Dark New World (Book 4): EMP Backdraft

by Henry G. Foster

  Jaz said, “That makes sense. Send good out into the universe, and good comes back.” Choony nodded in reply. “So, what about when you die? Where does your soul go? If not into a cockroach or a rich person—or whatever—then where do you go?”

  “That’s the part that’s hard to explain. You understand the idea of Karma, right? But you probably have the wrong idea about what Buddhists believe. Karma isn’t Fate, but rather it’s your personal energy, your place in the universe, your attributes and character and everything that means you are you. That’s what determines what stage of development you’ll spend your next moment-self. Buddha taught us to meditate to help us realize ourselves as whole beings in a peaceful state without pain, and ‘pain’ doesn’t mean what you feel when you stub your toe, either. It all gets pretty abstract the deeper you get into it.”

  “I never heard that idea before. I thought it was, like, all the things that happen to you are because of your Karma.”

  “Every person has the freedom to choose what they put into the universe. Some people put evil out there. A lot of bad things that happen to people aren’t because of their own Karma, but someone else’s. How you react to it is what counts for your own Karma. That’s the part you can choose. But at the same time, if you put good out into the world, your Karma not only affects you, it also affects the people around you, just like their bad or good energy can affect you. It goes both ways.”

  “So what happens when you die? Do you carry your Karma into the next life? You already said we don’t really come back as a cockroach or a squirrel, so you come back as a person with your old Karma, right?”

  “All things are illusion, temporary, and won’t last. From the big universe down to little you, it all eventually passes by. Yet energy can’t be destroyed, only transformed into something else. When you die, that which is you transforms back into various kinds of atoms.”

  “So you believe we don’t have a soul? That this life is it for us, and when we die we’re gone? I don’t think I like that idea.”

  “That’s because you hang on to the idea that things can have permanence. They can’t. The ‘you’ who said that is already gone, transformed into the ‘you’ of right now, and that’s gone again as I speak. It’s a constant transformation. Your Karma, however, being energy can’t be destroyed. It continues on when you die, settling on some other person being born. Good or bad, your Karma now sets the stage for the Karma someone else begins life with. So when you think, say, or do things that upset your balance—things that give you negative energy in your Karma—you’ll make someone else start at a lower level of consciousness, with negative energy. To a Western mind that might seem like the next you but it’s not, or not exactly. Everyone can overcome what they start with, through their own actions and choices, but you might say they start ‘in the red’ if the Karma they begin with is from a bad person. It’s like starting out in debt.”

  “Grandma Mandy says that all children are good, because Jesus said Heaven is made up of ‘ones such as these’ or something. I don’t like the idea that my life was affected by the bad things some dead guy did.”

  “Why not, Jaz? Your life is affected by the bad things living people do, but I understand most people have a hard time letting go of the notion that they can somehow live forever, that they have a permanent soul. I respect those beliefs, you know. When people try to actually live by Jesus’ teachings, they do wonderful things. Even if they don’t know they’re following Jesus’ teaching. I like to call it a conscience. You think that’s God nudging you toward a more Christ-like existence, and I think the conscience is your Karma trying to gain harmony with the energy of the universe. The result is the same. Does it matter what you call it?”

  “Oh, Choon Choon. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to bash your Buddha ideas. I think you’re an amazing person. If the world had more people like you, it would be, like, such a better place.”

  Choony, feeling calmed by her and liking it, smiled. She was so sweet, and though she had clearly never really pondered these issues before, in her heart she was a naturally good person. One of the best, even. He realized he was still smiling. “Jaz, you do more good in this world than you give yourself credit for. The entire Clan does. This permaculture idea that Cassy lives by is, at its heart, just trying to get back in harmony with the Earth itself, and it’s full of joy and good Karma. How do you all live together without many problems? That’s Cassy’s good Karma affecting the people around her. Yours, too.”

  Jaz giggled, and Choony raised an eyebrow. “Sorry,” Jaz said, regaining her composure, and explained, “Ethan calls it the ‘Founder’s Principle,’ where the one who starts a society has, like, a big impact on how everything goes down after that. Kinda the same idea, I guess.” She giggled again. “Same idea but they sound so different—no wonder people get confused.”

  Choony stood and stretched his back, and Jaz followed his lead. “I guess it’s safe to head out now. Yeah? Let’s try to make it to the Falconry before they put away breakfast,” Choony said and repacked his water bottle.

  - 9 -

  0800 HOURS - ZERO DAY +148

  WELL, THAT WAS unexpected. Incoming message through the hacked satellite “back door” channel. That would be Taggart. Ethan set his cup of coffee on the desk next to his laptop and went through his usual routine. Set up the sandbox. Bounce around through VPNs—though much fewer of those were online since Operation Backdraft sent EMP strikes around the globe—and connect his USB toggle with the decryption/encryption program they used to scramble the chatter.

  They used a variant of Cipher P-1776, the 20s encryption routine that required both parties to have the same edition of the same book to have any hope of decrypting it (it was otherwise a string of random numbers and letters), but Taggart was using a different source book—he had the actual book and Ethan had an ebook version that showed the paper version page numbers. To the 20s, if they intercepted it, the transmissions were nearly unbreakable because there was quite literally no pattern at all. It would take many transmissions and a lot of time for even a computer to find any pattern at all, and one could never know if the “key book” had changed. Ethan loved it. It was pretty damn impressive. Thanks for the idea, 20s…

  “Hey, Amber, did you see this back-chan come in from New York City? When did you last check it?”

  From down the hallway, in the next chamber of the bunker, Amber’s angelic voice called back. Even when she was hollering back at him through the tunnels, she still mesmerized him like no other woman’s voice ever had. “I checked it like twenty minutes ago. It was clear then.”

  Oh, thank goodness. That meant it was fresh and hadn’t been sitting there all night. No need to chew her out and then sleep on the couch later. Phew. Ethan fed the received file through his custom program and watched as it spit out a string of letters that became words, then sentences, faster than he could keep up. It must be one helluva process on Taggart’s end. The poor guy probably had to do all this by hand. The thought made Ethan cringe. Computers made life so much easier.

  But then the thought stopped him in his tracks as he realized that it was computers, and humanity’s reliance on them, that had led to the war. The EMPs. Mankind losing seven of its eight billion people by the end of next year. Man’s reliance on computers was understandable, though—they did miraculous things, and let everyday people do things that would be indistinguishable from magic only a hundred years ago. Most of mankind ended up being the sacrifice to angry Technology Gods…

  The computer beeped, alerting Ethan that decryption had been completed, and he leaned in a bit to get a better view of the screen.

  > NYC1 to Dark Ryder, it began, and Ethan grinned. That guy just couldn’t seem to get the idea that HAMnet wasn’t the same as talking on a CB. NYC1 direct. Attchd r Intel from prior 7 days. NK swrmng NYC w Death squads. My cmbt eff grtly reduced. 3 full plat.remain. Situ8n untenable. Must retrograde. Need instruct. Most urgnt. Over.

  Well, the
terrible writing was understandable when the poor guy had to encrypt by hand. Irritating, maybe, but the least of Ethan’s problems.

  So. New York City was swarming with North Korean—and probably Islamist—death squads, Taggart was down to a company, and had to bug out, but where to send him? He had the unsettling feeling that it would be best to send him some instructions now rather than later.

  Ethan arose and stepped up to his wall map with all its many-colored pins. Where to send Taggart… It was a tough question. Everything depended on whether they could get the hell out of New York and through New Jersey alive, which was a big question mark in its own right. But if they did get through, then what?

  Amber padded into the room, stood behind Ethan, and rubbed his shoulders a little. Something about her scent was like catnip to Ethan. “Something from that Taggart guy, I see. What’s up?”

  “Things are just too rough in New York and he decided he has to get out of Dodge. ‘Retrograde,’ he calls it. I’m looking at the map to see where I should send him. He can’t go south because it’s all urban down there, and the same with northeast. It has to be anything from west to north.”

  “You know, for a genius you sure can be dense sometimes.”

  “Uh huh. Love you too. But seriously, I don’t know where to send him. I know there’s a band of Militia out by Liberty, Pennsylvania, but I doubt they’ll last the winter in that little town. I’ve heard there is enough infighting among them that their group will probably either split up or kill each other. Or both.”

  Amber tilted her head back, holding her nose with one hand, and snickered.

  It was all very melodramatic, and kind of amusing, and Ethan couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Alright, drama queen, why don’t you enlighten me? Where do you think I should send them, if you’re so smart?”

  “Why not bring them here? They need a home, everywhere east of us is screwed, everywhere west of us is either Empire or Mountain, we’re in the middle and we need the help. We could use his troops and you’ve said he seems like an effective leader, loyal to the country and all.”

  “It’d be a minimum of five or six days’ journey, longer if our own trip is any indication…” Ethan’s voice trailed off as he considered her words. In fact he had thought of it, but immediately dismissed it simply because of the journey’s length. Maybe a company of well-armed, veteran guerrilla soldiers stood a better than decent chance of coming through alive, however. Imagine someone like Taggart leading patrols through their nearby hills and woods…

  Amber added, “And you could direct them to some critical hot spots along the way. Turn a couple tie games into home-team wins.”

  “You and your sports. I’m not a fan but I could watch a good game of football right about now.”

  Amber play-punched him in the arm. “You know damn well that we’re in America, and here we call that so-called sport ‘soccer,’ not football. In our football, grown men don’t pretend a slight brush against another player is the end of the world, falling down crying.”

  Ethan glowered at her, but of course she’d know he was just playing along. “Real football is the favorite of the entire world and requires skill and flawless tactics.”

  “It’s one dude with a ball. What tactics?” she teased. “But anyway, we’re getting sidetracked. Bringing Taggart here makes sense. For us, for him. And when springtime rolls around, we’ll be awfully glad to have another thirty or so veteran warriors with mil-grade weapons on our side.”

  “What if they decide they want to be in charge? Amber, I’m not sure we could stop them. Even if we could, it would decimate both groups.”

  “Figure the odds of them attacking Americans, given what you know. Then, figure the odds of us needing thirty more soldiers come spring, given your intel. Both bringing them and not bringing them could have a really bad end for us, but which is more likely? Whatever you decide, I know you’ll make the right recommendation to the Council.”

  Her grasp of gamesmanship always impressed him. She had even gone for the long-term win when he gave her the “prisoner’s dilemma” puzzle. Taking this to the Council wasn’t something he had thought of. Being a wingnut loner sometimes made it kind of hard to think of things like that, but Amber kept him on the right track and reminded him of things like chain of command, or like bringing a company of friendly soldiers to the Clan just before the spring offensives started flying.

  Ethan sent a quick coded reply to Taggart that said more information would come shortly and to get out of the area in the meantime. Then he kissed Amber, and the two headed aboveground for a late breakfast.

  * * *

  Cassy sat with Michael in her living room. They were alone since she’d chased out the others. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, bracing for the guilt she felt. “So how did the questioning end? Did we get what we needed?”

  Michael closed his eyes for a second, then nodded. “Yes, we got all we could out of her. She didn’t really know much of strategic value. Confirmed she was from the Empire, or the Midwest Republic as they call it. She was the leader of a band of scouts called ‘Ancillaries,’ and they were out here just to map the area and do recon on survivor groups.”

  “That’s it? All that… the things you had to do. Just for that?”

  Michael shrugged. “She didn’t know much. We got some information that will be useful, though.”

  “I hope it was worth it.”

  “Probably not,” Michael replied. “However, it seems that the Empire sends envoys out to the stable survivor groups the scouts locate. They tell the groups they’d love to have them in the Empire. They explain the benefits. And then they say that the group must vote whether to join the Empire or not. If they vote to join, then they get a new ruler.”

  “And if they vote not to?” Cassy asked.

  “They tell the groups that if they vote no, they’ll be left in peace but will be barred from trade with the Empire and so on, but won’t be harmed.”

  “People fall for that?”

  “Yeah. Any group that refuses is forced to let its members leave for parts unknown in the Empire, and after they’re gone, the Empire burns the rest to the ground. No survivors.”

  “Why would they tell people they have a choice, only to kill off the ones who choose not to join?”

  Michael scratched his chin, where he had some stubble on his usually clean-shaven face. “My theory is that they do it just to get at the truth without coercion. Those who only joined because there was a rifle at their heads would probably be more trouble than they’re worth down the road.”

  Cassy nodded slowly. “Good to know, Michael. At least you didn’t have to do all that for nothing. You did well, you and Mueller. I hope we don’t have to do that ever again.”

  Michael nodded. “Me too. But you and I both know that we probably will. I’ve already had the Smoke House cleaned up for its next guest.”

  Cassy took a deep breath, but remained silent.

  “Don’t feel too guilty, Cassy. I know it’s rough, but this is a warzone, and a different world than the one we used to know. We all do what we must to survive, and there’s no guilt in that. Better us and our families live than them and theirs.”

  Cassy made a polite exit, then went for a walk to clear her head. Michael was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. Deep inside, she hoped that sending people to the Smoke House never got easy. As long as it was hard, she was still human inside…

  * * *

  Jaz and Choony arrived back at the walls of Cornwall—the Falconry, now—and were invited inside. After seeing Lebanon’s, the Falconry’s less imposing walls looked almost peaceful until she remembered that they both had walls for a reason.

  Before doing anything else, they stopped to get breakfast. The Falconry did theirs just like the Clan, with a communal outdoor kitchen, but they were totally smart about it and had a small greenhouse with picnic tables inside for their peeps to eat at. Way more comfy than the Clan’s eating area, at
least now in the middle of winter. Maybe they took it down in summer. Jaz would have to ask, but not right now. More important things first.

  As she finished up the last of her breakfast and saw that Choony was already done, she stood to take her dishes to the barrel. “It’s kinda weird they use the barrel system for dishes just like we do. Maybe it was in, like, some military manual.”

  “I imagine it is. Since we both do it, the idea had to come from somewhere. It’s effective, but I imagine the kitchen people would give a lot to have a working commercial dishwasher. So where to next? We need to do the swap for the gasifier and get our wagon hooked up.”

  “Yep. Let’s go see Delorse first. You know, she seems too nice to be the leader of a place like this.”

  “Nicer than Cassy?” Choony ran his fingers through his mop of hair.

  It was nice how his hair looked so thick and healthy. Jaz would kill for hair like that. Not black, though. “Cassy’s not nice. She’s kind, but you weren’t around during the White Stag thing. Cassy’s made of steel and can make the tough calls.”

  Jaz shuddered at the memory of Cassy allowing that first White Stag scout to be skinned alive. She had almost left the Clan after that, just out of disgust. It was kind of hard to believe, now. Hard to believe how much she herself had toughened up, too. She had thought living on the streets had made her hard but compared to what Cassy had to do… She shuddered again. Anyway, leaving the Clan would have been stupid. Probably fatal.

  “Funny, I had the same impression of Delorse,” Choony said, breaking into her thoughts. “I think hard decisions are the reason they took her as leader. Not everyone could make those decisions. Now we’ll see if she holds to her word like Cassy does.”

  They walked freely through the streets of the Falconry, and it was kind of eerie how quiet everything was these days. Towns should have, like, a background humming. Like pollution, but with noise. Clanholme felt right with that silence, like it belonged there with only the wind and the animals in its little valley, but this was a town built around cars, and power grids, and air conditioners. Silence felt weird here.