Animus Intercept Page 27

  "I know what side I'm on," Dan sighed. "The side of might makes right."

  "You don't think they'd do the same to us if they could?" Andrea asked.

  "I don't know. I'd like to believe they'd show a bit more humanity."

  "It would be more humanitarian to let Americans die?" Mallory shook his head in cold disgust. "They must've figured if they couldn't have the bases, no one would. Socialist pricks."

  Zane had three main thoughts. The first was about the thirteen hundred-plus lives that had just been obliterated. The second was about the state of U.S. citizens in the Chinese and Russian bases. Something had either gone wrong with the deal the U.S. had struck with the Chinese and Russian ruling elites – or some "rogue elements" had, as the Admiral suggested, gotten involved.

  His last but not least thought was about his son. The John Glenn no longer had its destination bases on Mars. The U.S. habitats had been built up and upgraded for decades, and were quite capable of housing thousands. The Chinese and Russian habitats, more modest in size and less technologically advanced, could still handle hundreds of people. But Command had lost contact with those bases, which couldn't mean anything good. The Revere's hand-picked SPAL team – the elite of the elite – would, along with the Revere's superior firepower, likely resolve that situation, but that left at best one or two hundred openings for the John Glenn's twelve hundred passengers and another two hundred or so soldiers. They could throw up some temporary shelters, but building a large permanent habitat on a non-terrestrial type planet took time. Something would have to give.

  While they chewed on that, Animus finally arrived. It crept across their wide-angle holograph like some stealthy Darth Vader moon – about the size of the moon from their perspective – a nightmare monster visible only by the stars and planets it blocked. Nothing dramatic happened at first. Zane had the impression the moon was being nudged a fraction from its former path, but it was so slow and so slight that he couldn't be sure. Its changes had the appearance of a delayed reaction as Animus slipped by at a much faster speed.

  The Earth started to develop an unhealthy-looking bulge on its upper northeast side. The bulge gradually expanded, reminding Zane of a nasty boil a wasp sting had once raised on his forearm. As the minutes passed, the boil grew more breast-like – of Dolly Parton proportions. It was as if a giant suction cup had been slapped onto the planet and an invisible giant was tugging at it with all his strength.

  Zane gritted his teeth and commanded himself to stop with the wretched metaphors. But his next thoughts were even less entertaining: images of his dad in the Buckyball Safehouse bouncing through the mountains, catching a tidal wave or maybe skipping into the upper atmosphere. Worse for Valerie and her new husband, hunkered down in the now probably pointless National Underground Complex, believing they were safe until the whole thing was dragged to the surface or ripped apart by the shifting earth.

  Or maybe they'd survive? NUC wasn't built for Roche limit tidal forces, but a mile or two underground had to offer some protection. The two scientists he'd spoken to about it had some doubts about just how far down into the crust the lethal upheavals would extend. Dan Mueller had little doubt that NUC would be "toast."

  "Even a brief encounter at or below the Roche limit," Dan had told him months ago, "would disrupt the Earth's crust directly twenty or thirty kilometers down – far deeper than NUC. NUC might hold itself partly intact from the earth-shifting alone, but that's just the beginning of this sad tale. Massive amounts of heat and noxious gases would be released through thousands of fissures and would come rushing up, frying and suffocating those inside..."

  Thanks for that image, Dan.

  Dan had continued with the excited air of a used car salesman: "My Buckyball Safehouses are definitely the way to go. You got your own atmosphere for twenty-four hours, everything safely sealed, internal crash cradle – just need to ride the wave and hope you aren't crushed by something or pulled into space, but even then you'd probably fall back to Earth and stand a good chance of surviving terminal velocity, hopefully landing somewhere you can breathe the air – "

  Zane had finally told him he'd heard enough. Dan had almost seemed excited by the apocalyptic prospects. But then he'd helped design Buckyballs, and Dan had never been shy about extolling the incomparable benefits of his many inventions. In some perverse way he had to be happy that one of them actually saw the light of non-classified day.

  Now the guilt Zane had been battling since Valerie and her new hubbie had gratefully accepted his offer resurfaced with a vengeance. He'd wanted to suggest changing their survival strategy to Dan's Buckyballs a thousand times, but even the hint of warning them could destroy all of their chances of survival. So a week before Animus Day he conspired with Command to have a doctor make up a medical emergency for Tyler which required him to be air-evaced to an "emergency treatment facility." Zane had stood there lying to his ex-wife's face knowing it would be the last time she'd ever see her son.

  Cheery thoughts to entertain himself with as he watched his world stretch into a Monday night football shape and belch smoke and flame from a thousand places – some of the smoke and flame extinguished by great walls of water that from their distance struck him as puddles slowly spreading from a glass of spilled water.

  "Show us the view from Animus, Patricia."

  An array of cameras had been set up on Animus – most of them USSC's, but the world's other space agencies had set up shop there, too. Multiple additional perspectives were available from orbiting space stations. The passing of Animus would be the most recorded disaster since 9/11.

  From Animus, the Earth appeared a bit smaller than the moon, its bulge more subtle. Their home planet looked bloated – its usual green, blue, a white cloud hues stained by swirling patches of brown and black – as if it were suffering from gas. Which made Zane painfully aware of the growing ache in his own stomach. He was going to lose his liquid breakfast if he didn't pull himself together.

  A hand on his shoulder startled Zane half out of his seat. It was Patricia, hauntingly resembling Keira with the sad sympathy in her eyes. Was it real or merely concocted for him and the occasion? He caught the thought and scowled at himself. Strange how after everything he still tended to assume the worst about her.

  "It seems unfair that I'm leaving no one behind," she said.

  "Count yourself as lucky."

  "I'm glad they let you come."

  "I'd be down there right now" – he nodded to the Earth, which was starting to resemble itself reflected in a carnival mirror – "if they weren't worried that what just happened on Mars might happen." He let out a hollow laugh. "I guess I should be grateful for violence and war."

  "I wouldn't have left you behind," she said.

  Zane glanced up at her. Her beautiful face was a study in utter resolution. "I'm not sure what that means."

  "I mean I either would've compelled them to take you or I would've refused to go myself."

  Zane stared at her. Did he even want to ask? He doubted it.

  "I know you don't feel the same way about me," Patricia said. "That doesn't change anything about how I feel toward you."

  "Well..." Zane lowered his gaze back to his warping world. I really don't deserve her. "Uh, thanks, Patricia. I appreciate that."

  "I'm just happy to be with you. Though of course I'm sorry about your dad."

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  Zane resumed his dour contemplation of Earth, imagining his dad sailing through the air or riding the puddle of water slowly spreading over North America. He willed his Buckyball to rise above the turmoil. Let him live! he commanded something or someone. A longing to return to this world, to find his dad grilling fresh kill and greeting him with a jaunty grin. The longing swept over him with as much force as the endless tsunamis swept over the land below. Surely some people would survive? Who could say his dad wouldn't be one of them?

  "Captain Zane, Horace," Admiral Sanchez's baritone vibrated Zane's cochlear implant receive
r. "Your ears only."

  "Yes, sir," Zane and Horse replied near-simultaneously.

  "Our people are presently being held hostage within the Chinese and Russian bases. Their leader, a certain Dimitry Ulov – a former Russian nuclear sub commander, I'm told – has informed us that they have a nuke which they will detonate if we attempt an attack. Given the stakes, and the presence of some highly skilled and unidentified operatives of ours within the compounds, I will not authorize an immediate attempt to regain control of these bases." He paused for a heavy breath. "For the present, I'm going to let them sort out things on their own. The Russians and Chinese are largely outnumbered, and I have great faith that our agents inside the bases will restore the balance of power in time without our overt assistance. The bases could only handle a small portion of our crew and passengers in any case.

  "As a result, I am ordering all our craft to proceed to Promixa Beta, where we will expand our current bases and build new ones as necessary. We have our work cut out for us, gentlemen, but I know we're up to the task. Questions?"

  "Earth?" Zane choked out. "Sir, couldn't we wait it out here, re-inhabit it in a few years when the smoke's cleared a bit?"

  "The projections for the near-term are not encouraging, Captain Cameron. Aside from the massive effects of Animus, our planet will need to adjust to the moon's new, much closer orbit – the consequences of which our best scientists and most powerful computers are struggling to predict. My advisors tell me, and I agree, that our best chance for long-term survival and flourishing is to establish a new branch of human civilization on another world. It had to happen someday, gentlemen, and it appears that day is today."

  "Understood, sir," said Zane, and Horse mumbled the same.

  "Continue your vigil until Animus is well-past. We'll speak again under the usual interstellar com protocols."

  "God speed, sir," said Horace.

  Zane had been to Proxima Beta once, three years ago, as a commander of a Space Reconnaissance Ranger unit. The creepy red sun, casting one side of the rock and mountain-strewn tidally locked planet in a perpetual tanning booth light, occasionally firing off nasty solar flares that could fry both equipment or unshielded people – and the "Dark Side," with its even creepier eternal darkness - had not made a pleasant impression on Zane.

  Two USSC bases had been established along the planet's penumbra – the more mellow, semi-shady zones between darkness and light where most of the world's water and above-ground life congregated – much as settlers clung to the more hospitable fringes of Australia or Canada. The air, while breathable, had a metallic taste to it that had induced in Zane and many others the annoying habit of spitting constantly – and the air was so dry, except for the "lake and river belt," that you had to drink maybe twice the normal amount to keep your sinuses and throat hydrated. On one positive note, Proxima Beta's gravity was about ten percent less than Earth's despite being nearly twenty percent larger.

  Most of the life on Beta was underground, much like on Mars. Fortunately, unlike Mars, Beta had no contentious semi-sentient species – that they were aware of. Beta's life was...confused. That was the best word Zane had come up with for it. Beta had birds that resembled blowfish, literally farting their way through the air via forcibly expelled and incredibly stinky sulfur gas, and winged fish that flew through the water. Their most noteworthy predator, the "Tarantula Dragon," was like a cross between a burrowing spider and a Komodo dragon – sporting six thick-clawed feet and a tongue that killed. Shaped like a spear, it could dispatch prey both large and small with a forceful projection of its seven-foot length, which also contained neurotoxins similar to terrestrial venomous snakes. One hapless female scientist-explorer had fallen victim to the Tarantula Dragon. A double tragedy, since men outnumbered women nearly three to one. Another aspect of life on Beta that had sucked. He hoped he wasn't being incredibly shallow for praying there were plenty of women on the John Glenn.

  The only people thrilled to be on Proxima Beta were the scientists – especially the geneticists and biologists. The life there had four different "base pairs," sharing two with Earth organisms. The other two were called xeno-nucleic acids or "XNAs," which had the geneticists in an orgiastic frenzy trying to decode. The exobiologists were equally ecstatic.

  Zane roused himself from his thoughts, which were galloping around like a horse without reins. Anything but settle on what was happening to his world and his father and Valerie and all the others. From Animus's perspective the Earth was shrinking with a reassuring swiftness.

  "Shift to our view," he said.

  Earth was looking less like a football. Animus was beginning to release it from its tidal bear hug. Come on, Dad! He focused on the image of his dad playing "follow the bouncing ball" across the continents instead of his ex-wife being incinerated underground. Hang in there!

  Chapter 16

  IT WAS NOT THE tallest peak around South Lake Tahoe, but it was tall enough to reach the ridgeline behind Zeke's house. Tall enough to see everything he loved one last time and to catch the wind that was howling through the thin trees and shaking his Buckyball nestled in a small meadow hollow well-clear of the large granite boulders lurking in clusters a few hundred meters away.

  It might be a good day to die, but first Zeke Cameron wanted to fly.

  The wind was picking up, gusting to speeds he hadn't seen for decades up here. Still, nothing too dramatic. But even as that thought formed, the earth shook. Hard. Then again, jostling his small geodesic fortress a meter or two, aided by the wind. He heard a sound like muted, rasping thunder rising from the ground. The Buckyball hummed like a tuning fork. Faults going? The Tahoe area had at least three that he knew of. The least of my worries.

  Zeke felt strangely calm. Maybe it was the two whisky shots, maybe it was the fact that he knew his boy and grandson were safe in the stars above, or maybe it was the fact that he'd lived a good life and always wanted to go out with a "Booyah!" instead of a "Boohoo." He was strapped into his g-force chair/cradle - every body part secured with graduated-resistance foam inside a mobile, shock-absorbent cage - and damned if he wasn't eager for this show to get on the road.

  Chances were if he died during the onset the end would be quick. But neither he nor his son saw his death happening too soon. It would take a hell of a lot more than an earthquake or strong winds to compromise this bad boy. The multi-layers of carbon fiber reinforced plastisteel lined with super-thermal ceramics - buttressed with a two hundred independent mini-shock absorbers - could shrug off a falling tree or even a small building. Each spring in turn delivered charge to the electropolymeric foam batteries that powered the unit every time the sphere experienced compressive force. The sphere was air and water sealed – oxygen supplied when needed at a flip of a switch.

  Zeke had met Dan Mueller when the young inventor/engineer had just started making a name for himself, creating clever, practical, usable devices as a teenager, taking to the advanced back-engineered alien technology like a white shark to blood. He was comfortable standing on the shoulders of giants, with a near-peerless talent for commingling his own talents and insights with those of beings who'd traversed the stars and realities few humans could imagine.

  And this is his baby. Gotta feel good about that.

  The Buckyball stirred, and then began to roll. The roller bearing wheels attached to the outer ribs of his cage spun with the motion while his chair remained upright. Regardless of which way the Buckyball rolled, the passenger would be held upright by gravity. Pistons in the outer ribs would contract to absorb shocks from any direction. It sounded great in theory, Zeke thought. Now the test.

  The Buckyball was rolling so fast that its dozen multi-paned hexagonal windows were a blur. One drawback to the design, Zeke thought. But the glimpses of tree and sky and the lurching butterflies in his stomach told him he was bouncing down the side of the mountain. Air hissed from his cage pistons as he slammed into various obstacles, pausing briefly before the unrelenting wind swept him on. />
  The Buckyball clunked to what felt like a more solid stop. It was frustrating because Zeke couldn't move his head much, but he could see enough ahead and with his peripheral vision to suspect he was lodged between trees and rocks in a valley a few miles to the east of his starting position. Shielded from wind and water by the surrounding mountains, could this be his final resting place?

  Even down here, the wind roared through the trees, ripping branches and spraying pine needles. Craning his head, he gazed up through a small window. Sooty grey, brown, and black trails raced across the sky like contrails from dozens of heavily polluting jets.

  A sound like a cannon shot made Zeke jerk within his cushioned straitjacket. A hundred yards to his right a narrow, bright gold-red flame blew high into the air. A steaming cloud of vapor rolled out along the ground, which groaned and crackled like an old rheumatoid giant rising from a restless sleep. A series of rifle shots reminded Zeke of ice breaking on a frozen lake. Beneath it all was a low, pulsing rumble – maybe the grumbling of that imaginary giant, Zeke thought. Fissures split through the ground all round him, belching out steam and a molten red froth, as if the earth was suffering a massive case of indigestion.

  A spear of flaming gas rocketed up less than fifty meters away. Turned out this wasn't all that restful of a place, either. Zeke braced himself for an upward surge. He was fairly sure the Buckyball could take the hit. It was just a question of how much g-force his body could take.

  Another sound joined the apocalyptic symphony: a crashing, rushing sound that made him think of ocean waves pounding the shore. And damned if he wasn't seeing a churning mass of water rushing in between two mountains to his south. Water met broiling earth in explosions of steam. Geysers erupted to skyscraper height. The water kept coming. Zeke wasn't sure from where. The ocean? Lake Tahoe? But it was mowing down trees and blasting over rock outcroppings and filling the valley floor.