by Jim Wurst
Here, everyone was silent except Ailes and the general conducting the Situation Room briefing. The brass in the room had no interest in contributing any comments and the civilians knew that no one intruded on the President’s domain.
“So, what is it?” Ailes asked.
“It” was a projection on the main screen of the room. It was a simple schematic of... something. A two-dimensional diagram without the normal holographic add-ons, colors, rotations, sounds. Someone designed this with the need for rapid transmission in mind. Simple meant fast. But it was also too simple to understand.
“We don’t know,” the General said, “Transmission was interrupted before we could download the full schematics. We’re not even sure how much of it we have here could be the beginning, could be nearly half, but it is definitely not complete.”
“Could it be a weapon?”
“Yes, sir. A definite possibility.”
Choosing to focus on the schematic and not the man, Ailes continued, “But not a certainty. Other possibilities are?”
Directing a laser pointed to a blockish part at the base of the drawing, he said, “This unit here is undoubtedly a power source, but since it is so incomplete, we can’t be sure if it is a power source for this device or if the device is itself a power source. It could have industrial applications Zhidoi is heavy in minerals. This could be a new extraction or refining device…”
“And what about that thing? It looks like a cannon.” The appendage looked like a cannon barrel. Ignoring all the electronics in the schematic and anyone would think it was a World War I howitzer.
“It’s obviously a key component, possibly the key component to the device. A cannon, sensor. We know it’s hollow, but it could introduce other components to make a telescope or...”
“How many times are you going to use ‘could’ in this briefing?”
“We would be negligent in our duties if we gave you unequivocal answers when we don’t have them, Mr. President. We speculate that it is a weapon because prudence demands it, our agent thought it urgent to get this material out, and obviously the Chinese are going to great lengths to keep it secret.”
“You already had this man in place, you had to have had some suspicion before today.”
“We have agents in many such facilities. It’s not a pinpoint operation, more of a fishing expedition. We found a correct point.”
“Do the Chinese know that we know?”
Avoiding that dreaded phrase, he said, “Depending on what’s left of the computer, they may trace it to its origin. It’s a standard issue covert system, so there are false trails and links that could track it to Russia or Europe or Japan, and us. If it’s relatively intact and they have a capable engineer working on it, it’ll take days for them to be sure where it came from.”
“Unless they work on the guy faster.”
“True. His implant is registering life signs, weak but life signs. They could work him over when they want to.”
“Implant? Why are we wasting an implant, a traceable implant, I assume on a factory worker?”
“He’s not a simple factory worker he’s an electrical engineer. The implant is 85 percent biometric. He has a legitimate titanium knee replacement. The implant is between the organic bone and tendons attached to the metal knee. It won’t be easy to find.”
“Do we have any other assets in the region?”
“No HUMINT, they have already moved the satellite over China into position over Zhidoi. We’re slowly moving some resources out of Beijing and Shanghai, but we can’t do it too fast and even when they get there, they will only be able to operate on the periphery: observe movements of trucks, monitor power surges, that sort of thing.”
“Weapon, power source, mining tool. Anything else?”
“Possibly a space use. Zhidoi is the highest elevation in China outside Tibet, this argues for a space use, but it’s so far from the Chinese population centers that a defensive space weapon would be of dubious use. An offensive space weapon would be a massive treaty violation, which would account for the secrecy. There could be other non-military industrial uses, but that really would be an unhelpful speculation with so little concrete information.”
“So we consider this device a potential threat?”
“Definitely.”
“Does this mean we have to tell Cranston about it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Cranston, the Federalist candidate. Aren’t we obliged to hand this information over to him?”
“You’re referring to the daily security briefing?”
“I am. When else do we deliberately leak sensitive intelligence?”
“That’s really outside my responsibilities, sir. There are laws covering that…”
“And McDowell? We have to tell that useless little chi….”
Buddha spoke. “Mr. President, I believe the general has more to say.”
The President looked around the table, no one dared tried to make eye contact. He willed his last sentence out of existence. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”
CHAPTER 6
Now it was time to find out if the Lucky Dragon 8 deserved its name. The ship headed southwest out of the path of the storm. But the captain left the nets deployed, hoping to catch something. This naturally slowed down the ship. By the time he pulled in the lines, with little to show for it, he didn’t need a radar to see the thunderous grey and black moving in on him. The computer said it was a Category 5. When he was a boy, there was no Category 5. The only thing left to do was to steer into the storm, cut the engines and do the best imitation of a cork as he could.
The first waves were babies, nothing the ship hadn’t handled before. Love taps. Then they started building and the winds that drove the water were soon licking the sides of the ship. The captain and helmsman were the only ones on the bridge, everyone else, including the first mate, stayed secured below deck. Then as the waves fully embraced the ship, sending water over all the deck, the sky became a grey liquid. It barely qualified as air. Neither of them could breathe. The air was stifling and none of them could breathe.
Gripping whatever was solid enough, they stared out into the void. It was the most solid nothingness they had ever seen. A wave like a giant whale’s tail flipped the ship into the liquid air. They had the sensation of flying while still wedded to the waves. And then they crashed. How could the ship crash when it was never free of the ocean? Yet there it was, a hideous cracking and screeching as the ship surrendered. The radio tower flipped like a used toothpick into the deep. The secured arms of the nets were no longer secured. They were swinging about the deck like the broken wings of a bird. It was almost a mercy when they too disappeared into the grey. The sun had to be up there; it had to be, but it seemed so long ago that it might have just given up. It was now black, not even grey could survive this. It wasn’t even right to speak of waves now. Waves suggest separate, individual movements. This was one solid world of water. No bobbing, no thrashing, just the primordial existence of all water in the world encasing the ship.
It was as if the Akkorokamui of ancient Japanese myth had grown so large over the centuries that one tentacle rising from the seabed had curled itself around the ship, bored with its resistance, not even bothering to rouse another tentacle. So puny that it was beneath it to exert the energy to crash them. The captain had long ago closed his eyes and surrendered to the fates while his crew lay covered in vomit. The heaving, the deafening winds, the water in the lungs, the blackness was now normal. Just the sights and sounds of impenetrable death.
Later, the captain swore he did not remember the end of the storm. Just like when you have a headache, you don’t register the moment it disappears, just that it’s gone. He insisted this was the same. He had no idea when the wind and the water had become embedded in his soul. He just lifted himself from himself, looked out at the calm sea
and what was left of his ship. The black gone. The sky still grey, but it was a grey he could live with.
CHAPTER 7
In the quiet of dawn, the kitchen silently and methodically came to life. Even before anyone was there to smell it, the aroma of coffee filled the room. A warming cabinet began its program. The thin, photosensitive shades slowly lightened to let in the first light of the day but stood ready to darken again when the heat started cooking the fabric. The moment Carlos Lopez entered the kitchen, the ceiling lights sprung to life and the near-transparent screen against the wall lit up with the day’s news and weather report. It’s 5:30 am. This was modern Albuquerque. The sun had the last word, even before it rose.
He looked at the monitor, thought better of it, and poured his coffee first. This was one of his few indulgences real, imported coffee, which was more expensive than meat, but he allowed himself and his wife one cup every morning. The tortillas were easy, but not as tasty as the ones of their youth. Beans were also easy. Eggs needed imagination.
The kitchen was the definition of efficiency. All appliances were just the right size, no super double oven here and run with the highest energy savings. Everything was metal, plastic or alloys. No wood. Traditional Mexican touches, a terracotta bean pot, and Talavera tiles offset the sterile efficiency. He opened the warming cabinet and took out a small stack of tortillas and a bowl of refried beans. He rolled some beans in the tortilla and sipped his coffee.
Thus fortified, Mr. Lopez turned to the monitor. He didn’t need to touch anything, no button or remote. They had programmed the screen to react to his voice and routine need. “Predicted high for the day.” The screen shows a high of 102 by 1340 hours. “That’s not good. Send mail.” The writing screen appears. “To Advanced Horticultural Seminar 3: Weather not favorable for a trip to the field station at 1500 hours. Please meet in the seminar room at 1700. You are excused from mid-day exercises but experiments 21 and 22 must be completed in full before the trip to the field station. Signed, Professor Lopez... Send.” The screen reverts to the weather page. “National news.”
What appeared next is not what he programed. There were a few smaller outlets he preferred, and the computer would load the most trafficked site, or what was now the “national standard.” President Ailes appeared, meeting with some head of state. “Next page.” President Ailes appeared, addressing a cabinet meeting. “Next page.” President Ailes campaigning with his heir apparent, General Hayden. “Next page.” President Ailes... “Oh, for God’s sake. News on Federalist Party campaign.” After all these years, he still hoped what he programmed would actually appear. Somehow, he felt it was a defeat to keep asking for the news he wanted. Senator Cranston now made an appearance, but it was a static muddy shot with no audio.
“Goldstein vlog.” Not his favorite site. He knew Goldstein did not follow the party line, but Mr. Lopez worried about what voices might be in the young man’s head.
“… Despite official reports, the Cranston rally in Richmond was actually 50,000, not 20,000, people. The ‘disturbance’ at the rally was actually a fight on a food line three blocks away…”
Mrs. Lopez shuffled into the kitchen, giving Mr. Lopez a reason to stop wrestling with the computer. She was the same age as Mr. Lopez, but she wore the years badly. The child becomes the parent to the parent if they are lucky, but sometimes the luck lasts too long. She had been the parent to the parent for a very long time. First, she poured herself a coffee, performed the same ritual with the beans and tortilla, then looked at the screen, absorbed that it showed the news and only then did she address her husband.
“Have you checked the weather yet?”
“Yes, it’s going to be too hot this afternoon to go to the field station.”
“No local weather, national. Elena is flying today.”
She hadn’t put enough strength into her voice for the computer to register, so Mr. Lopez repeated “national weather.” But the screen went blank and then exploded into garish colors and even worse music, as if an armadillo was trying to play an organ. The colors gave way to screen filled with the most obnoxious clowns imaginable. Someone had put in a lot of effort to drive every four-year-old into pants-wetting panic. The clowns started yelling, “Elections are approaching! Elections are approaching!” Bloodshot eyes and rotten teeth. “Don’t forget to vote for the clown of your choice!” Smacking lips and spittle-specked voices. “As if you had a choice!” And then the screen went blank again and the weather map appeared.
“I loathe those people,” Mr. Lopez muttered.
Mrs. Lopez was too tired to be outraged. “I can’t understand why the government can’t catch them. They’ve caught enough innocent people.”
“Maybe they’re the right kind of guilty. If their goal is to mess with the elections, we’ll be seeing a lot more of them.”
“Can’t wait.” Finally, working up the energy to speak to the computer, she said, “Weather and travel conditions, Washington, Seattle, beginning at 1300 Eastern time.” This time the computer responded promptly and accurately. “Five percent chance of lethal turbulence!” she cried, as if she had never seen this before.
“Please calm down, you know the statistics are never better than that.”
“Our daughter is going to fly today with a 5 percent chance of dying, and you tell me to calm down.”
“It is a fact of life,” he said, trying to suppress his irritation, “They all fly only when they have to. Besides, remember the next campaign stop is here. Want to check the odds?” He immediately regretted saying that. Mrs. Lopez fell silent. She had no response to that, and he knew it.
In his darkest thoughts, he sometimes wondered if he did this to her deliberately. He didn’t think of himself as cruel. Was it guilt that he didn’t feel the same? Anger at her weakness? Projection that he felt the same and was angry with himself for not showing it? He left the kitchen. “I have to get to work.”
She didn’t acknowledge his absence and instead turned to the computer. This time her voice was steady. “Papi.”
The screen now showed another room. Like the kitchen, it had state-of-the-art technology and was decorated with traditional art, the Lady of Guadalupe being the most prominent. A small case with military decorations hung on a wall. What was most obvious in the room was the bed. It was a single hospital bed encased in a 21st century version of an iron lung: transparent, connected to numerous machines and monitors, including an oxygen tank and IV drip. All of this was in place to aid an elderly man, still and wasting away, laying in that bed. Mrs. Lopez looked at the picture and studied the data being supplied by the monitors: heart rate, caloric intake, depth of breath, bowel activities, and a countdown clock showing when next the man needed to be changed and rotated. The vision was the best Mrs. Lopez could expect. “Off,” she ordered the computer. That was enough for one morning.
Mr. Lopez finished dressing in his usual attire of long, lightweight slacks and shirt and his broadbrim hat, styled in the Mexican tradition but constructed of the latest fabric for protection against the sun and for the retention of body moisture.
He walked out of the house onto the mostly silent street. On either side, he could see a few people walking towards his destination, the monorail station. Few people here had cars. And those who didn’t waste them on commuting to work. In fact, living in this neighborhood was a reason not to have a car. Albuquerque went through a massive housing boom in the 1990s, nearly doubling the size of what people would consider Albuquerque. Stretching deeper into the desert, the reach of modern infrastructure followed roads, electricity and water. Most of all, water.
The water that magically appeared from every faucet in the city, easily wasted, no more a concern than air. And then it wasn’t there. The city contracted, suburbs wilted, swimming pools emptied and even filled in, grass replaced by rocks and cacti. “Brown water” entered the vocabulary.
The Lopezes were better
off than most, they knew what to do before most people understood. Now only about a quarter of the houses in their neighborhood were occupied. The majority were empty shells, some missing roofs and windows, all missing copper wiring and plumbing and porcelain products. Mr. Lopez, leveraging his experience in agriculture, staked a claim to the backyard of his now absent neighbor to build a greenhouse. which he redesigned to trap water rather than warmth. It included a wind tower, a catchment system and a small field of corn where he could conduct his experiments. It was an oddly vibrant compound where the majority of the activity was the wind whistling through empty houses.
Shortly after, the magnetized, solar powered monorail slid down its tracks in the center of the street. Mr. Lopez got on, nodded to a few familiar faces and decided that today, he didn’t want to look out the window.
CHAPTER 8
It was time for Cranston’s daily security briefing. No banter this time. He knew something was coming and wanted to know what it was. The three of them the senator, Nancy, Rogers were sitting in their usual seats. No one was especially comfortable when Rogers stopped talking.
“Are you sure it’s a weapon?”
“No, sir. We’re not sure of anything at the moment. In these situations, we err on the side of caution. We assume hostile intent until they can prove it otherwise.”
“And your opinion?”
“I have no opinion. I have not seen the schematic. I am only repeating what I am authorized to tell you.”
“What are the realistic non-hostile options?”
“Power source, industrial equipment, some kind of mining or refining machinery. Space-oriented.”
“Space-oriented is not hostile?”
“Sir, my briefing must be within strict guidelines, I can’t engage in interpretations or speculations beyond my orders.”
“What else are you authorized to tell me?”