We flooded onto the roof: myself, my team, others from my company, and employees of other companies in our building. I remember a mass dispersal to the building’s periphery. Once there people formed one of two reactions: fixation, like Jones, and also those who shot back toward the building’s center, huddling and crumbling inward on themselves, shuddering and sobbing.
I stood in between them. I found myself over time creeping slowly toward the edge, all while random human projectiles shot away from the edge past me. I reached the precipice and gazed, spellbound: all the streets, the whole grid, lay swathed in green-brown fuzz in every direction. That same growth had reached the fifth floor of most buildings. My mind jumped to the possibility that somewhere within a building there could be some chamber or compartment capable of keeping the mold at bay. But just as quickly I realized that such a room would be a coffin of a much more terrible sort.
The mold clung to the base of the Space Needle a few blocks north. Bus-, car-, and truck-shaped clumps of mold dotted the streets, some overturned.
Helicopters buzzed and darted, and from the tops of other buildings, screams for help. It seemed as though commotion erupted on our rooftop later than the others, but I don’t trust that memory. In hindsight, that seems unlikely.
Screams erupted from behind me, and I ran to the opposite side of the roof. Sarah dashed past me screaming and bawling, alongside others. I looked down over the edge and immediately felt bile rise in my throat. My vision went white at the edges, but in the center I beheld the roof of the six-story building across the street from our own: mold grew over its top. Where it touched the people who had raced to the supposed safety of its height, it devoured them over the course of many terrifying seconds. They flailed and shrieked. Their bodies hurtled mold pellets of themselves into others, who shouted epithets in return and pushed those already partially consumed into ravenous green and brown.
I retched and crawled away, trailing the others and wiping vomit from my lips. The mold had only reached the eighth floor of the taller building beside us. Four more to go for us.
We grew more silent then, on our roof.
A helicopter passed directly overhead. I wondered if they would stop here. I tried calling my parents, though I was not surprised to find we had no service. They live in the San Fran metropolitan area, and I said a silent prayer that they’d come through this safe…but through to what? Would the mold, or moss, or whatever it was, satisfy itself with only metropolitan areas? Or would it keep spreading? Probably the latter.
At first I wondered if it were an illusion, some kind of mirage. The screaming and waving of the crowd as a whole had become a timeless infinity. How many helicopters had passed us completely by I couldn’t say. And then, suddenly helicopters were approaching, slowing, and, apparently, landing on our roof.
The helicopters drew toward us, and some of us drew too close, and others, myself included, pulled people back so the pilots could land their crafts. The metal creatures descended, their landing struts looking thin, wiry and feeble. All around me, shrieking and screaming, people punching, clawing, and drawing blood for just the chance to get in. My voice joined the maelstrom to let Martin, Nate, Sarah, Arthur, Charlie, Carol, and Seth on board. A punch to my gut, and I doubled over, my entreaties reduced to wheezing gasps. I was shoved and pushed away, others fighting to get in. In one final burst of energy, I pulled a man I didn’t recognize off the helicopter, grabbed out for Sarah’s arm, and pulled her into the helicopter. A blow to my head, and then an image of Jones climbing into the helicopter as it was taking off. The helicopter tilted to one side and wobbled. Some twenty meters above the rooftop, I saw Sarah plummet from the door. Jones leaning over her as she toppled out of the crowded craft. I couldn’t decide if he’d pushed her or had been trying to pull her in. In the end it didn’t matter much as she slammed into the roof, head first.
My next memory is of the helicopters departing, flying away south and east. I lay, my elbow supporting me, the helicopter buzz diminishing. The screams, shrieks and sobs of those still on the roof erupting at intervals. Sarah lying, shuddering, a pool of blood beneath her. Martin, Nate, Seth, and Arthur stood some ways off, glaring at me. Charlie, Carol, and Seth must have gotten on a helicopter, and I suppose I will never know if I played any part in their escape. I can only hope they will survive into a world that will not be utterly cruel.
Martin, Nate, Seth, and Arthur walked away toward a corner of the roof. I hobbled toward the opposite corner. At that time, the mold was two floors below us.
I stand now, looking out over the ruins of my former city. All its buildings, all its infrastructure, all its power, all its glory, gone. I used to pride myself on being capable of participating in all this. I wonder now whether or not that pride was misplaced. People talk of the things that run through the mind before certain death, the memories of all the things that have come before. I had a happy childhood. I’ve had girlfriends. I even had a few glancing blows with love. I cling to little things—breakfast at dawn on vacation with Ashley in Cannon Beach—making my first three-point shot in basketball club at the age of eight—the birthday party my parents threw for me when I was twelve at the Milwaukee Zoo—the day I got my first job in tech and felt as though my decade-long journey to be validated as a professional coder had finally come to fruition.
My whole life I have tried to help others, and I wonder whether or not I have really succeeded. I think though, that at least I have tried. I cannot imagine having done otherwise. But I also feel it wasn’t enough. For all our technology, for all our social services, for all our bureaucracy, for everything we have built, we are biological creatures susceptible to a biological world too small to be fully understood by any but very a specialized few. Perhaps that applies to more levels of our existence than even biology.
The green-brown draws closer. I’m going to retreat toward the center of the roof now. I will not fight. I will not harm others in some futile defense of myself. Perhaps I can give Sarah some peace in her final moments. I will soon need such comfort myself.
The First Shot Fired
Tom Jolly
Editor: The thirst for knowledge always outpaces our own morality.
“The planet is about twenty-four light-years from Earth. From what we can tell from here, it’s got water and free oxygen, and it’s in the sun’s habitable zone. It’s very promising, sir.”
“And it’s called Gliese?”
“Gliese 667C. The naming committee has tentatively come up with ‘Vogt’s World,’ after one of the scientists who discovered it.”
“And you think we should fund a mission to it?”
Henderson shrugged. “A probe. Nothing spectacular. Take some photos, gather a little spectral data, transmit it back. If there’s plant life, or even just bacteria growing there, we’ll be able to detect it. But it’s going to need some leading-edge tech to communicate its findings from twenty-four light-years away. And to get there within our lifetimes.”
President Cochran smiled. “Well, my doctor says I’m likely good to one hundred forty, and I’m only seventy now, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Twenty-four years isn’t that long.”
“No, sir, that’s twenty-four light-years. It’s a distance, not a time. With our best tech, it’ll take forty years to get there, without slowing down once we arrive. It’d be a fly-by. And once it gets there, another twenty-four years for any data to return, moving at light-speed.”
The president’s brow furrowed. “So if I understand you right, that’s what? Sixty-four years? That’ll be a hard sell to the American public. What sort of cost are we talking about?”
“Maybe ten billion, plus or minus a few billion in pocket change. A big chunk of that is for the modified ground-based lasers stationed around the world that can be reused for other light-sail missions. We’ve got a top-secret mod to reduce beam divergence to zero, so we can maintain thrust at a half-gee for almost eighteen months, though we won’t be telling the public about that.
But we can pitch the ground-based installations as an innovative reusable laser-launch system that anyone can use, and develop the long-range light-sail probe on the side. It’ll look cheap in comparison.”
The president tapped his teeth with a pen, thinking. “Well, let’s label it as a defense system so we can sell it to both sides of the aisle,” he said. “Do we have the tech we need?”
“The solar sail and the ground-based lasers are proven hardware. As for the rest of it, I’ve brought Dr. Shamut, here, to explain the new tech required.”
President Cochran nodded at the other man seated in the room, and said, “My next meeting is in five minutes, so try to keep it simple for me.”
Shamut smiled nervously, running his hand through dark and unruly hair. He clearly wasn’t used to visiting anyone but his engineering staff. “Well, to start we have to engineer the solar sail material so it can switch from clear to opaque. This should not be difficult, since such transition materials are commonly used as films on windows, but it will increase the weight of the solar sail. When the probe is very far from here, we select a trajectory that puts it between the Earth and Gliese 667C once a year, thus blocking a small fraction of the light from that sun. Then, we use a tiny bit of power to wink the solar sail on and off, either blocking Gliese’s rays, or letting them through. It eliminates the need for a high-powered transmitter. We use the power of Gliese 667C to power our communications.”
“Brilliant!” the president exclaimed, eyes glazed like a china doll. “And that will provide communications from twenty-some light-years away?”
Shamut and Henderson exchanged a hesitant glance, which immediately put the president on alert. Shamut clasped his hands together, and said, “Well, not exactly. When we get close enough to gather visual data, the probe will no longer be between the star and us. However, we have a technology loosely based on ferroliquids that will let us disperse a large cloud of ionized particles in space and shape them with a magnetic field. This can be used as a giant low-frequency antenna with which to transmit data back to Earth once the probe arrives.”
The president sniffed, as though trying to ferret out a rotten egg. “Okay. So far that doesn’t sound too bad. What is it you’re not telling me?”
Henderson butted in. “Sir, we need a shaped tactical-nuclear device. If the ferrocloud disperses slowly, the solar winds will trash it before we can shape it and use it. We need to use a very powerful, precisely designed explosive to disperse the particle cloud fast enough and widely enough to be of use to us as a high-gain radio antenna.”
President Cochran rolled his eyes. “So what you’re actually telling me is that you want part of the probe design to be run as a covert project?”
They both nodded.
The president sat back and drummed his fingers on the desk. He glanced at his watch. “Time for my next meeting. You’ll have to excuse me.” He stood and shook Shamut’s hand. “Generally, Dr. Shamut, I like the idea and I think we can move forward with this. Work out the details with Henderson, and please keep me informed on the status.”
***
From Vogt’s World, locally known as Pru, Vogt-1’s solar sail looked like a tiny star headed for their solar system. The pruins had known for forty years that the probe was headed their way; they’d heard about it from Earth broadcasts. And they’d been arguing continuously as to whether they should let the probe arrive or not.
“The humans are not ready to contact the Twelve. Even now, there are six wars continuing on Earth. Their news is rife with murder, conflict, and the destruction of their own ecosystem.”
“Well, they do have their downsides, I’ll admit. But they had the technology and curiosity to send this probe out.”
The pruin snorted, his loquin quivering in disdain. “So did the Hive Machines back in 60601, but that did not make it acceptable for them to join the rest of us.”
Another borbolled in agreement. “The universe would likely be a safer place without the potential threat of the humans.”
“You aren’t seriously suggesting removing humans from the shozbat pool merely because of what they might do in the future?”
“Why not? Humans are apparently quite good at killing off imaginary threats before they become actual threats.”
“So we should lower our standards to that of humans?”
One pruin, larger than the rest, slapped his palak on the table. “This isn’t a moral discussion about eliminating humans, we just need to decide whether to destroy their cursed probe or not.”
“We will regret letting the humans survive. Mark my words.”
The bureaucrats, as many do, continued to rail at each other while postponing any decision or action. The probe entered their solar system and started recording data. They adjourned for their four-hour lunch break. By the time they returned, it would be far too late to do anything about the probe.
***
All species harbor a few specimens who are willing to go down to the beach to watch a tidal wave. Lepranik and Varprasil had taken a day-jaunt to Shinpru, one of the moons off Lamuth, a gas giant four orbits out from Pru. The crawling gardens of Shinpru were known throughout the Twelve. But Lepranik had other ideas once they reached space.
“Let’s visit that Earthling probe!” he suggested, shading his labut to olive-green, indicating a level of excitement mixed with anxiety.
Varprasil curled his loquin in disapproval. “The council has not yet decided if the probe should be destroyed or not.”
“The council couldn’t make a decision in a full orbit, even if it concerned putting out a fire on their moldy gray labuts. The probe has passed its closest approach to Pru, and if it hasn’t finished taking pictures, I’m sure it’s going to very soon.” Lepranik shifted the lever on the quantum equivalence relocator and transferred their quantum stats to a nexus near the probe. “Where’s the light sail?”
“It detached from the probe shortly after the probe left their heliosphere to reduce interstellar drag. You can see the probe on the monitor, though.” Varprasil pointed to a glowing dot hovering in the map-space between them. “It’s very small.” He peered at the map-space as the glowing dot split apart. “Now there are two pieces. One is drifting away from the other.” He leaned back, his loquin shaking nervously. “We shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.
“Pah. Let’s get closer. It’s only moving at point-seven light.” Lepranik flipped on the lightwarper to make sure they appeared invisible to the probe’s cameras, then tweaked the control lever again to match vectors. A few gentle adjustments got them within ten meters of the smaller probe section.
“Not much to it,” Varprasil said.
“This part of it would fit in our cargo bay, don’t you think? We could grab it, pop over to Earth tonight, drop it in their orbit, and be back before zutch. Wouldn’t they be surprised!”
“I think the council would cut off our drassils for such a stunt. You know we’re under a strict mandate to avoid contact with humans.” He stared at the probe. “Fortunate for us that we haven’t used radio waves for over 50,000 years.”
“Let’s grab it anyway. In a big city like ours, we could get top creds for a human artifact.”
Varprasil chuckled. “Well! I do believe you are correct. However, humans may be curious if their probe suddenly stops broadcasting data.”
“Pah. It’s well past perigee. I’m sure it’s done taking data by now. They’ll never notice.”
***
Molnidoss had a reputation in the alien artifact and fossil business, along with a sideline of contraband living biospecimens. His storefront gaudily displayed the legal half of the business, but they were mostly items that could be had from a dozen such dealers across the city. The advantage of living in the largest city on Pru, despite the competition, was the ready access to a wide base of customers who wanted something unique. Something that the law might frown upon.
Varprasil and Lepranik had business on the marginal side of legal with Molnidoss in t
he past. They brought the human satellite into Molnidoss’s warehouse on a floater and proudly displayed it for him, waiting for an estimate.
“You’re in luck,” Molnidoss told them. “When you contacted me, I called a client who already has some interest in human artifacts.”
“Here in Varsanika?”
“No, hundreds of drik from here,” Molnidoss said, evasively. The two of them, he knew, were just the types to try to circumvent him as the middleman. “Let me scan this for pathogens. You’ll get less if I have to sterilize it first, and a lot less if it makes me sick with some polotni bug.”
He grabbed the scanner from a storage shelf and stared at the 3D display that popped up above it, positioning it to see the entire satellite. “Hmm. No biologicals. Plenty of radiation.”
Varprasil nodded. “The humans use radioactives with thermal converters to provide long-duration power. They use it whenever they send a probe far from the sun.”
Molnidoss pointed at a tube-shaped device. “That explains this bit. What about this cluster over here?”
They leaned forward, peering through the layers of holographic imagery. Molnidoss frowned. “You did disconnect the power before you brought this thing in, didn’t you?” They heard something click, and for a very brief moment, watched as a dozen small squibs exploded, driving packets of plutonium together, and Molnidoss used the last fraction of a second of his life to consider how disappointed his customer would be that his Earth artifact was no longer available, and whether he’d complain to the authorities about it.
***
Ex-President Cochran sat on the porch in his retirement home in Avila Beach. He was celebrating his 110th birthday, and his old friend Henderson had come to visit.
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