Glass Sky

by Niko Perren

  “My guess?” said Ruth. “Because you can buy a lot of it very cheaply.”

  “And who’s funding Terillium?”

  “We haven’t figured that out yet,” said Ruth. “But I’m sure curious.”

  Tania snuck a glance at her omni. The National Weather Service was still predicting that Hurricane Martha would miss Florida. The second narrow escape of the summer. There were also a dozen new Pax Gaia emails. Free for a little while longer. “Who’s this ‘we’?” Tania asked. “How did you learn all this spy stuff?”

  “I have a lover in New York who is a senior partner in an investment firm. She follows money to see what her competitors are buying, and why.”

  “She?” Tania snagged sugar from a kid with enough metal in his face to set off a security scanner. “You’ve got a girlfriend? I always assumed you were straight.”

  Ruth smiled sheepishly. “Well, I do date guys sometimes. But I’m more into girls.”

  Four months of shared history replayed themselves through a new filter. “God, I’m so clueless sometimes,” laughed Tania. “I’ve got zero game.”

  “I should have told you earlier,” said Ruth. “But you threw me out on my first visit. And then I worried that you’d think that I was hitting on you, so I didn’t tell you the next time. And the longer I waited…”

  “That’s why you never mentioned details about your lovers,” said Tania. “Your parents live in Salt Lake City. Your brother works for a bank. You had a boyfriend in college for three years. But nothing current.”

  “I told you there was nobody serious,” protested Ruth. “It’s true. I have girlfriends in the cities I visit regularly. Meaghan’s one of them. It’s fun.”

  “So that camping trip – you were trying to add me to your harem!”

  “No, I wasn’t,” said Ruth indignantly.

  “You spooned me and tried to zip our sleeping bags together.”

  Ruth turned as red as her hair. “OK. Maybe. A little. You’ve got nice… anyway… it’s clear you’re not into women. Though I could keep you and a future boyfriend company.”

  “You’re hitting on me again!” exclaimed Tania.

  “I’m starting my vow of silence now,” said Ruth.

  Just then a green-haired girl with a metal ring through her cheek burst through the front doors. “Steve, Julia,” she yelled, directing her attention to friends in the back. “Hurricane Martha changed course. It’s going to make landfall after all. In Miami!”

  The girl’s announcement electrified the coffee shop. Miami? How awful! And unlike the lunar accident ten days ago, this disaster would have live video coverage. Beananza was one of those rare places that hadn’t plastered televisions on every surface. Patrons flooded towards the exits.

  “Your place or mine?” asked Tania.

  ***

  Tania had never been to Ruth’s, but it was closer. She lived on the top floor of a historic brick house near UC Boulder. It was shaded by a pair of ancient pines and surrounded by a yard filled with native plants. They locked their bikes in the shed, then climbed a double flight of rickety wooden steps to a back balcony.

  “The apartment belongs to Green Army,” said Ruth. “Our core team lives on the road a lot. So instead of sleeping in hotels, we share a few permanent homes with lockers for our personal stuff. You wouldn’t believe how many T-shirts and toothbrushes I own.”

  She omnied open the door and dashed inside, snatching up clothes in a belated attempt to tidy. Age-rippled windows lit a worn wood floor that might have been original. The hallway had an old-fashioned mix of angles and architectural details that had never gone out of style, and the earth-toned walls held enough art to look homey.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Ruth picked more clothing off the living room floor, and vanished around the corner. A bra lay on the ground below the humongous wall TV. Must be some wild nights here.

  “That’s some TV, Ruth.”

  “Not my idea,” Ruth called from the other room. “TV’s a waste of time.” She rounded the corner with a bag of carrots and flopped next to Tania. “It’s also dangerous. Snack?”

  “Dangerous?” asked Tania, taking a carrot.

  “Advertising is mind viruses that get installed in your brain,” said Ruth. “Believe me, I know. Everyone thinks it doesn’t work on them. But $800 billion a year of corporate money says it does.” She waved on the set. “News. Rewind fifteen minutes. Play without ads.”

  Chapter 34

  FLOOR-TO-CEILING glass walled the entire penthouse of Jim Barker’s Miami Bible Tower – his pulpit in the sky – providing a bird’s eye view of the menacing wall of cloud beyond the stage. Not that anyone in the crowd seemed bothered; they watched with rapt attention as Jim Barker strutted in front of a row of illuminated crosses.

  Peter Jones brushed manicured fingers through his hair. “Do I look okay?”

  Tran nodded, a wary eye on the rain-lashed window. “How come we always get the shit assignments?”

  “We’ve gotta take chances if we want to make it in this business,” said Peter. “It’s this, or a social media desk.”

  Several parishioners turned to glare. “Shhh…”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Tran lifted the camera cluster to his shoulders and dropped his EyeSistant into place. Maybe Peter has a point. The news studio doesn’t give highend immersion cameras to junior crews. He switched his mental focus to the EyeSistant’s thought-bond. Live feed. Left eye. The broadcast from New York appeared in the corner of his vision: a helicopter view of endless cars, immobile, almost invisible in the deluge.

  “More than three feet of rain has fallen in the last two hours,” the voiceover whispered in his ear bud, “washing out bridges and trapping tens of thousands on the highway. Government officials are urging everyone to stay in the city and get to higher ground. Evacuation is no longer an option. Low lying areas are not safe. Find a skyscraper and hide in a stairwell until the storm is over. Stay away from windows.”

  The Bible Tower’s glass walls thundered in agreement, causing Tran to take an involuntary step away. Jim Barker’s assistant hurried over. “Reverend Barker’s show is going to commercials in thirty. The break’s two minutes. You’ll have the middle sixty seconds for your spot, like we agreed.”

  “Thank you again,” said Peter. “New York, we’re ready in thirty.”

  Jim Barker finished his sermon as the New York anchor stretched her dialog to smooth the transition. “While the National Weather Service was surprised by Hurricane Martha’s sudden change in direction, there’s one person who claims he saw this coming. We take you now to Peter Jones, who is reporting live from the Miami Bible Tower.”

  “We’re on,” yelled Barker’s assistant.

  The congregation fell quiet, as they’d rehearsed in the last commercial break. Jim Barker stepped away from the crosses, white moustache luminous in the storm-induced gloom, and linked hands with his wife and five daughters. He bowed his head in prayer so that only the top of his slicked-back hair was visible.

  “This is Peter Jones in Miami,” said Peter in a hushed voice. “Jim Barker is no stranger to controversy. He preaches a fundamentalist doctrine that argues that the shield is Satan’s attempt to prevent the rapture.” Tran followed Peter with the camera cluster as Peter started towards the stage through the rows of worshippers. “He has gathered followers at the top of his Miami Bible Tower, to witness what he is calling ‘God’s Vengeance.’”

  Jim Barker’s eyes snapped open and he stared directly at Tran’s cameras. He stepped out of the line, which closed behind him, his family continuing to pray while he spoke.

  “The holy scriptures surely state that we will end in sulfur!” Barker roared. “Yet President Juarez has ignored these warnings. She has teamed with Tania Black’s forces at UNBio to build Satan’s Shield and protect the sinners. Long I have prayed to the Lord to give us a sign. To show us the strength of his love. And today he has obliged us.” Barker’s voice darkened, matching the towering
column of black rising out of the ocean behind him. “Today, God’s cleansing of America begins! And only the righteous shall be spared! Thank you, Lord! Thank you!”

  At the second thank you, Tran cut the feed, and the broadcast switched back to New York. “Fantastic!” the producer whispered over the private link. “He’s completely mad. God is going to reach his fist right through those windows and take him to heaven. Can you get us more? I can rotate you back in sixty.”

  Peter grinned. “A double rotation! I told you, Tran!”

  I don’t know about this. Tran backed through the congregation towards the windows. He aimed the cameras at the ground ten stories below. Holy fuck. Waves thundered over the seawall, roaring across the street below and pounding the Bible Tower’s lower levels. Cars bobbed in the froth like children’s toys.

  “We’re top of the ratings,” said the producer. “Our competitors are all cowering in stairwells. Peter, we’ll prompt you through the earpiece.” The storm attacked the glass like some malevolent spirit gone mad. The congregation joined hands and broke into a joyous hymn.

  This is crazy. “We need to go,” Tran said. “Now!”

  “No, not yet!” Peter stepped to the window. He checked his hair.

  Hurry. Hurry.

  “Peter, you’re on again in five,” said the anchor. “Four, three…”

  “This is Peter Jones, back from Miami. Hurricane Martha is almost upon us. Doppler radar is showing winds gusting up to 220 miles per hour off shore. Authorities are also warning of a,” he pushed his earpiece, straining to hear above the shrieking howl, “… is this right? Authorities are warning of a 25-foot storm surge… 25 feet?” Peter suddenly looked flustered.

  The anchor jumped in. “Peter, can you explain what a storm surge is?”

  “Ah, yes. A storm surge is when a hurricane piles water up against the coast. It’s a temporary rise in sea level. Anything under the surge height is fully submerged. But since waves ride on top of the surge, the actual flood levels will be higher still.” He risked a glance outside. “My God. It’s begun…”

  Bang! Something crashed into the window, sending Peter scuttling back. Bright red streaks smeared the glass, washed away in an instant by the pounding rain. The singing faltered. Hurricane glass could withstand a 200 mile per hour wind. But more than wind moved in the air now.

  Crash! A web of spidery lines turned the window opaque.

  “Fuck this.” Tran turned, sprinting for the stairwell’s safety, fighting through startled parishioners. “Keep the camera rolling,” a voice yelled in his ear. “We’re killing the ratings!”

  Breaking glass. A roar, like an airplane engine. Wind tore at his clothing. Screams. Tran ripped off the unwieldy camera cluster, abandoning it on the floor. He fought the wind’s grasp and somehow managed to get into the stairwell. A woman screamed behind him, the leading edge of the panic, eyes wide with disbelief. Tran tried to yank her to safety, but the wind tore her out of his hands. She slammed head first against a pillar with a sickening crunch, splashing crimson gore against the gilded wood. Arms and legs pinwheeling, she vanished in a cloud of bibles and broken crosses.

  “Peter!” Tran screamed. “Peter, where are you?” Fragments of safety glass whistled past, shattering against the concrete stairwell, peppering him with red gashes. Tran slammed the door. In the flickering yellow of the emergency lights he could see a half-dozen huddled survivors staring back at him. Together, they cowered in the gloom, listening as the storm stripped the building down to a concrete shell.

  Chapter 35

  “BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.”

  Tania’s omni flashed on the nightstand. 5:07 AM. She fumbled for it, answering before even looking at the display. A call this early. Has to be important.

  “Heellllo?” she yawned.

  A man’s voice. No video. Just the Presidential Seal. “Doctor Black. President Juarez needs you at the White House at 15:00 today.”

  Tania waved on the lights, fighting the head-fog. “The White House? Is there anything I…”

  “Be at the gate at 14:30. I’m sending details.” The man hung up.

  Well, it’s not like I wasn’t expecting this. I was the voice against sulfuring after all. The voice that said we should risk a hurricane to save Asia.

  She caught the airport bus. There were few passengers at this early hour, mostly business travelers with day-bags. All were locked to the same news broadcasts on their omnis, as if they were part of some extended organism.

  Not a road or bridge had survived within 30 miles of downtown Miami. Hollow-eyed survivors waved from the roofs of the concrete skeletons that jutted out of the sea of broken office furniture and mangled bodies. Others stood, stunned, between the windowless concrete floors. Military and news helicopters swarmed like bees without a hive, paralyzed by the magnitude of the destruction. It feels like the Philadelphia bombing all over again. The same shell-shocked helplessness.

  “I can’t believe we let this happen,” muttered the man next to Tania. “President Juarez should be impeached. Same with that UNBio bitch. What’s the point of building the shield if we can’t protect our own interests?”

  ***

  The President’s young intern escorted Tania past the solemn marines and into the West Wing of the White House. Suited men and women raced past oil paintings of former presidents, as if they each had a crisis to attend to in the carpeted hallways. After a couple of turns, the intern stopped at a wooden door mounted in an ornately carved frame.

  The Oval Office!

  “President Juarez is expecting you,” he said.

  The door seemed to resist Tania’s push, as if emphasizing the moment’s import. Tania had seen the Oval Office on TV many times, but always the same view: the President’s desk in front of a great curved window. The full room was much larger. Bright Mexican weavings decorated the walls, a nod to Juarez’s Latino ancestry and the voters who had brought her to power. The President sat in a leather armchair at a long coffee table framed by two colorful couches. Three unshaven male advisors sat to her left. Tania recognized the Vice President and the Chief of Staff. The third man she’d never seen before.

  “Doctor Black, thank you for coming.” President Juarez stood up to shake Tania’s hand. Worry-lines creased her face, matching the wrinkles on her skirt. If she’d slept in the two days since Hurricane Martha, it hadn’t been for long.

  The stranger rose too. “Paul Smith, Chief Lobbyist for the Federation of Multinational Corporations.” His handshake was firm, bordering on painful. His gaze lingered, almost hostile, as if probing for weaknesses.

  The President sighed, and closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that I have no choice but to start sulfuring. I’d like you to minimize the political fallout.”

  Fuck. Hardly a promising start. “I’m keen to find a solution,” said Tania. “But my simulations just don’t justify sulfuring. I work for the UN, so I have to look at the global picture. Even if there’s another Miami, which I hope to God there isn’t, the storms won’t come close to inflicting the amount of harm that sulfuring will cause.”

  “Won’t come close? Is this some sort of contest?” The President shook her head. “I continue to be surprised by your naiveté.” She gestured at the window, beyond which the muffled sounds of distant protest could be heard. “Americans don’t care about Asians. They care about Americans.”

  “And the Chinese?” asked Tania. “Do they share your concern about Americans?”

  “China pulled through the last round of sulfuring fine,” said Juarez. “I’ve already talked to President Lui.”

  The three men on the couch nodded as one. “China will extend their southern border fences and use more anti-personnel robots,” said the Vice President. “No more bleeding-heart generals letting in refugees.”

  “If you go against UNBio’s science on this, you’ll destroy last month’s Climate summit agreement,” said Tania. “Our future depends on cooperation.”


  “Cooperation?” scoffed Juarez. “How are your CO2 cuts going, Doctor? Show me this cooperation. You’ve gotten nowhere.”

  “Because you insisted on nonbinding targets,” said Tania.

  “Which aren’t being met,” said the President. “Making it necessary for me to act.”

  “You wanted this!” said Tania. “Not the storm necessarily. But you pushed for an unworkable plan, so that you could justify acting alone when it failed.”

  “Maybe you’re not so naive after all,” smiled Juarez. “But you make it sound like I had a choice. Is Congress going to allow Americans to suffer when we control the tool that can save them? Will our voters? From the moment you handed us control of the climate by recommending the Nanoglass shield, this was inevitable.”

  How could we have been so foolish? They don’t need Pax Gaia. They can dictate terms. Cut CO2, or we’ll stop the rain. Tania’s jaw clenched so hard she felt as if she might snap a tooth. “So what are your plans then?” she asked. “What about the ecological future of our planet? The UN-Bio preserves? Pax Gaia?”

  “Pax Gaia?” Juarez sneered. “Risk my political future promoting your utopian visions? Move billions of people? Change the way we treat the poor? It’s a fantasy, Doctor Black. The world lacks the willpower to make the changes you’re going to propose.”

  “And you’re offering what? The US and China as global climate dictators? That’s better?”

  “Yes, in fact. It is better. We’ll keep the ice caps from melting. We’ll provide stable rainfall. We’ll expand arable land, control famines. We’ll make a new climate. A tamed Earth.”

  “A tamed Earth?” Each word tore another chunk out of Tania’s hopes. “The environmental consequences…”

  “Yes. There will be species loss. But the environmental consequences can be reduced if you help us,” snapped Juarez. “That’s why you are here, Doctor Black. To help us keep some level of international cooperation. We may hold all the cards, but it’ll go much more smoothly for everyone if we have public approval.”