Fear the Future (The Fear Saga Book 3)

by Stephen Moss

  He felt a rumble under the bass hum of the train and looked up. It was something separate from the usual rattle and hum, something just under the surface. But as he tried to place the sound, the feeling really, it vanished, like a buzzing insect just out of sight, imperceptible.

  Now that his attention was brought into the present, he couldn’t help but notice the group of tourists arguing farther down the car. They were from Tokyo, or maybe Kobe, and they were debating avidly the same topic as everyone else. As usual there were those that spoke with the certainty and authority of some grand understanding that somehow only they had figured out, and there were those that argued reason, though usually without as much conviction.

  It was the age-old conflict of willed ignorance versus true curiosity. Curiosity would always find the truth in the end, but so often it would only win out after an age of battling through dogma and instinctive fear. The oldest battle of all, the clash of science with mythology, of religion versus rationale, had never been more intense than it was now.

  The fabric of society, Nagate feared, was being tested, and it was starting to fray.

  But it was not just starting to fray. It was coming undone. The bass rumble became louder now. Nearly a quarter of a mile ahead the driver of the train tried to make out a darkness in the tunnel, an end to the stream of neon lighting vanishing off into the distance, now shortening somehow. A blackness coming toward him. The shout came through his radio, not so much an order as a scream of warning.

  Only one word.

  Breech.

  Nagate felt it again now. Louder. It was unsettling. It felt like the ground through which the train was flying was moving as well. Like waves under a boat, a transferred momentum, a received movement. But this was no boat and the rails underneath them should not be going anywhere.

  Suddenly the noise was rising exponentially and the movement was rising with it. Earthquake? No, that could not be, thought Nagate. Not this deep. This was supposed to be …

  The train stopped. It did not slow. It stopped, the engine car hitting a wall of water that was moving almost as fast as the train itself, but in the opposite direction. Suddenly Nagate’s world was only madness and pain. The train was crumpling. Pressures driving it forward into itself as air and then water pushed its sides inward. Then the walls were liquid, blackness rushing in, a pounding in his ears as the pressure rocketed upward and then …

  - - -

  There had been no terrorist attack in Vienna a week before, of course, not in the sense that the public had been led to believe. But as events snowballed around the globe, that cover story vanished into a haze of similar ones, ones with real truth behind them.

  It seemed to reach a peak with the attack of the Asahara Joshu Cult that blew up a Shinkansen train while in the Seikan Tunnel. Even with the force of the detonation, the tunnel had almost held, but the pressures had eventually rended the rock around it, and it had sheered.

  Images of the thunderous geyser of water erupting from each end of the tunnel as it had filled had shocked an already reeling world. Three trains and their two thousand passengers were lost forever in the depths.

  In Rome, an extremist Catholic group attempted to storm the Vatican. Apparently they sought to ‘restore the Papal State’ after the pope attempted a limited acknowledgement of the coming Armada’s true purpose, and a tepid call to support TASC’s work. While the fanatics were quelled with brutal force by a quietly efficient Vatican Police, their point of view was not going to die so easily.

  In New York, a boat loaded with explosives rammed one of the pylons of the Brooklyn Bridge, a pointless but nonetheless shocking act committed by an enraged people seeking to punish what they now saw as an oppressive oligarchy, spreading lies about alien invasions in order to legitimize further civil rights abuses.

  In Brussels, seven nations filed for succession from the European Union, mostly limited to smaller and financially moribund states, but notably including Spain, which was claiming damages for not being more involved in TASC’s activities, and more importantly in its technological advances.

  But while some regions splintered, others were uniting. Through a combination of religious fervor and a return to some more distasteful leadership practices usually stopped by a more attentive world community, a band of nations was gathering strength and momentum. At its core were Iran, Syria, and Egypt, with large parts of Iraq and even some border regions of Jordan showing signs of allegiance.

  It was actually being spearheaded by the ayatollah who had catalyzed the entire crisis, but he was wisely allowing others to take a front seat as the head of the military junta in Egypt rallied former allies to a battle cry as old as time.

  At the center of their ire, as it had been a thousand times before, was Israel, on the menu once more, they hoped, as the UN crumbled and NATO scrambled for control.

  Ironically, it was a new Russian secretariat that reached out to Jim Hacker to pass on his concerns about it. He was leading a cowed nation, and doing so far more reasonably than any of his predecessors going back nearly a hundred years. But that only made his position all the more tenuous, and his call all the more brave.

  Maybe he called Jim because the Russian administrator had once held a role similar to Jim’s own, only Peter had been working under a borderline megalomaniac named Yuri Svidrigaïlov.

  “Mr. Hacker, thank you for taking my call,” said Secretariat Uncovsky. “Are you sure you are comfortable speaking in Russian?”

  “It is my pleasure to, Mr. Secretariat,” said Jim, able to actually enjoy the benefits of his spinal interface for the first time as Minnie allowed him to speak Russian as though he was a native. “And I am most comfortable speaking in Russian, if you will promise to forgive any errors or mispronunciations I may make along the way.”

  It was a nicety. There would be no errors.

  “Far from it, Mr. Hacker, I must say your command of my tongue is most admirable,” said Secretariat Uncovsky, with unfeigned respect.

  “You flatter me, Mr. Secretariat. But if I may, I would like to take this opportunity to say it is most pleasant to hear from you. I hope this is the first of many such calls between TASC and the Russian Republic.”

  Peter Uncovsky was equally hopeful. To say he saw the folly of his former leader’s actions against TASC would be a gross understatement. He had watched the man literally be obliterated by Neal Danielson’s wrath. And if he was honest, he could not deny the justness of the action that had seen him promoted to acting party leader, if only because few now dared take the job.

  But fearing TASC was not the same as agreeing with them, and he would find little support in the Kremlin if he aired his true opinion of how much Russia should backtrack from its former expansionist efforts and put that energy instead into supporting the efforts of the group he was talking to now.

  “A hope I share, Mr. Hacker. Though if I am equally candid, I will say that not all in Moscow share my enthusiasm. How that will change in the light of recent revelations I cannot know, but you would be surprised how far people will go to defend misguided action rather than admit fault.”

  He spoke of the attack on Rolas. He spoke of the destruction which now appeared to have been a strike against one of Earth’s main arteries into the very region they were soon to need to defend.

  Jim did not dwell on the topic. “On the contrary, Mr. Secretariat, I would not be that surprised at all, I am afraid.” There was a moment of shared understanding, and then Jim went on, “But I am being rude. You are a very busy man and I have yet to inquire after the reason for your call. How may the Terrestrial Allied Space Command be of assistance to Russia?”

  Peter allowed himself a smile. This man was every bit the diplomat Peter had remembered from their brief encounters over the years. They both knew that Jim’s time was just as important as Peter’s, perhaps more so, given the current crisis.

  Very well, he would get to the point, “Of course, Mr. Hacker. I call … more to offer warning than to
request anything, per se. I call because my intelligence services have received notice of a growing conspiracy that I believe will concern you. I am very aware that the undeniably efficient operatives of TASC and its allies will have seen signs of the same, but I wanted to make sure that those signs were getting appropriate attention.”

  He paused, deliberately, but Jim did not interrupt. He had a pretty good idea what the Russian leader was referring to, but he knew better than to staunch such a rare glimpse of cooperation, and so Peter went on, “I speak, of course, of rising calls for action from Persia to Egypt. But that is not the root of my concern.”

  Jim’s curiosity was peeked, and when Peter paused, clearly reticent to go too far, Jim gently coaxed the other man along, “That is very interesting, Mr. Secretariat. While such matters are not really my purview, I am, indeed, aware of the protests in Tehran, Mosul, and Luxor. We had assumed they lacked the political and military backing to go much further than words. Do you have reason to suspect otherwise?”

  Again a pause. Peter was treading carefully. Eventually he spoke up, “No, no, Mr. Hacker. Well, not really. But … as you know, my nation has enjoyed much closer ties to the Iranian government over the past decades than our counterparts in the West.”

  That was putting it mildly, but Peter quickly went on, “Of course, no one in the Russian leadership supports any illegal action against the sovereign nation of Israel. But …”

  Jim was growing a touch tired of the dissemination, but he had to let Peter Uncovsky get there on his own. Both men knew that Peter was no doubt being watched, not only by the countless international observers forced upon Russia since its surrender after the Hungarian War, but also by his own people. By hardline remnants that would take months or even years to root out, if they ever could be.

  “Well, since the justified actions of NATO forces against the Russian Army in Hungary, well, the military in Russia has been understandably splintered. And it has come to my attention that elements of it, not officially mandated elements, of course …”

  He over-emphasized that part a little too much, thought Jim. He was performing for the call’s silent partners. They could not object to his releasing this information if he claimed he did not think any official member of the government was involved.

  He went on, “… but it has come to my attention that fringe parts of the Russian military machine, and more importantly its weaponry, may have … been allowed … to fall into the hands of certain Iranian factions.”

  Jim caught his breath inadvertently, a rare lapse. Shit, he thought. What kind of weaponry?

  “May I ask,” said Jim, “if you might know what weaponry we may be speaking of?”

  “I cannot be sure, Mr. Hacker,” said Peter, his tone confident, as if to say he was not holding back in this aspect, even if he must necessarily do so elsewhere. “I cannot be sure. Though we have seen signs that it is not limited to rifles or ammunition. Other than that I cannot confirm at this time.”

  “Mr. Secretariat, my appreciation for your candor here cannot be overstated. I will look into this immediately. Out of respect for the voluntary nature of this call, I will leave it to you whether or not to report this discussion to the NATO observation team.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Hacker.”

  They would find out either way, no doubt. As would others. The call came to a close, and Jim was already acting even as he wrapped up the conversation with the obligatory niceties.

  Jim: ‘¿minnie, did you get all that?’

  Minnie:

  She does, does she? Jim frowned. Jim had been focused on who in Peter’s government might be listening in. It appeared he should have been thinking the same about his own.

  Jim: ‘i will, minnie, thank you.’

  - - -

  Five minutes later, Jim was indeed speaking with Ayala and her chief of staff, Saul. It took everything he had not to lose his temper at his having been eavesdropped upon, but he stayed his wrath, and focused instead on the task at hand.

  Jim: ‘as for peter uncovsky, i think we have to assume his intentions are good. despite his affiliation with svidrigaïlov, my impression of him has always been of a pragmatist, if maybe more of a bureaucrat than a leader. either way, though, he has never struck me as conniving. he did not want this role, and i doubt very much that he is working for his own ends here.’

  Saul: ‘my files show the same analysis. i would take this at face value. maybe even more so. he was clearly worried about repercussions from within his own leadership and may want to offer even more.’

  Ayala: ‘yes, that seems clear. very well then, so we will assume that if anything he was forced to understate the situation.’

  Saul called up a specific quote and sent it to them all [we have seen signs that it is not limited to rifles or ammunition].

  Saul: ‘¿do you think there could still be tech ten units out there?’

  Ayala: ‘that is the rub, isn’t it, saul. not limited to. that leaves a lot of room for interpretation.’

  Jim: ‘¿may i suggest, ayala, that we try to help him out a bit?’

  Ayala: ‘¿how so?’

  Jim: ‘well, i won’t ask for details of whatever operation you and saul are no doubt going to mount to investigate this further, but maybe we could also consider helping mr. uncovsky out a little.’

  Saul: ‘¿how, exactly, could we help mr. uncovsky out, jim?’

  Jim: ‘well, saul, we could speak with the nato observers and tell them we have reason to think mr. uncovsky is suspect, and that we want to put a team of spezialists on him. not a big team, but enough to offer him some protection from whatever faction within his own government he clearly suspects of participating in this.’

  Ayala: ‘i like it, jim. i like it very much. it will allow us to protect him should there be some power play, and also bolster his reputation within his own government by making him appear to be a problem for us.’

  Jim: ‘and it will allow us to communicate directly with him via the team’s subspace comms, allowing him to share, in confidence, any further information he may have, either now or down the line.’

  Ayala: ‘thank you, jim. that is an excellent idea. ok then, i believe that is all for now. with your permission, jim, saul and i will leave you so we can talk further about the more ‘involved responses’ which, as you say, you do not wish to know the details of.’

  Jim: ‘of course, ayala. ¿you will let me know when the spezialists are in place with peter?’

  Ayala: ‘you will notified immediately when they are in place, jim. he is your asset, after all. i will need you to work him.’

  Asset. Work him. Jim had never had a taste for such terms. His appetite for them was not growing the more they became part of his daily routine. Neither was his appetite for working with Ayala. He understood the importance of her work, but sometimes he feared that her zeal bordered on zealotry, a semantic difference, perhaps, but an important one. Distasteful work was sometimes necessary. But you didn’t have to enjoy it quite as much as she sometimes appeared to.

  Chapter 23: The Farm

  Madeline: ‘quadrant m2 online. satyendra, please isolate control and set maintenance protocol.’

  Satyendra: ‘quadrant m2 controls isolated, madeline. maintenance protocol uploading now.’

  Madeline felt the flow of data. Satisfied that it was progressing as planned, she shifted her attention. That was the second bank established. They were empty for now but already the fifty pods in Quadrant M1 were starting to be filled. The progress from here would only accelerate.

  She opened a channel, a line back to Earth. It would have to be old-time, and 2D, the larger, long-range subspace tweeter they were constructing here on the moon would not be online for another two or three months, at least.

  “Good morning, Moira,” she said, as the line connected.

  There
was a long pause then Moira’s voice came into Madeline’s inner-ear, “Well, it’s good evening here, Madeline.” She was still a little meek, even if she had become something close to a preeminent mind in the field that she was now at the bleeding edge of.

  “Yes, well, morning, evening, all starts to become a bit hazy after a while, doesn’t it?” she laughed a little and waited.

  “Especially here. I haven’t been outside in a week, and not just because of work. William tells me it is minus twenty out there!”

  Madeline snorted, “Well, I wish I could promise you better up here, but no such luck, I’m afraid. Right now the wrecker I am piloting is standing with its head in the sun and its feet in the shade. I’d love to tell you that means it is enjoying a lunar sunrise, but as it is standing on Malapert Mountain, the sun is really just spinning around the horizon forever, never rising or falling, which means my feet are freezing and my head is boiling.”

  “Huh, that sounds … unpleasant. Though the view must be spectacular,” replied Moira, and Madeline did indeed take a moment to appreciate the sight through her Remote Construction Robot’s eyes, then she rewound the view over the past hours and watched the sun as it moved backward around the horizon. It was indeed a breathtaking sight.

  “Yes, now that you mention it, it is actually. I had started to get used to it, amazingly enough, being outside all the time. Not that I am ever outside, you know, really. I am in a bunker steadily being dug out of a lava tube, if you can believe that. I haven’t opened my eyes in nearly twenty-four hours, even though I’ve been working nearly that entire time.”

  After a moment Moira’s voice came through once more. Knowing that she was being redeployed to the moon, she had been studying up. “Malapert Mountain, near the Shackleton Crater, nearly permanent sunshine. Comms array location and main hangar location. So you know, your wrecker’s head is probably around 100oC while your feet are less than -170oC. Ouch! Makes Deception Island sound like heaven!”