the States. Though the slug is tiny—a bit of depleted uranium about the size of the tip of an ordinary sewing needle—it hits with ten times the foot-poundage of an old-style .357 Magnum round, and once it goes in it tumbles, so that aside from the exit hole, it makes a shock wave so big in his body cavity that Quaz’s guts erupt through his back around his spinal column.