Fear the Future (The Fear Saga Book 3)

by Stephen Moss

Chapter 21: The Missing Link

  “We are approaching attachment now, Susie,” said Captain Harkness, his voice excited, patronizing in all the right ways. “In a few more hours, Daddy will officially be home!”

  Susie was as excited as her father was, but at seven years old, she still far from fully understood where her father had been for over a year, or where he was now, for that matter. Not that she couldn’t very clearly see where he was, like everyone from Moscow to New York. His craft, such as it was, was the most visible thing in the sky save only the sun. Her view, in fact, was among the best you could have. For she was almost directly under the great rock now maneuvering into position above Milton SpacePort.

  “We are going to link up with the space elevator in just a while, and then I will be coming down to see you!” he said.

  “But when will you be here?” said Susie, really trying to be positive, but still not getting why everyone was so excited. Mummy seemed very excited that Daddy was home, but then when she asked when he would be here they all said in a few days. So … he wasn’t home then, was he?

  At least now, though, she could speak to him and he could speak back, instead of that strange way she’d had to say long speeches into a camera and then she would get those strained responses back ages later.

  Her mother had tried and tried to explain it to her, but the maths just didn’t add up. If Aunty Cis had been able to speak to them on the phone from Australia, then surely Dad could from wherever he was. After all, Australia was literally on the other side of the planet from their home in Malvern, how much farther away could Dad be than that?

  He saw something in her give the way he had so many times before. She was resigning herself to the insanity of her parents, and with infinite patience she was just going to go with it. He smiled. He had to admire her patience, he supposed. One day in the future she may understand the importance of what he had been involved in, the stupendous nature of the mission he had been sent on. But not today.

  “Well, as of right now, if you look straight up, through the big glass window above you, all the way up the big lines coming out of the top of the building Mummy has taken you to, you will see a very big rock.”

  “Yes, Daddy. Hekaton. The ‘New Moon’ everyone is talking about.” She looked up once more. She knew what he was about to say. He was about to say he was on it. That he was in it. That he was actually steering it, like some big car.

  “Well,” he said, “now look at this …” and suddenly the view on the screen in front of her changed. She could not see the port plugged into the back of his neck. Nor could she imagine yet what it allowed him to do. But now he showed her one of the many views it afforded him, from one of his many synthetic eyes. His eyes closed now that he was not on camera anymore, and he showed her the view of Terminus Station in front of him, and the cables disappearing down to Earth from its base.

  “That is the top of those cables you can see. And here,” he said, changing the angle so that the Earth could be seen far below, and then zeroing in on a spec just viewable under the nook of West Africa, distinguishable as the end point of the lines vanishing down toward it, “is what you look like to me …” and then, on the spot of the SpacePort, he overlaid a photo his wife had sent of his daughter from her last birthday, a smear of strawberry icing across her face from a hastily devoured slice of cake.

  “Daddy!” she shouted at the sight, laughing in spite of herself.

  “So you see, my little strawberry-flavoured monster, I am still a ways off, but compared to how far I have been, you have to trust me when I say that it is just like I am pulling into the driveway.”

  He brought the view back to his face and smiled. It was a smile she had missed. It was one of the two most important smiles in the world to her, and it filled her with a sense of peace and warmth. They continued chatting for a while longer but preparations were continuing apace, and while Captain Harkness could do a great deal via his link while talking to his daughter, he must focus all his attention on the coming linkage.

  They were dealing with masses and momentums that stretched the capacity of reason, and while the entire process would be done in something close to slow motion, the ramifications of a miscalculation did not bear thinking about.

  - - -

  As one child’s eyes stared into a sky full of wonders, a whole group of others looked out on a simpler view, but one into which they, themselves, were getting ready to fly. Wednesday God looked at the cliff.

  “This can’t be right,” he said to Friday God. “Surely this won’t work.”

  “But … we saw Mother do it,” said Friday, as much to convince himself as to convince his friend. “And besides, she says it is safe.”

  He glanced back at the woman standing behind them.

  She had asked them to call her simply Mother. She said she was there to look after them, and indeed the weeks since they had come to live with her had been the best of their short lives. More food, more space, more freedom than they had ever known back at the orphanage. More than they had dared dream of. They had quickly come to trust her, trust her more, perhaps, than they had ever trusted anyone.

  She had introduced the concept of games early on. First they were computer games on a small screen. They would have appeared antiquated to any child from the West, but to them it was the most powerful computer they had ever seen. The games had been of a theme. Descent, TIE Fighter, Wing Commander, lots of flying and lots of fighting. They had taken to them as any child would.

  Now the games went to another level. Now the games became more real. They stood on a cliff side. Ahead of them the cliff face dropped off to the sea, not to a rocky base, but straight into a broad ocean. They had come here from the house. Mother had driven a group of them in a van. When they had arrived, they had each been assigned one of ten broad wings set up on the grass that ran along the cliff’s top. Mother had helped each strap in.

  Mother had given each of them some brief instruction, and then Mother had demonstrated, stepping into the air like it was nothing, swooping away as they stared at her and then, a minute or two later, gliding back in to land in front of them, smiling as she always did.

  Now she waited patiently, watching. Wednesday God glanced at his friend. Friday was staring intently at the cliff’s edge, breathing in long, slow rises. Wednesday didn’t feel right about all this, and he glanced at some of the others all lined up, facing the drop off.

  “I’m not su …” said Wednesday, turning back to Friday, but as he spoke his friend was already running, driving his legs forward as the fragile-seeming wing frame lifted above him, already starting pulling upward.

  “Wait! Friday!” Wednesday inadvertently glanced back at Mother as if to say ‘help him,’ but Mother only smiled proudly and nodded, her eyes flicking back to Friday as he came up to the edge and …

  “Waahooooo!” screamed Friday as he leapt over and the updraft caught him. He was still falling, his glider angled downward as he began to accelerate away, but somehow he was also rising, the very air coming up to meet him.

  And he was gone. He was flying.

  Wednesday stared at his friend. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do what he did next, but suddenly he was setting off as well. Suddenly he was building up speed and the glider seemed to be coming to life in his hands. Now, somehow, he was approaching the edge. He shouted more out of surprise than fear. What was he doing? Dear God, this wasn’t right, this wasn’t natural, but … but …

  …!…

  He was flying. The sensation was nothing short of heaven. An adrenal bliss that possessed him utterly, but bliss nonetheless. The wind was a vivid thing under and around him, a channel and a friend, an elusive hand brushing and lifting him while always keeping its presence felt on his face as he accelerated after his friend.

  The wing was a tool, an extension. It was fragile and yet reliable, it could be predicted, as could the wind it harnessed. The updraft lifted them, and a part of Wednesday’s mind wondered at how e
asy it would be to land again. But it was only a small part of him. The last of his friends were still waiting and watching, but most of them were getting airborne, now, beginning to dart this way and that.

  Could they collide? That seemed possible, likely even, and Wednesday doubted that would be a good thing. But now he saw Mother was taking to the skies once more, as well. Her wing was larger, her command of the wind more complete. She seemed to be able control her passage in ways Wednesday could not comprehend.

  Suddenly she was up with him, smiling and even letting go with one hand to wave quickly. Her voice came to him now, over the rush of the wind, “Well done, Wednesday God! Well done! Try to follow me.” And she dipped her wing, angling downward and speeding away as she did so.

  Wednesday dipped as she did, perhaps even a little too much, and the effect was breathtaking. He pulled back a little and the wing reacted. Such response. He had to be careful. He surged onward.

  He did not notice one of his other friends, Sunday, lose control and veer too close to the cliff face. He did not notice as the boy’s wing bounced and cracked on the rock edifice and the boy began falling toward the water below. The scream did not reach Wednesday.

  He was focused on Mother, and she was moving off to catch Friday, still pulling away, and still whooping with joy at the sheer madness and wonder of it all.

  She moved with grace despite her greater size and weight, and Wednesday longed to emulate it, to follow her lead. He longed to match her ability and he watched her intently as they flew off. She was not flying directly for Friday, she was seeking and finding eddies, looking for lift, reading the way the air moved and playing the wind like an instrument.

  He followed her, but soon found he had to go not where she had been, but where the air she had ridden was now. Sometimes he could go faster than her, but sometimes the whirl had passed when he got there. Friday was below them now. Wednesday was vaguely aware of that. Somehow they were both moving up on him and rising above him at the same time.

  It was beautiful but it was hard, and she was getting farther and farther ahead. He was loosing the thread of her movement. Soon her passage was already gone when he got there. But no sooner had he lost her trail than suddenly she was dropping. He used that, pushing himself down with greater emphasis to gain speed. Closing on her as she circled down on Friday.

  He had seen them at last and was trying to maintain his speed, but his altitude was all but gone now. He was almost at the tops of the waves. Wednesday became aware of the ocean now, and of the distance they had raced from the shore. He saw Mother come up on Friday. Saw her shouting to him, saw her try to help him regain his altitude. Wednesday was coming up on them now too.

  But he had also sacrificed his height to catch them, and as he approached he realized he was too low. He would not reach them. There was the occasional lift as he passed over a large wave, but here, at the border of air and water, the air changed, became something wilder as it was pushed and pulled by its thicker, more viscous cousin below.

  The crash came without warning. One moment he was above the crest, the next he was in the trough and then the wall of water was on him. His wing seemed to collapse under the weight of the water and for a moment he panicked that it would drag him under. But it came away with surprising ease and soon his head was above the swell again.

  He had not swum much before coming to live with Mother, but enough that he could tread water. He could not see Mother or Friday. He could not even see the cliff. He could only see ocean and soon he became worried. The boat was not long coming though. It breached a crest a short distance from him and powered down toward him with skill. It came close but did not overwhelm him. His friend Sunday, who had hit the cliff earlier, was already onboard, as were two others.

  He was helped aboard by a smiling but silent helmsman who then powered off once more. Wednesday looked for and found Mother still flying, but she was alone now, returning to the shore and the remaining children still flying there. They found Friday bobbing not far off, frustrated that he had failed, but still elated at the flight itself.

  As the boat returned the boys to the shore, Mother flew back alone and spoke to the wind. She was closing on the last of the gliders.

  “They are doing well, Commander. Some better than others, but they are taking to the air with as much confidence as we could have hoped.”

  “Yes,” came a voice into her head. “Yes, Supervisor, they are. I think you were right to approach it this way. My way would have been … too aggressive.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” she said. Her emotion was a strange one, she was proud of her choice, but she also knew it had been born of an exhaustive study of the data. Mother had looked at the training of the pilot named Banu. She had taken from that what she could emulate and removed what she could not.

  These children were not Banu. In many ways their upbringing had been similar. In many ways it had been worse. Even their names had fallen victim to the regime, their forenames but days of the week or months of the year, or sometimes even just numbers, such was the affection the state had felt for them. But they were still expected to have love for a state that had relegated them to ignominy, and, as such, their surnames were but prostrations to a cruel leader, the one they knew as the Great One, or just as God.

  But that was not the most important difference between these orphans and the one called Banu. They also lacked a vital element in their lives: Quavoce. They had been plucked straight from the most repressive and misinformed regime in the world. Plucked right from under the noses of the arriving UN and TASC forces as their once Supreme Leader caved to the demands of the interlopers.

  She could not easily replicate the promise of infinite protection that Banu’s trust in Quavoce gave her. She must build that trust herself. She must give them what Quavoce had given Banu: confidence. She must let them fail and see that it would not be that bad. She must let them discover this world piece by piece.

  “Yes, Supervisor,” said the commander, “this has been very successful so far. I am keen to see how they progress. I can see from the data that some are showing more promise than others.”

  “Indeed, Commander. Though they fell among the first, the two I just flew out with show some of the strongest progress.”

  “Good, good,” said the voice in Mother’s head. “I know it seems strange but that is a good sign, Supervisor. A very good sign indeed.”

  “It is?” said Mother to the air, as she came up on the last of the gliders.

  “Yes, Supervisor, it is. It means there is likely a range, as we had expected. And if there is a range then we can assume that Amadeu and Quavoce cannot have been so lucky as to hit the top of that range on their first attempt. Which means that somewhere among this first class, and among those that will follow them, may be pilots who can beat young Banu.”

  The commander’s voice held an air of triumph. Mother did not share such premature confidence, though she quietly believed in the process she had developed. The truth would come out, the data would not lie. The best would rise and the others would fall. But the commander was right in one thing. Matching Banu would not do. They must beat her if they were to have a chance at victory.

  Chapter 22: Riotous

  The H5 Shinkansen bullet train moved at a pace that was merely an echo of its above ground cruising speed, but it still sped along at 85mph, and the effect within the Seikan Tunnel was akin to a piston within an engine.

  Inside, Nagate Tanakaze did not feel the pressure, only the relatively gentle sway and rattle of the train’s progress. The view through the windows held only the black-grey blur of the passing walls. Above him was over 240 meters of rock and ocean, but down here that was all obscured. And even if he had have been able to see the tumultuous ocean above him, he was lost to the outside world, anyway. His attention was absorbed by an article he was reading.

  It described the purpose of Hekaton from the perspective of one Shinobu Matsuoka, the wealthy and prominent businessman w
ho had come out as a vocal supporter of the work of the newly publicized organization known as TASC. He was describing some of the technologies he had already become privy to and how they would help the Japanese economy, even as they helped support the coming war effort as a whole.

  The war effort. The war itself was still very hard to grasp. The who and why of it lost in a dizzying array of perspectives, educated and otherwise, that were filling every second of television time and every byte of the internet.

  Nagate only knew what he did not believe. He did not believe that the images of the flaring engines being referred to as the Armada was the second coming of Jesus, Isa, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, or Godzilla for that matter. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t a hoax either. But that still left a great deal of room for conjecture.

  Room that was being amply filled by even the most educated and reasonable of pundits. Conspiracy theories ran amuck and it was obvious that most, if not all of them, were untrue. But where in the sea of opinions, demagoguery, and vitriol did the truth lie?

  If the truth was there at all, of course. Maybe it was all a smokescreen. Maybe it was all a giant diversion from the real threat. Like the ‘gadgets.’ He resisted the urge to start browsing for those again. He had been up all the previous night watching YouTube demos of some of the more elaborate and apparently soon to be available ones.

  The spinal interface was something else. It was being developed by this agency called TASC for the war effort, apparently, but as a gesture of goodwill and, no doubt, an enticement to believe their version of events, it was going to be made available through a select set of tech companies across the globe, Matsuoka Industries notably among them.

  Some governments were discussing blocking it, including Japan’s own, until it could be tested further, but they had been clever enough to also demonstrate its use in tandem with the new prosthetics that TASC was also offering, prosthetics that would benefit millions of elderly and infirm people across the globe. To block such a thing would be political suicide. At the very least, the power elite of Japan, many of them notably elderly themselves, would no doubt soon be making use of some version of the new systems.