Emergence

by David R. Palmer

(Quickly bit lip; stifled momentary impulse to burst out in hysterical laughter — she thought he was startled!)

  “…and he was so overjoyed to see you, that he forgot, in the excitement of the moment, the impression you must have gotten from the letter he’d left for you with the Tarzan File — at the time, of course, that’s pretty much the impression he had himself.

  “I’m Gayle Kinnart, by the way,” she continued sociably. “I’m one of Teacher’s official AA guinea pigs. Until you turned up I was one of his prize exhibits.”

  Flashed engaging grin, evoking image of mischievous eight-year-old tomboy — then looking nothing like Ph.D.-five-times-over rebel who met American Bar on own turf, stomped into ground in head-on clash before Supreme Court!

  “Your test results created quite a stir among our little group,” she added cheerfully. “No one had an explanation for you. Your upbringing wasn’t even close to AA standards; your intellectual development violated all the rules. Of course, Teacher always has said that you never had much use for rules.

  “I’m supposed to bring you to the meeting, incidentally. Teacher wanted to be here when you woke up, but he’s so busy…” Expression clouded briefly. “We all are, actually, and time is so short — but Teacher’s been doing the work of five of us. I’m just coming on duty and I promised to bring you along. I gather you just this minute woke up?”

  Nodded vaguely. Things moving too fast; having trouble keeping up. Most of all, having trouble focusing on discussion: Single unanswered question kept intruding, clamoring for answer, derailing extraneous thoughts. Took deep breath, stilled emotions long enough to regroup faculties, assemble something resembling coherent thought: “Wait a minute! I didn’t think any Homo sapiens were left; how did Teacher survive?”

  Grin returned. “He was more surprised about that than anyone. He was so desperately ill immediately following the attack that he thought for sure he’d contracted the plague along with all the rest of H. sapiens. We all thought so: He certainly had all the symptoms; it seemed the obvious explanation. But you’ll never guess what it turned out to be…”

  Gayle paused, eyes dancing. “Food poisoning…!” she marveled. “Not a disease entity at all; merely ingestion of a toxin. To that even we aren’t immune.

  “For three days he was hardly able to hold up his head — and of course he still insisted upon working nonstop, expecting to run out of time any second. We did our best, of course, treating him, trying to make his final hours comfortable. But we were as amazed as he was when he started to show improvement.

  “Peter’s the one who figured it out. Teacher had been at it for about 80 consecutive hours by then; and he was a little punchy, muttering to himself as he worked, wondering what on Earth was keeping him alive. Peter looked up from his own console, did sort of a double take, stared thoughtfully for a moment, then asked him if he’d ever been hominem-screened himself.

  “I was there, and I’ll never forget the sight of Teacher’s face at that moment. Can you believe that, after working on the hominem study for close to 30 years, it never once occurred to him to wonder why he’d never been sick himself?” Gayle had nice laugh; reminded me of Momma Foster’s.

  “It was difficult, as busy as we all are, managing to squeeze in time to run even a few preliminary tests, but they all turned out positive. Which weakens the case for the 1918-19 flu pandemic theory, though surely that bug has been around, in isolated cases, for… ”

  Interrupting is rude, I know. But with gun at head couldn’t have held tongue just then. Obvious which direction explanation heading even at outset; mind already racing ahead, remembering someone else whom had never seen, heard of, being sick: “If Teacher’s one of us, how about Daddy? You know, Dr. Foster — is he here? Has anybody heard anything from him? Could he be…” Voice trailed off at Gayle’s expression.

  “I’m sorry, Candy. No one I’ve talked with has seen or heard of Dr. Foster since about two hours before the attack. He was at the Pentagon. And they used surface-targeted missiles on Washington, you know.”

  I nodded. Hadn’t really expected. Just hoped.

  And still hoped, dammitall! Daddy much too smart to get caught like that, with everybody expecting attack from moment to moment. Two hours ample time to get out of range. Just matter of finding him. If alive. As well might be. As very well might be.

  And is — I knew it! Would find him. Someday. Somewhere. Somehow…

  “I hope you do find him, Candy,” Gayle said softly. “I haven’t given up hope either. My fiancé was at that conference. But there hasn’t been time…”

  Decided to change subject: Can’t dwell on Daddy’s possible fate without emotional complications; and Gayle’s expression betrayed need for distraction as well. Besides, consumed by curiosity enough to get dozen Elephant’s Children in trouble — and Gayle’s apparent ability to answer unasked questions seemed good place to start digging.

  “No, I’m not reading your mind,” she assured me as I stared open-mouthed — again before could ask.

  (Well, if she said so, all right. But dandy imitation; downright spooky.)

  Gayle explained: Observation of unconscious facial, body muscle patterns a longtime hobby. Founded in, extension of, so-called “body language” beloved of popular-psychology cultists of earlier day; results more reliable, accurate. Indeed, not mind reader; muscle reader: astute observer of subtle clues.

  Threw back covers, jumped from bed into shower, turned on. And as scrubbed at two days’ accumulated grime, raised voice to be heard above water’s drumming: “What are you all doing here? What’s going on? That message we found at Harpers’ mentioned something about a continuing problem, and led us to Palomar…”

  “What message…?” Gayle’s voice suddenly so sharp that I jumped. Face appeared over shower-stall door, white as proverbial sheet.

  No idea what triggered panic; but related search of Harpers’ offices in Baltimore, discovery of computer-to-computer message fragment from Teacher notifying of AA assembly at secret hideaway, containing vague mention of Palomar.

  Gayle listened intently, without interruption; then said, still almost fiercely, “Where is it now? Did you bring it with you when you left the office?”

  Thought briefly as emerged from shower, plied towel. At first couldn’t remember; finally recalled stuffing into pocket when left office. Probably still at Adam’s parents’ house, or somewhere in van, trailer. Gayle’s relief almost palpable.

  Fixed her then with what hoped resembled gimlet eye; suggested she brief me. Obvious from her reaction: Something scary afoot. Bad joke if somehow I knew something vital, perhaps learned by accident on travels, failed to pass on to proper person through ignorance of relevance.

  Gayle eyed me appraisingly. Appeared to think it over; then nodded. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “But ‘scary’ isn’t the word. ‘Nightmare’ is more like it:

  “Those friendly, fun-loving folks who brought us the End of the World didn’t expect to lose the war. They planned carefully. Over a course of many years they conducted thorough intelligence studies of America and every other military power of any consequence. By the time they struck, they were confident that they had allowed for every contingency.

  “Fanatics in the truest sense of the word, they could hardly conceive of the possibility of failure. But even that minuscule chance was unacceptable; they couldn’t stand the thought of someone else winning — even if they lost. So they laid in some ‘insurance,’ just in case.”

  Gayle shuddered; but recounted facts quickly, efficiently, without omission, exaggeration, as I dressed.

  And if anything, “nightmare” understated proposition: Even in nightmare would have difficulty envisioning people fanatic enough to carry out murder on such a scale. And to conceive so implacable a revenge after own deaths would require thought processes far removed from anything heretofore recognized as human.

  Aggressors known as Bratstvo (translating as “Brotherhood”): select cadre of ide
ological zealots recruited from all over behind Iron/Bamboo curtains; cabal pervading bureaucratic/military hierarchies at highest levels, using governmental resources for own purposes. Fanatics all, dedicated to proposition that ideologically pure, totalitarian communism destined to achieve unopposed sway throughout world. Scorned as ideologically lax even limited wrong-mindedness, free expression, capitalist ambitions tolerated by own governments. Regarded established methods of achieving objective — subjugation through propaganda, sabotage, terrorism, military force, etc. — as soft-headed, inefficient. Hit upon notion of cleansing planet of unbelievers in single bold stroke; starting afresh, without competition.

  Would have worked, too, but for unanticipated effectiveness of Free World’s intelligence agencies (enhanced, unbeknownst even U.S. leaders, by AAs’ subtle contributions — in which effort Teacher prime mover!); plus unexpected targeting accuracy, sheer firepower contained in retaliatory arsenal. Bratstvo’s headquarters designed, constructed, anticipated proof against even direct, near-direct hits — but not so many; became 40-mile-wide, 15-mile-deep crater; all outlying facilities vaporized as well. Cleanup, according to satellite reports, total. Many targets still glowing.

  But same Free World authorities who refused to believe zealots’ ultimate goal elimination of everyone not sharing beliefs, until warheads, plague, exploded across planet, also discounted AAs’ evidence of contingency plan; took no steps to gather up loose ends.

  Leaving fledgling hominem population with problem: Parked heretofore unnoticed in geosynchronous orbit over central Asia is Doomsday Machine, strontium-90 bomb, programmed to commence reentry upon failing to receive periodic coded signal — next of which due in 11 days; frequency, content known only to long-dead fanatics.

  Big strontium-90 bomb: genuine multi-ziloton planet-wrecker, if intelligence reports correct; explosion comparable to asteroid impact. Targeted for deep waters overlying Murray Fracture Zone, 700 miles west-southwest of San Francisco. Programmed to sink to ocean floor before detonating.

  Blast effects threefold: First, will puncture Earth’s crust like balloon (less than three miles thick at that point), sending massive lava tsunamis radiating out across upper mantle’s molten surface, cracking tectonic plates, resulting in catastrophic worldwide seismic convulsions. Accompanying seawater tsunamis, though hundreds of feet in height, of negligible significance by comparison.

  Second, will hurl uncountable cubic miles of vaporized sea water, mud, rock into stratosphere, where will circulate with planetary atmospheric convection, showering strontium-90 fallout first across North American continent, eventually whole world.

  Strontium 90’s half-life 29 years — if bomb not stopped, Earth uninhabitable by unprotected humans for something like next two centuries!

  Finally, resultant atmospheric pollution will trigger real-life Fimbulwinter, destroy what little may remain of biosphere.

  “But the Bratstvo were no slouches at intelligence work either; it was even money that they knew as much about us as we did about them. We had to assume that they had traced back along our intelligence line and knew where most of us lived and worked.

  “We also had to assume that they would have operatives here during the attack to try to ferret out our plans — suicides, possibly; or, perhaps more probable, they might have succeeded in concealing the fact that they had a vaccine for the lethal virus. In either case, they would have searched our homes and offices as soon as we left and couldn’t have missed that message.

  “We normally destroyed such communications immediately after reading them; and I doubt if any of the Harpers would be guilty of such a basic oversight. More likely, the computer somehow retained it and burped part of it back up, due to the electromagnetic side effects of all those bombs going off at once.

  “We expected terrific electromagnetic pulse effects, and had our stuff well shielded against it. But their catalytic warheads emitted in a peculiar region of the spectrum and generated hardly any normal EMP at all; that’s why utilities and so forth continued to work for a while afterward. But they did generate something; and whatever it was, it had an interesting, if temporary, effect on some computers.

  “But if Bratstvo agents had found that message, the destination alone would have enabled them to deduce our plans. They would have been able, during the initial confusion, to beat us to the launch centers and sabotage the shuttles, which would have ended our hopes for good.”

  “Well, apparently they didn’t see it,” I observed; “or there weren’t any agents after all. Anyway, now I see why you almost jumped out of your skin when I mentioned finding it.

  “Meanwhile, you said ‘shuttles’? What are we doing about the bomb?” Spoke without thinking; without considering relative ages, backgrounds, educations; participation, contributions to date. But Gayle registered, accepted “we” in spirit offered; no hint of condescension.

  “Once we learned what they’d done, we started laying plans of our own,” she said thoughtfully, as I finished dressing, followed from room, down corridor, outside. “We pooled our money — there turned out to be quite a lot of it — and built a large, totally self-contained shelter complex in a salt mine located in a theoretically seismically-stable area in Kansas. But we needed to ride out the attack close enough to JPL and Vandenberg to protect those facilities from looting and/or vandalism, so we built a smaller shelter under Mount Palomar. It’s nowhere near as geologically stable, but we weren’t expecting much in the way of earthquakes unless we aren’t able to stop the bomb — in which event, of course, we don’t know if even the Kansas shelter will hold up.”

  “Why did you need to be close to JPL and Vandenberg?” I prodded.

  “Patience; I’m coming to that.

  “Both shelters are well concealed and very heavily shielded. We were as concerned about stray outbound radiation, which might give our positions away, as we were about incoming hard stuff from bursts and fallout. You wouldn’t have found the Palomar shelter unaided.

  “We also organized a plan to find and qualify surviving hominems as quickly as possible as to mental and emotional stability and useful skills. Radiation levels dropped to safe levels within a week after the attack, and H. sapiens were gone, so we went to work.

  “In the course of only two or three months we found and enlisted over a thousand people. We were pleased to learn that, in practice, general-population hominems turned out to be only about 20 percent unstable. The rest are hard to tell from AAs: likable, well-adjusted, intelligent, highly motivated overachievers. Quite a few of even the minority are all right, given a challenge and intelligent supervision.

  “Of course we ended up with many more than we anticipated, and we don’t have room for them all in the shelters. If we can’t stop the bomb, we’ll face some difficult decisions or, more probably, decide who goes into the shelters with a lottery.”

  “I’m going to hold my breath until you get to the point,” I warned.

  Gayle smiled. “Your original question was, ‘What are we doing about the bomb?’ Happily, some 30 or so of us — the expanded us, not just the AAs — were key NASA people. I say ‘happily’ because our only hope of escaping two centuries of underground living — assuming we survive the earthquakes — is to launch the Nathan Hale…” We rounded corner and Gayle indicated monstrous assembly poised on pad with casual wave surely more appropriate for discussing weather than H. sapiens’ ultimate technological achievement. “…rendezvous with the bomb in orbit, and deactivate it.”

  (Something in statement tugged fretfully at psyche, but instantly forgotten in rush of amazement over scale of plan.)

  Briefly reinforced hoary, naïve-ruralite stereotypes by stopping abruptly, gawking openmouthed in unfeigned wonder at monstrous spacecraft looming overhead. Television doesn’t come close to conveying scale. Bigger close-up than appears on tube. Lots.

  Proximity to technological marvel stimulated imagination, triggered inspiration; conceived possible solution, far less complicated: “
Gayle, if you can launch a shuttle, why not send up a big thermonuclear ICBM — oh…” Realized, even as spoke, couldn’t be that easy, or already fait accompli.

  Gayle apparently still reading mind — or whatever — nodded approvingly as reached proper conclusion. “The Bratstvo thought of that and took precautions. First, the entire vehicle in which the bomb is housed is constructed of a new lightweight, long-molecule material that seems to be sort of a metallic polymer.

  “Becky Chamberlin, one of our best metallurgists — plastics are her second love — had a chance to play with a sample shortly before the attack. She says it’s so strong and such a fabulous insulator that, in space, that bomb could probably ride out a multimegaton, near-direct hit without damage — depending on how well the components are packaged, of course.

  “But it doesn’t have to; it mounts quite capable defenses: the latest analytical radar, a sophisticated computer, and lasers capable of destroying any missile long before it gets close enough to constitute a threat. Finally, it’s programmed to initiate reentry the moment it’s attacked.”

  “How did we get the sample?”

  “One of our number was a quadruple agent…” Gayle paused, noting blank expression; elaborated: “One of us, pretending to them to pretend to us to work for us while actually spying on them as well as a fourth party — got that?”

  “This spy business sounds unprincipled, deceitful, and entirely too complicated,” I replied with mock disapproval.

  “Of course it is.” She grinned. “That’s the way things were in the old days: All professions cloaked themselves in as much mystery as possible — spies were nowhere near as bad in that respect as, say, real estate appraisers.

  “Anyway, Wallace Griffin allowed himself to be recruited by the Bratstvo while he was in Russia, supposedly undergoing training with the KGB for his work in the U.S. Quite a few of the KGB were members, and they were always on the lookout for likely prospects. Wallace is good at his job: While ostensibly helping program the on-board computer, he managed to microfilm the bomb’s entire schematics package — warhead, drive, guidance system, software, and all. He’s the one who brought back the material sample.