The atmosphere was tense as the
Site Director was shown into the Control Room. There were two
researchers were waiting. One of them offered the Site Director a
seat. “Please, Sir…”
The Site Director declined: “No
thank you, I, uh…” He glanced around. The Control Room was large
but cramped, filled with banks of screens, dials and keyboards,
flickering gently. “I just want to see what you’ve got here”
the Site Director said, turning to the Lead Researcher, who had
followed in behind him.
“It’s really very simple”
the Lead Researcher said, smiling. The Site Director frowned. The
Lead Researcher amended his claim, “If, of course, you are familiar
with the latest in High-Energy Quantum Realignment.” The Site
Director still frowned. “And I am sure
you are, Mr Carter.” The Lead Researcher smiled again.
“How does it work?” said the
Site Director, gruffly.
“Well… it’s very…” The
Lead Researcher stopped himself from saying ‘simple…’ “It’s
a matter of creating a controlled improbability field. Here” he
said, pointing to one of the larger screens in front of them, “we’ve
managed to rig up a device below in Lab 34 that can concentrate
artificial Hume Rays to the fourth power on an object and unlock
the…” He had a second thought. “I say ‘we’ though I should
point out the development was mostly Stenson’s work…”
“Stenson…?”
The Lead Researcher gestured to a
young man lurking shyly in the corner of the room. “He’s a junior
on this wing but he’s your man.”
The Site Director looked the
Young Man up and down coolly. He was short, thin, with cropped dark
hair. The Site Director asked the Young Man, “Is it all set up?”
The Young Man nodded. “Then I guess you better press the button”
said the Site Director, “or whatever it is…?”
“Me…?”
“Yes, you… come on…”
Stenson stepped forward to the
controls while the Site Director peered at the screen. The device
looked like a cross between an x-ray machine and a dentist’s chair.
“What’s the object?” It wasn’t clear, even at 1080 pixels.
“It’s, uh…” Stenson
stuttered quietly, adjusting the controls. “It’s a sugar cube.”
“Fine” said the Site
Director, “zoom in…” He leaned back and folded his arms. “Show
me what you can do with your sugar cube.” Stenson set the
experiment going. The screen was silent. Nothing happened except
brief flashes and occasional interference that soon stopped. “Is
that it?” the Site Director asked.
“It’s done” said Stenson.
He stepped away from the controls and shrank back.
“We’ll wait for the
improbability to cool down” the Lead Researcher said. “When it’s
safe we can bring it to you, Sir…”
“The sugar cube…?”
“It won’t be a sugar cube”
said the Lead Researcher.
…
Fifteen
minutes later there was a knock on the Site Director’s office door.
“Come in…” It was the Lead Researcher and Stenson. The latter
was carrying a small metal box. “Doctor Khalid, Mr Stenson, you
have my sugar cube?”
“Not any more” said Lead
Researcher Khalid. He nodded to Stenson, who put the box down
carefully on the Site Director’s desk.
“This is safe, right?” the
Site Director asked.
“Of course, Sir” said the
Lead Researcher. “We’ve checked. It’s well within background
levels of probability.”
Stenson opened the box and peeled
back the lid. Inside was mostly dark packing foam but in the middle
was a small, light brown cube, about two or three centimetres tall.
The Site Director picked the cube up and looked at it. “It’s
light” he said. “What is it?”
“We’re not sure” said
Stenson, “but preliminary tests suggest it’s a piece of bark.”
The Site Director took a moment
to contemplate then exclaimed “Fantastic…!”
“It is?” Stenson asked.
“It is”
the Site Director repeated. “Can you repeat it, the test…?”
“We’ve already done it a
hundred and seventy three times” said the Lead Researcher, “though
obviously not with the same results.”
“Of course not” said the Site
Director, smiling broadly, still contemplating the cube. “This is
incredible…” the Site Director said. Both the researchers smiled,
happy. “This is a new age. You have just revolutionised
modern warfare.”
Both the researchers’ smiles sank.
“What do you mean ‘warfare’?”
Stenson asked.
…
They
had been travelling for some time, a few hours at least. There was no
daylight to tell in the back of the van. It was hot too. Jose figured
they were in the desert. They had to be.
There was no talking, the armed
guard saw to that. Jose had a lot of time to think about the bargain
he had struck. It seemed too good to be true but he took it anyway.
Jose had been busted three years before, in a raid. Some of his
friends got away. Some of them managed to get good lawyers. The Feds
had got him though. He took a plea bargain, two years. Then there was
the incident in prison, twenty-five-to-life, and he was lucky to get
that. He would have been an old man by the time he got out, almost
fifty, but now he was free, his record expunged, a fresh start, even
a fresh suit. All he had to do was take part in an experiment.
There were two other people in
the back. There was big shaven-headed white guy, middle-aged,
mean-looking. He seemed to be hiding some tattoos. He was bigger than
Jose. He looked a lot like the guy Jose had to fight off. Then there
was a black guy, older too and also well-built. He was growing out an
afro but seemed to be dressed as a mock-cowboy, an odd combination of
denim and leather. He wondered if the other two had made deals.
Suddenly the ride got bumpy. The
truck was off-road. The three passengers glanced around at the other.
The Skinhead seemed to glare at Jose. He didn't say anything though.
The truck eventually circled, slowed then stopped. There was a
moment’s piercing silence before the doors swung open and the world
was filled with warmth and dry light. A voice said “Out, all of
you…!” Jose’s eyes took a moment to adjust. More armed men were
waiting for them. Some were holding rifles. They looked like soldiers
but they weren’t in normal uniform, black and grey all over. The
trio and their guard got out of the truck.
Jose looked around, trying to get
a sense of the place. Where they were at was wide and flat. On one
side there were low mountains in the far distance. The sky was bright
blue, cloudless.
“Uncuff them” said the Voice.
It came from a man, short, leathery and gruff. He had the look of an
officer, at least to Jose. Each of the passengers had their handcuffs
removed. Jose sighed and rubbed his wrists.
“Where’s my stuff?” said
the Mock-Cowboy.
“Later” said the Officer.
“Follow me.” He gestured and started walking. Jose then noticed a
brick wall a few yards away, tiny and vulnerable against the vast
backdrop. Jose hesitated then felt hands under his armpits.
“Hey…!” he shrugged off the
two soldiers trying to hustle him along. He called out to the
Officer, “What’s going on here?” The Officer turned and
frowned:
“Experiment, Mr Boreanaz, this
way please… Follow me.” He walked toward the brick wall. Jose
cringed for a moment. The Officer, whoever he was, used Jose’s
surname. The two soldiers tried to grab him:
“Hey, alright, I’m going, I’m
going.” Mock-Cowboy was following too but the Skinhead wasn’t:
“Fuck this, man!” he growled.
Everyone turned to look. “I ain’t going!” Some of the soldiers
turned their guns on him. The Skinhead adopted a hostile posture but
the Officer was not afraid. Maybe a foot shorter than him, the
Officer strode calmly up to the Skinhead and calmly asked:
“Mr O’Brien, what is your
problem?”
“Y’all gonna kill us, stick
us right up against that wall and shoot us.”
“You were on death row when we
found you, Mr O’Brien. If we wanted to kill you we’d take you to
the chamber. But here we are…” he gestured to the wide open
space. “You can go back if you want…?” He smiled a thin smile.
But the Skinhead was not deterred.
“Why y’all pointing guns at
us…?”
The Officer nodded as if he had a
point. “Guys” he lowered his hands. His subordinates lowered
their weapons. “Please” he said softly, “after this you’ll be
a free man… You will all
be free men.” The Skinhead eventually relented. The group slowly
made its way to the brick wall, the lonely wall. “Wait here,
please” said the Officer when they arrived.
“What is going to happen?”
Jose wondered. He wasn't sure whether he said it out loud until the
Officer replied:
“It's a climatic test...”
“What…?” said the
Mock-Cowboy.
“Why us…?” Jose wondered.
“The atmosphere” said the
Officer, ignoring Jose. Some of the armed men were walking away. Two
of them began setting up some equipment. The Officer remained.
Jose glanced at the Skinhead, who
was frowning away into the distance. “They gonna kill us” said
the Skinhead. He growled at the floor then turned to face the
Officer. It seemed for a moment like he was going to square up again.
“Nobody is going to be killed”
said the Officer, smiling now. “You have my word... My men here are
setting up a small weather station” he gestured to the device being
assembled. “However I'm told we require witnesses, direct
eyewitnesses to the experiment...” He shrugged. “All you have to
do is... just remain here... here, for twenty minutes...”
“Twenty minutes...?” said the
Mock-Cowboy.
“Twenty-three
minutes to be precise” said the Officer, glancing at what could
have been a watch, “and after that we'll be back to collect you.”
He asked the men putting together the weather station, “You guys
done?” They almost were. “We will be coming from that direction”
he said, pointing to an impossibly small hummock a mile or two away.
“Gentlemen...” he saluted them, turned on his heel, and marched
back to the van.
“But why us...?”
Jose wondered again, but the Officer didn't hear him.
…
There
were two bright flashes in quick succession. The President flinched,
despite the protection, despite having been warned. “What’s
that…?” A bright ball expanded quickly but briefly, full of
whorls and shards and radiating waves. They had told him about this.
It looked for a moment it might engulf their bunker but the ball
evaporated suddenly and soundlessly, like a soap bubble. There was a
moment’s silence. The dust didn’t settle outside because it
seemed nothing had been disturbed. Awed, the President took his
protective goggles off and turned to the Site Director.
“What did you see, Mr
President?” said the Site Director, smiling up at the Commander in
Chief. The President paused, looked to his aides then back again. He
chewed on his words for a moment. He needed something resonant. The
chances were someone would remember what he said:
“I think…” he said, “I
think we have seen the end of the world as we know it.”
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” said
the Site Director, flushed with pride.
“I don’t know if it’s
‘brilliant…’” the President retorted softly.
“Well, um” the Site Director
equivocated, “we haven’t examined Ground Zero yet. It will only
be a few minutes before probability…”
“I’m talking about the
danger, the costs, the risks, the responsibility this places on the
American Government” the President said. One of his aides nodded
audibly at this.
“We understand those risks,
Sir” said the Site Director. “But I think we also understand the
potential here of the Carter-Stenson Device.” He glanced around
behind him for support but his colleagues hesitated.
“Yes” the President. He paced
slowly, with considered gestures in the space available. “This is
your doing, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, Sir…” said the
Site Director, “our team… we’ve been working on it for quite
some time now.”
“With human subjects…?”
“Volunteers, yes” said the
Site Director, “for the past three months…”
“These guys have permission…?”
the President asked one of his aides.
“They do” the aide confirmed.
“All volunteers” said the
Site Director, “most have been from the prison system. They know
what they’re getting into.”
“They know about that…?”
said the President, a little shocked. He stopped pacing.
“Not the finer details,
obviously” said the Site Director, a little anxious. “Look, Sir…”
he closed the gap between himself and the President. “These are
prisoners not model citizens, they’re bad
guys…” whispering
the last two words.
“I see” the President said
eventually, “but I want oversight, direct oversight from now on.”
“Of course, Sir” said the
Site Director.
“How long before this is
weapon-ready?”
“It depends what type of weapon
you want?” said the Site Director. The President said nothing. “But
we’re at a late stage” the Site Director added. “We’re can
modify but not necessarily control the outcomes at the moment...
We're talking…” he groped for a figure, “a year, maybe two.”
“Is there anyone out there
trying to develop something like this?”
“I don’t know, but…”
“Brodsky” the President said
to one of his aides, “get on to the CIA…” He turned back to the
Site Director. “One other thing I want… before you show me Ground
Zero…”
“Uh-huh…?”
“I want the files on every
volunteer on my desk before noon tomorrow.”
“OK…” said the Site
Director, “my associate” he glanced back, “Dr Khalid will see
to that. If Sir is ready though I think we can visit the site now, it
should be safe.” He shuttled the President toward the bunker door.
…
Out
of the bunker and into heat of the day, the Site Director asked if
the President would like to take a car.
“Let’s walk” he said. “I
like the fresh air” the President. “The air is fresh, isn’t
it?”
The
Site Director sighed. The President’s scepticism was getting
wearing. “Please, Dr Khalid” he asked, “What is the current
Hume reading?”
Dr Khalid consulted a tablet. He
said “0.18 here… up to 0.24 at Ground Zero but falling all the
time.”
“What does that mean, Dr
Khalid?” the President asked.
“It’s slightly above
background probability” Dr Khalid confirmed.
“Much like the congressional
elections” the President joked. There was a ripple of polite
laughter across the entourage. He nodded to his bodyguards, “Demitri,
Garry, let’s roll…”
The desert floor before was a mix
of salt, sand and small rocks. Now it was a swirling mat of green and
purple of tiny buds and fronds. “What is that?” the President
asked.
“We don’t know for certain”
said the Site Director, “but it’s best not to touch.” One of
the President’s bodyguards looked like he was about to pick a bit
of mat. “We get it a lot after tests. It looks like a plant… Dr
Khalid…?”
Dr Khalid picked up the thread.
“Well, I’m not an expert but it’s a photosynthesising entity
with similar structures to plant life…”
The President: “But…?”
“It uses a different
light-fixing chemical” said Dr Khalid. We’re honing in on the
formula but it seems to excrete a weak form of sulphur dioxide.”
“Ah…”
“We tear most of it up
afterwards and dispose of it” said the Site Director.
“And this is due to merging
wave functions?” asked the President.
“Mr President, you’ve been
reading up I see…”
“I’m familiar with the
basics” said the President, “At least I hope I am…”
“There are hypotheses” said
Dr Khalid. He moved closer to the President, inching his way into the
discussion. “Some people say that it might be a shadow biosphere.”
“Uh-huh” the President
nodded.
“There’s not much of a
regular biosphere on this salt-flat” the Site Director offered.
There was a short pause, then:
“And, um, where’s the other
guy?” the President asked.
“Which guy…?”
“You said ‘Carter-Stenson…’”
the President pointed out. “You’re Carter…” The Site Director
smiled. “Where’s Stenson…?” His smile fell.
“He’s gone” said the Site
Director.
“Gone…?”
“Retired, left the programme…”
“Why…?” asked the
President.
“Your guess is as good as mine”
said the Site Director, shrugging. “It’s been going so
well…”
After a few more minutes walking
the brick wall started coming into focus. “What are we going to
see, what are we looking at here? I can see… Is that the device…?”
“Mr President, Sir, if you hold
on…” It wasn’t obvious.
“Where are the volunteers?”
“Oh, they’re around alright”
said the Site Director. “Look…” he pointed to what looked like
a set of shadows. “See…?” The President couldn’t see. There
were three shadows, human-shaped and fairly tall. There was device as
well, an unobtrusive looking stack of boxes and wires that looked
like someone’s old hi-fi. The President still couldn’t see so the
Site Director asked, “Where is the sun right now?” the Site
Director pointed. It was more or less above them. Then one of the
shadows moved. The President’s jaw dropped. The shadow shook a fist
then waved its arms. The other two shadows then moved, rolling in
frantic gestures. “They’d better get used to it” said the Site
Director, “they will be sharing accommodation a while.”
…
“Don’t
tell me everything, just… gimme the facts, the real
facts…” Still the same handsome face, the same soft voice but
there was something different about the President. He snapped his
fingers at Carla-Ann, his personal secretary.
“Mr President, Sir…” she
hesitated, “there’s footage on the internet…” the President
rolled his eyes. Carla-Ann persisted. “It was placed on a
sharing-website a little less than twenty-four hours ago. It appears
to show a beached humpback whale being transformed into a large, um…
tentacular creature…” The President shrugged. It wasn’t enough.
Carla-Ann continued. “The footage is consistent with a high-energy
quantum realignment event…”
The President thought about it
for a second then realised. “That’s our thing, right… the
secret thing…?”
“Yes, Sir” said Carla-Ann,
“the secret thing, but… maybe not ours anymore…”
“What do you mean?”
“We have reason to believe the
footage was shot in North Korea” said Carla-Ann. This cast a pall
over the President. He fell silent, staring, dumbly. Eventually he
came to:
“May I see it?”
Carla-Ann anticipated this. She
had a laptop with her.
“They say seeing believing…”
said the President.
“Not necessarily” said
Carla-Ann, “but…” She laid the laptop on the President’s
desk, the video was already cued. She pressed play and stood back.
The President gawped:
“It’s not doing anything…”
Carla-Ann had to press play again. The President gawped once more,
this time at the footage, blurry, digital, silent, but quite clearly
showing a beached whale. There was very little background. The camera
was zoomed in on the poor creature panting and flapping. The
President, pouting, was about to get impatient when there were two
bright flashes and distortion on the screen, followed by a
fast-expanding, swirling dome of light. “Oh my god” said the
President. The dome evaporated leaving behind what looked a gigantic
black, leathery sea anemone. There was some residual distortion
washing over the screen, seemingly as the anemone’s tentacles
lashed. The camera zoomed out a little and some of the context was
revealed, stony flatlands, a background of grey-beige hills and small
black dots that might have been distant towers. The camera shook a
little. The anemone was crawling, its foot writing across the ground.
The footage ended there.
The President looked up at his
Secretary in shock. “Someone’s stolen our weapon…”
“Well…” Carla-Ann
equivocated then went with it. “It’s entirely possible but…”
“Do we have oversight at,
what’s the project called…?”
“PA/DSL…? We have monthly
reports sent to your office, Mr President” Carla-Ann closed the
laptop. “But I think…”
“We gotta find out who did
this” said the President; he fist-bumped the table.
“And we will…” said
Carla-Ann.
“Good” the President. He sat
back and folded his arms.
“But…”
“But what…?”
“There’s the other issue,
Sir, of… how we respond to this?” said Carla-Ann. This didn’t
quite register with the President. She tried again. “The North
Koreans have a weapon of mass destruction…”
“I see” said the President.
He uncrossed his hands and sat forward again. “Do my hands look
small…?”
“Sir, please” said Carla-Ann,
her exasperation boiling over, “listen
to what I am saying…”
“I am a good listener” said
the President, absently. “You’ve just gotta give me something to
listen to. Just… keep it coming” he clicked his fingers again.
Carla-Ann sighed then resumed.
“The North Koreans have a new weapon of mass destruction. This
footage is unlikely to have been just leaked. It was uploaded using a
proxy-server with proven connections to Room 39. This is a challenge,
Sir. America must respond.”
There was a pause before the
President asked “What do we do?”
“We need pressure on the
Chinese” said Carla-Ann. The President scoffed. “As much as we
can muster” Carla-Ann added. “We need them on board. We need to
renew contact with agents inside the country, get as much information
as we can. We need spy satellites with Carter-Stenson detecting
capabilities. We need atrocity stories in our media to remind people
just how bad the regime is. We need to double our marine patrols in
the area and then let the world know that we’re willing and able to
retaliate if the regime doesn’t back down…” The President
nodded through the list. Thought about it for a moment, then said:
“First we get on to the lab. I
want to know who leaked this thing…!”
…
Peter
Stenson was waiting for his PHd proposal to be accepted when he took
a part-time job in a government-funded project, called Planned
Accidents/Despite Straight Lines (PA/DSL). The work was interesting.
There had been research into Enhanced Probability going back decades.
All he had done is find a way to control and focus the process,
create predictable unpredictability. The first thing he did was
develop Reality stabilisers, dense iron-nickel sheets, difficult to
shift but vital to contain the experiments. Then he found a way to
focus the rays using magnetised vacuums. There were so many uses for
his invention but it seemed the government only wanted one.
Peter was drafted full-time to
PA/DSL where they made him into a torturer. There no structure you
couldn’t invert, nothing and no one you couldn’t merge the wave
functions of. The dreadful hybrids they made were scored in his mind,
the man with insect compound eyes, the man fused with back end of a
horse, woman with electrical wires sprouting from her head that
pulsed with her every thought. They were never far from his mind.
It was not as if he could lay his
troubles down. He’d signed so many contracts with so many secrecy
clauses. What could he say when he spoke to his parents on the phone
or when he talked with his girlfriend at night? Even the site pastor
and staff psychologist were off limits.
Peter eventually applied to
leave. His superiors seemed surprised. Mr Carter the Site Manager was
upset but, after lots more meetings and signing lots more
confidentiality clauses and agreeing to annual assessments with the
FBI, Peter was eventually released. They gave him a good severance
package too. He thought about maybe taking a year off then perhaps
completing his studies, but he’d already been awarded a doctorate
(the project saw to that). Instead he moved back to Southern
California with his girlfriend, Emma, who was only too happy to be
back in civilisation. There he started a laser cutting and design
firm and tried his best to be normal.
By day he was occupied but at
night his mind could go anywhere. It went back, time and again, to
the lab where he had worked. There were maddening dreams, horrific
slide shows, bisected heads, sentient limbs, black vomit, brutalised
bodies and broken minds rising up to pursue him. Then the dreams
started seeping into waking life. People passing by in the street
would turn into victims. Dogs would bark his name. Silent phone calls
would menace him. Lying in bed Peter would find his hands creeping up
his chest as if to strangle him. By the time he realised his flat was
changing every time he went home and that Emma hadn’t existed for
nearly two weeks it was too late. Months of terror passed, or didn’t,
until finally one day there was a knock at his front door like
thunder across a mountain Peter hesitated to respond. There was a
Voice:
“Mr Stenson…?” It sounded
like a woman. “Are you there…?” Was the Voice real? “I want
to help you…” said the Voice.
Peter opened his door on the
chain. It was
a woman. “Who are you…?” She looked a bit like Emma, but she
couldn’t be her.
“I’m a friend” said the
Woman, smiling the gentlest of smiles. “I want to help.” There
was a soft, warm light behind her.
“You can’t help me” Peter
said. He almost shut the door.
“Please” said the Woman, “let
me in…” Butterflies wafted in through the crack. Peter broke
down, crying pink and gold tears. He sank to the floor “I can help
you” said the Woman. Peter looked up. She was inside now, across
the threshold somehow. She closed the door, the heavy iron-nickel
door, behind her. “But you have to tell me everything.”
“I can’t…” said Peter.
“You must” she said, “if
you want to escape.”
…
Colonel
Peabody came into the tent. There was a council meeting going on.
“I’m afraid the President won’t be attending” he explained to
the men gathered. “Information is need-to-know at the moment but I
am given to understand he is being treated for an unknown illness at
an undisclosed location…”
“When was the President at this
facility?” Major General Abernathy asked. He was chairing the
meeting, ironic because there were no chairs.
“About a month ago, Sir” said
Peabody.
“Very well, thank you Colonel”
said the General. “Come” he gestured for the Colonel to follow
him. “Gentlemen” he said to the officers stood gathered round the
table in his tent, “we have a problem, a very difficult problem;
one that we are facing on our own. Colonel Horvath, what news from
the Sea of Japan?”
The Colonel said, “Nothing at
the moment from the fleet…”
“Good” said Abernathy. “Well”
he added, “not great, but at least that’s one more thing we don’t
have to factor in. Now, the problem at hand, this is a containment
and
rescue job…” he spread his hands across a map laid on the table.
“We have an anomaly, a Zone of Anomaly approximately three square
miles and spreading at a rate of…?”
“Three feet” said one of the
Officers, “a day…”
“Three feet a day” Abernathy
repeated gruffly. “So we have time but… we’ll see what else we
have. So far this thing’s a big shit sandwich. Now, we’ve not
been able to reach anyone inside to speak to them. The Zone of
Anomaly has proven impossible to reach by land or by air.” There
were murmurs around the table. “I know” the Major General said,
“but facts are facts. Lieutenant Dane” he said to another of the
men, “what is the update on communications?” The Lieutenant
hesitated for a moment. “What is it…?” the Major General asked.
“Nothing, Sir” said
Lieutenant Dane.
“Nothing…?”
“Nothing goes in” said the
Lieutenant. “All our signals are reflected back instantly.”
“And coming out…?”
“Only one signal is coming out”
said the Lieutenant, “continuously…”
“I take it you have a
recording?”
“That’s right, Sir” said
the Lieutenant. He placed a portable player on the table. He said “A
moment, please…” and adjusted some controls.
“No, we’ve got all the time
in the world” said the Major General. Eventually a sound emerged,
an analogue-like crackle and his. The Lieutenant turned the volume
up. There was a voice:
“My name is Doctor Regis
Khalid. I am a Lead Researcher within the PA/DSL Quantum Studies
Programme, Site 23. I and surviving members of my team are currently
trapped in a secure wing within Site 23. There has been a
catastrophic event, the full details of which we do not know. Site
Director Kevin Carter is missing, presumed dead. I am currently in
command. We are surrounded by hostile entities, humanoid shadow
creatures and other hazardous anomalies, spatial-temporal as well as
dangerous hybrid matter. Of the original twenty members of my team,
only twelve remain, two of whom are showing signs of illness and/or
anomalous maladaptation. They have been isolated pending recovery or
termination. To any government agents or agencies listening we are
asking for assistance. Our supplies are low as is our ammunition.
Without aid it is unlikely that we will last more than another week.
The transmission is wired by dead man's switch to myself, and will be
played on a continuous loop until such time that I die. Please help
us. Thank you.”
The recording stopped. There was
silence around the table. Then the Major General said, “Well, if no
one’s got any ideas then let’s all go home! You fellas look like
you could use some…”
“Sir” said Colonel Peabody,
“perhaps we could use a tactical strike?”
“Nukes” said the General,
“are you crazy…? There’re people inside… Fellas, come on…!”
The group went through the options, all of which ran up against
(un)reality. The Major General looked round the table. He noticed
someone. “You, you don’t say much. Who are ya…?”
“Lieutenant Marsden, 504th
Brigade, Sir…” He was a small man, thin, with dark cropped hair.
He had a quiet voice, so unassuming it was as if he just appeared.
“What do you do…?”
“Military Intelligence” said
Lieutenant Marsden, “on secondment from Fort Hood.”
“You sounded like you were far
from home” The Major General chuckled. “You guys have been
surveying the anomaly…?”
“More than that, Sir, we’ve
found a survivor…” said Marsden.
“How is that even...?”
“He is a former employee,
retired. His name is Peter Stenson, 34 years old…” this boggled a
few round the table. “He is currently an inpatient of the Gateways
Mental Health Centre in LA.” There were nervous laughs.
“So he’s in the nuthouse?”
said the Major General, “this
place is a nuthouse…”
“So…” said Marsden,
suddenly sounding like his patience was wearing, “Stenson is the
inventor of this device that turns everything screwy. He also knows
how the effects can be contained.”
“How…?”
…
The
ward was beautiful, not a word Major General Abernathy used very
often. It was beautiful, clean and quiet. “More like a hotel than a
nuthouse” he observed. “Are we paying for this?”
“The
government is” said Lieutenant Marsden. The pair was waiting in a
hallway by a reception desk for the Charge Nurse to arrive.
“Government…”
Abernathy grumbled, rolling his eyes. Abernathy did not like waiting.
Painfully quiet minutes passed until a voice fluttered out from the
silence.
“Sirs…”Abernathy and
Marsden turned to face the voice. It was a woman, a young woman in a
nurse’s uniform. “My name Charge Nurse Papillon; I’d just like
to say…”
“You’re Korean” said Major
General Abernathy. Nurse Papillon stuttered. “Right…?”
Abernathy pressed his point.
“My mother is Korean, my
father…”
“Is French…” said the Major
General. “My father was at D Day but he… died… in the Korean
War…” said Abernathy. There was a pause. He went from being gruff
to lost in thought.
“Thank you for receiving us”
said Marsden, interrupting the reverie. “We’re on an important
mission.”
“A top secret mission” said
Abernathy.
“I understand” said Nurse
Papillon with a defensive smile. “And you’d like to speak to…”
“Top secret…” Abernathy
repeated.
“I’ll, uh, show you to him…”
said Papillon. “Please follow me.” She began walking.
“Thank you Miss Papillon”
said Abernathy.
“Ms…”
“I’m sorry…?”
“That’s Ms
Papillon” she reiterated. They walked along the ward. It really
was like a hotel. They
passed rooms. Some of the doors were open. The furniture was soft,
the lighting warm, people wandered about casually, including
patients. There were even pictures on the wall.
“I see you don’t put people
in straight-jackets here and… what not…?” Abernathy wondered.
“Goodness me no, not on this
ward” said Papillon. “These patients are no danger, not if you
treat them right, with respect and…” Papillon stopped. “I
almost forgot…” She reached into a pocket and produced two odd,
small, metallic objects. “Here” she said, offering them to the
officers, “put these on.”
“I beg your pardon?” said
Abernathy.
“I you want to talk to the
patient…”
“I want to talk to the patient
I’ll talk to the goddamn patient” said Abernathy. “Where is
he?” Abernathy tried to storm off but Papillon said:
“Sir…” with a strange
firmness that stopped him in his tracks, “you can talk to the
patient all you like but if you don’t wear one of these” she said
and held out the items in her hand, “he won’t talk to you.”
They looked like badges made of iron. “Wear them” she added,
“pretend they’re a medal, something you won for being brave.”
She smiled an acidic smile the said “I know my patients and I know
what I’m doing. Put these on.”
“Of course Ms Papillon” said
Marsden in an emollient tone. He took a badge, fixed it to his jacket
and looked at Abernathy.
“My apologies, ma’am” said
the Major General. He did the same. “I don’t doubt your, uh…
expertise in this… this field.” Once done Nurse Papillon pointed
to a door:
“He’s just here” she said,
“Room 34. He’s been awake for a few hours now.” She knocked.
There was no answer but the door was not locked. Papillon pushed it
open gently. “Go on” she nodded. The officers went inside. “Oh,
um, one other thing” Nurse Papillon added. “If anything…
unusual happens just press the alarm.” But before either officer
could ask she was gone.
Inside was nothing surprising,
nothing much at all, just a clean, sparse room, a bed, a table, a
desk, a lamp, a small bookshelf half-full, a chair and a man sitting
in the chair. The man was drawing something on a sketch pad that he
held close to him. The two officers hovered for a moment, standing
awkwardly. There was nowhere for them to sit.
“Son” Major General Abernathy
began. The Man looked up from his drawing:
“You’re not my parents” he
said and returned to his sketchbook.
“No…”
“Then why’d you call me
‘son?’”
“I, uh…”
“You are Peter Stenson?”
asked Lieutenant Marsden. The Man stopped drawing and looked into the
middle distance, as if considering the question. He eventually said:
“Yes…” and went back to
drawing. It wasn’t clear what picture he was making but Stenson was
using a pencil and making long strokes.
“We’re from the military”
said Abernathy. He waited for a response. Eventually Stenson said:
“Was I in the military?”
“In a sense” said Marsden.
“We need…”
“You’re wearing badges”
said Stenson. “Good…”
“We, uh, we need your help”
said Marsden.
Stenson stopped drawing. He took
a deep, shaky breath then said “why do people always need my help?”
He said it as if to the heart of his sketch pad. There was a moment’s
silent uncertainty.
“He’s shivering” said
Abernathy. Stenson was indeed shaking.
“Snow is falling” said
Stenson. He looked up at the ceiling with an expression of saddened
awe. The two officers followed his gaze but saw nothing out of the
ordinary. Stenson went back his drawing. “I must finish” he said.
He started making hard, furious lines across the page. “I must
finish…!”
“What is he drawing?”
Abernathy asked.
“Shadows” said Stenson.
Marsden knelt beside Stenson in
his chair. “Mr Stenson, you worked on the weapon, the
Carter-Stenson device…”
“No, no, no…” Stenson drew
big, slashing lines across the page, almost breaking the paper.
“I’ve had enough of this”
said Abernathy.
“One second” said Marsden to
the Major General, “if we can just…” he turned back to Stenson.
“We need your help…”
“Why, why, why…?”
“We’re going to put it away”
said Marsden. “For good, but we need…”
Stenson gasped and let go of the
pad. It fell to the floor face up. “Where’s the alarm?” said
Abernathy. The drawing on the page began to leak into the air.
“Nurse, nurse…!” Abernathy yelled down the corridor. The
drawing began to form, the pencil strokes wound around each other
making a helix. Stenson crawled back up his chair.
“Tell us” said Marsden,
pleading. “Tell us how to stop it.” The lines circled until they
formed a kind of maw, with teeth and eyes.
“You can’t stop it” Stenson
croaked. “It’s never going to stop.”
…
Six
months on the great wall was complete, hundreds of miles of desert
walled off by thick iron-nickel slabs, reality stabilisers. The
design was recovered from PA/DSL archives but these were three times
as thick the ones Stenson used back in the laboratory. The project
cost billions of dollars and would cost billions more once the roof
was put in place.
The Zone of Anomaly was now well
known. People lived in fear and awe of it. Most terrifying was the
bodies discovered in the heart of the zone, the images sent back as
the rover crawled over grey, petrified mummies, the dead researchers,
swathed in the ragged remnants of their former uniforms. The panicked
public showered the President with gratitude for his decisive action
containing the menace. Though his poll ratings were sky-high the
President was rarely seen anymore. The
President was sick.
Some days he’d grow extra
digits, other days he’d have no torso or half a brain or only be
able to speak Dog Latin or with a speech-pen, but he was
the President, determined to go on, despite the hallucinations and
personality slips. His condition was managed for a time by regular
iron supplements enough so that he could participate in pre-recorded
addresses and interviews. He insisted on being treated in the
Whitehouse, that way he wouldn’t have to go to a hospital or speak
to his Wife.
He was pleased when his Secretary
told him that the wall was holding. The Zone of Anomaly had been
contained. He indicated this while laid up in bed, using cards
labelled ‘Yes,’ ‘No’ and ‘I am the President.’ He still
felt bad though, for the volunteers, the staff, the soldiers, the
builders who had been lost. That was another burden he would have to
face on his decline into absolute improbability.
Then came the fateful day, the
Surgeon General said: “The
President is no more” They were old buddies, back from college,
through the early campaigning. He had been attending to the President
himself. The Surgeon General brought the news to the assembled cast
of senior advisors, milling in the Cabinet Room.
“When did he die?” the Vice
President asked.
“Oh, he didn’t die” said
the Surgeon General. “He is no more.”
“What do you mean…?”
A door burst open in answer and a
man strode into the room, late middle-aged, pasty, pudgy and
supremely confident.
“Who are you…?”
“I’m the President of the
United States” said the Man. He sat in the President’s chair,
made himself comfortable, adjusted his hair and said, “Do I employ
you?”
“I’m the Secretary of State
for Transportation.”
“Not any more you’re not.
You’re fired…!”
The Secretary of State for
Transportation was aghast. “You can’t just… Guards, arrest this
man!” But the security guards on the door knew better.
“I can and I have” said the
President. “Demitri… Garry… get his ass outta here! The rest of
you, sit!” Eventually everyone did as they were told. “I’ve
been through some things lately… But I’m back and I wanna know
what the first order of business is?” The President thumped the
table.
“Well, Sir…” Carla-Ann
said, gingerly putting the briefing down next to him. “There’s a
city in Nevada…” The President nodded:
“I like Nevada. I have property
there…”
“Like I say, there’s a city
in Nevada, one of the smaller cities” Carla-Ann said.
The President pouted, “Oh…”
Carla-Ann continued, “Population
of about four and a half thousand. It, uh… it’s gone missing…”
The President drew a blank.
“Mr President” the Homeland
Secretary chimed in, “the town is roughly three hundred miles north
of the Zone of Anomaly.”
“But we contained that, right?”
said the President.
“Sir” said Carla-Ann, “maybe
if you have a glance at the briefing. It’ll, uh, show you…”
“Right now…? OK…” The
President glanced through the document for maybe a minute or so,
humming and nodding occasionally. When the Homeland Secretary thought
it apt he said:
“Sir, we have a number of plans
as to…”
“Plans to counter the danger
that the anomaly poses to…”
“No, no, no, no…” the
President interrupted, shaking his head. “Like I say I’ve been
through some things, bigly!” he kept shaking his head. “I’m
telling you now…” his tongue lolled. “We’re not getting
involved in these hamlets if that means we will Stenson the other
things…” He turned a pale grey. His fingers tapped the table,
writhing like tentacles. His mouth pouted like a beak. “Get used to
it, all the losers and the haters…” The walls started dissolving.
“These are the new times… of freedom… iron-nickel, the end of
the world as we know it… a new age… it’s gonna be so good…”
The cabinet was left sitting round a table in the middle of the
desert. “We have the freedom to be great again now” said the
President. Black fronds were growing from his head. He was seven-foot
tall. “Now… now… now we live in a world of alternative facts.”
