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300 NIGHTS
A Ruptured Media, LLC Book. ISBN: 978-0-557-79969-5 (pbk.)
300 Nights, a novel by Kriss Perras Running Waters.
novel.300-nights.com runningwatersproductions.com
All text and images © 2010 Ruptured Media, LLC. All text and images © 2010 Running Waters Productions, Inc.. All text and images © 2010 Kriss Perras Running Waters. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Conventions and United States copyright laws. First Edition, October 2010. Printed in the United States of America by Ruptured Media, LLC. First Edition October 2010.
Cover and interior design and editing by Running Waters Productions. Associate copy editor: Matt Perras.
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Any reference to a person(s) or place(s) in 300 Nights is purely fictional in use.
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300 NIGHTS
A Novel
By
Kriss Perras Running Waters
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contents
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CONTENTS
part one
genesis 15
prologue 17
part two
exodus 95
part three
demon’s hole 149
part four
numbers 203
epilogue 239
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USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED
SECURITY ACCESS REQUIRED
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BE ADVISED
BIOSAFETY THREATS EXIST
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PART ONE
GENESIS
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prologue
PROLOGUE
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In the beginning, millions of humans roamed the Earth. As the ages came and went, man turned on himself; a raging machine, bringing with it the harvester, swinging his scythe, scattering the smoke plumes, leaving only his sickle; a sharp edge where the ends of the world met.
Slumped, the heavy-blossomed power of a thing called coin; trap the wild bull raging free on a walled street; loathe the bear for its desperation; gasses fell upon the fruited trees of summer atolls; a towering Eden fell in the dark, turgid flood of ash. In this place of city dwellers, there would be a life more than in this time, beware.
Damn the subway, curse the highway, steel-jointed, glass-sinewed soaring altars, they shall fall and stay in ruin. A wretched set of events launched tridents into the sun, reigning down anarchy, death in waiting for its master’s call.
Not with blinded piety is this sentimentality over shadowy pasts written. It would be better that humankind comes to its sticky end one by one, rather than the poor souls should stand and gaze at blinding blasts, mushroom clouds and ashes of people, shadows on a wall caught in mid-life. Not in vain is this written from a watch fire of a time yet to be. Onward let us roam, let the universe whirl around and round, forever down the helix of transformation. Through the gloom of the ashes, we mourn into a younger night.
Now comes, The Age of Revolutions. . .
1
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A fireball scratches a path across the black glass of the starry frontier. The flaming bolide unleashes a fiery wake on its collision course with Earth. Static crackles of the English language fade in and out, an alien tongue in the far reaches of the black void. In the distance, the sun’s solar flares leap outward, spewing fiery flames and vast sums of hydrogen energy out into space.
2
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Muted yellow sparks flicker beside a human hand that turns a wrench against a bolt. The hand lets go of the wrench, allowing it to float away. Its tether pulls the wrench back. Special Agent Michael Benner is spacewalking against a backdrop of white twinkling stars. Various tools float around his waist, secured by a strap. He floats next to a large satellite, without a space suit. Letters etched into the satellite’s frame spell out: story’s gate ii. Benner pushes keys on the satellite’s utility panel keyboard.
Back on Earth, millions of world voices the Company eavesdrops on creates a cacophony of noise inside a huge computer room. That room holds highly classified equipment, the kind of mosaic the black market would find tempting to mine. If any of that equipment ever got out, a spiritual tech bath of hatching cells, AI fields of horror spliced with neural hacks would organize on the other side of the wall. The Company kept it buried behind miles of mosaic, endless lines of code that sent a Mindbender’s jack point through a series of never ending loops. The Company’s virtual snare. Benner called it the Demon’s Hole.
That was Benner’s routine. Corner a Mindbender in the Hole, and he had him locked in a cell on the grid for life. That equipment was not going out on the black market, not while Benner was alive. Especially not to a buyer on the other end of a Mindbender’s jack point. They were highly paid thieves. Data mining was never a Mindbender’s end objective. They played the buyer for the currency that built a Mindbender’s business, mosaic.
The listening post voices filter in from the next room beside Benner. He wears a helmet labeled vr iii across the top. A titanium exoskeleton connects across his limbs and up his spine to the jack at the back of the helmet. Etched into the metal of the exoskeleton are the letters of his last name. Loaded down with metal rods covering most of his body, Benner’s hands type in mid-air. In space, Benner’s hands type in a test code at the satellite’s keyboard.
“Propulsion works, but nav is down,” said Benner in space, even though his physical mouth does not move back in the computer room on Earth.
“Can you move the satellite manually?” asked Special Agent Miranda Solomon.
She is in the large eavesdropping room next to Benner. He sits on the Company’s VR floor, while she is on the Comm Circle. Miranda types at her keyboard at the top rung of the circular terminal posts. Stairs bisect each rung of computers on the way up to her position on the circle.
She is slender and always has a gun strapped to her thigh, part of her black leather Company uniform. Her black hair hangs straight down her back and around her blue, television eyes, the kind tuned to a channel full of static and noise. He had it in for Miranda. She could get up his nose before he ever noticed. Before he knew it, she was in his head.
“Switching to manual override on your mark,” said Benner, over the Comm Circle’s loudspeaker.
“Com releasing to manual mode now,” replied Miranda.
She clicks the Manual Override button on her computer screen’s image of the Story’s Gate Two satellite.
In space, Manual Mode flashes across the satellite’s utility screen. Benner pushes the propulsion button. The satellite haphazardly shoots off, quickly zigzagging away from him.
“That didn’t work,” said Benner.
“Let’s try getting into her mainframe then,” said Miranda, in his helmet speakers.
“I don’t think so. I got incoming,” said Benner, starring down the path of a flaming piece of space rock.
“Abort mission,” said Miranda.
Benner thought he heard a smidgen of concern in her voice.
On Earth, he tries to lift the helmet’s visor to disengage the system. Inside the helmet, a visor screen alert flashes across the screen: System Freeze.
“You’re visor screen froze,” said Miranda, in his helmet’s speakers.
“Reboot my helmet,” said Benner.
“No, you’ll comatose. bpc protocol prevents anyone from leaving a Lightwalker caught in virtual reality,” said Miranda.
“Reboot,” said Benner.
“The right to pursue humanity is part of your Basic Protection Corporation civil liberties,” said Miranda.
“Reboot it,” said Benner, getting a little nervous.
“No neural damage,” said Miranda.
To date, he has never won an argument with Miranda, but this time he needs to win.
On the Comm Circle, Miranda hesitates to click on the word reboot, the drop down menu choice beside a visor image with Benner’s name. She can see on her screen that the bolide is on a collision course with Benner, and the satellite’s solar panel. Miranda clicks on reboot. In space, the bolide clips the satellite’s solar panel, knocking it out of orbit and on a descent into Earth’s atmosphere. The bolide fireballs over the location where Benner was spacewalking, leaving a dusty trail of glassy-red flaming sparks as it descends towards Earth. On the vr floor, Benner collapses beside his chair. The front of his visor screen goes dark.
“Mike? Are you alright?” asked Miranda.
Nothing but silence comes from Benner over the Comm Circle’s loudspeaker. In the adjacent chairs to Benner, similar set-ups like his vr iii, minus the exoskeleton, are hard at work. Numerous agents sit in these chairs, wearing only the vr iii helmet. Agent Kevin Benner, Junior removes his helmet.
“omg, not again,” said Junior, rolling his eyes.
Junior heads over to his older brother, Benner, lying on the vr floor.
3
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Coursing through the last vestiges of space, harbingers hurtle into Earth’s atmosphere. Traveling at Mach 25, a private hypersonic plane headed for norad flies 30,000 feet above the Earth’s surface. On board are the Joints Chiefs of Staff and National Security Advisor William Johnson, the core of the White House Charlie Team.
“Just my luck that Charlie Team would be a bunch of hawks,” said Johnson.
“If it weren’t for the Pentagon’s Science Division, you’d be buried two-hundred feet under a bolide in about another ten minutes,” said the General sitting across from Johnson.
“Why didn’t your science division get the word out sooner?” said Johnson.
“We got the word out as soon as we had enough data to confirm there was a damn meteor storm,” said the General.
“You cost the President his life,” said Johnson.
“The President knew the risks when he chose to stay at the White House instead of going with Charlie Team,” said the General.
Out the window, a satellite has lost its orbit. With its front aflame, it hurtles towards Earth. Johnson looks out the plane’s window, watching the satellite plummet. It just misses the plane’s wing. The etched letters on its side are barely visible: story’s gate II. The flames licking its sides cast shadows, darkening the letters’ existence into a charred imprint.
“There goes any hope of knowing why this disaster happened,” said Johnson.
A huge blast wall of hydrogen energy hurtles down on the hypersonic plane. The bolide hits the plane, crumpling its structure, tearing it into a million tiny fireballs of obliteration. The bolide continues its descent towards Earth.
4
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Yawning into the shadows of encryption, Miranda’s terminal locks down, reverting to black screen. The red shape of a hand now displays on her monitor.
“Special Agent Miranda Solomon,” said B, a soft-spoken yet cold, computer driven sound on the Comm Circle loudspeaker.
B’s quantum voice never waivers into an emotional response. She is all ones and zeroes carrying out her national security directive of human survival.
“You’re called under Continuity of Government Law, Section 9, to assume your shadow post as National Security Advisor. Identify,” said B.
“Voice authorization Special Agent Miranda Solomon, delta-niner-alpha-execute,” said Miranda.
“Voice authorization authenticated,” said B.
“B, confirm status of National Security Advisor William Johnson,” said Miranda.
“Former National Security Advisor William Johnson has expired,” said B.
Miranda heads to the center of the Comm Circle floor where her new terminal is located. She turns to the bank of computers on the wall that now light up. The left side of the screen displays flat lined biophysical data labeled: william johnson. His photo is on the right side of the screen.
“Expiration occurred nine seconds ago,” said B. “Human subject was obliterated by a bolide moving at one-quarter the speed of light. Impact annihilated the hypersonic plane. The entire body of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is also kia.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Miranda, only just coming to understand the magnitude of the situation.
“Madame Advisor,” said Agent Joy Sung, standing at Miranda’s former post. “Under cog, I’m authenticating with the system to assume your former post.”
Sung’s previous computer terminal is in lock down. A red hand-shaped encryption image displays on its monitor. Sung places her hand against the red encryption image on the screen at Miranda’s former terminal, and it immediately turns blue.
“Voice identify,” said B.
“Agent Joy Sung, echo-three-alpha-niner-sung-execute,” said Sung.
“Voice authorization authenticated,” said B.
Miranda’s former terminal unlocks, lighting up all systems on its screen.
“We’re a go, Madame Advisor,” said Sung.
“Cut the Madame crap. I’m still Miranda to everybody,” said Miranda. “We just lost Story’s Gate Two. We need to compile Two’s last satcomm, and get as much info off of Story’s Gate One as fast as possible.”
“On it,” said Sung, quickly typing.
Miranda identifies on her new terminal in the center of the Comm Circle. The encryption screen unlocks. She taps on an icon on the monitor’s desktop, the one shaped like a church dome. A live video chat window opens. On screen is Doctor Edgar Yokohama, a Japanese man wearing a white lab jacket.
“Edgar, we need to know what else is headed towards Earth. Can you use the School of Divinity’s unauthorized equipment to get us some usable information sooner,” said Miranda.
“Wait, you’re actually asking me to break protocol and use the Four?” asked Yokohama.
“In the name of National Security,” said Miranda.
“Of course,” said Yokohama, with a smile. “Give me five minutes.”
“You’ve got three,” said Miranda.
Yokohama lifts his brow. Miranda closes the chat window.
“Let’s go people. We’ve got lives on the line,” said Miranda, to the crew on the Comm Circle. “The solar wind data is second priority right now. We need to know what else is headed our way.”
“We have some data compilation off of Two already,” said Sung. “Ohmygod.”
“What is it, Joy?” asked Miranda.
“I’ve never seen solar flare data like that before,” said Sung.
“The sun was due for an X-class solar flare,” said Miranda. “She was rounding the end of an eleven-year cycle. You’ll get used to it, although this one is pretty bad. Let’s get on that panoramic photo,”
“One is still in orbit and downloading the panoramic now. B won’t complete One’s download for another two hours,” said Sung.
“Let’s be very accurate, more than usual. We need to brief the President,” said Miranda.
At her computer, Miranda has a browser window open that displays Secretary of Defense Richard Finley’s profile and photo.
“How’s he off the Intra-gps grid?” asked Miranda, under her breath.
Finley’s gps status line reads: intra-gps inactive. Miranda turns towards Benner on the floor in the next computer room. Junior kneels beside him. She crosses through a set of glass doors onto the VR floor. A blue cursor blinks at the bottom corner of Benner’s visor screen. His head twitches.
“Mike, are you alright?” asked Miranda, standing beside him.
“He’s ok. His biostats show he just passed out,” said Junior, pulling Benner’s helmet off
“I’m here, but I have one helluva headache,” said Benner.
“Get up. Get back on the grid. We’ve got trouble with one of our new arrivals,” said Miranda, helping Benner up.
“Who died and left you boss?” asked Benner, quite seriously.
She gives him a stern look, disapproving, the one that Benner loves the most. Her whole face gets into that look. She is the kind of woman Benner would love to have on the opposite end of that look, the kind where a woman gets lost in the ecstasy of everything he is doing right to her.
“Oh, sorry,” said Benner, realizing.
5
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Benner looks at Miranda through the glass, the wall that separates the two computer rooms, vr floor from Comm Circle. She views Benner from her computer screen. He slides his vr iii helmet back over his head. His face is sometimes completely human, and at others, it consists of patches of blue grid and human flesh.
“Your nanobot fluid levels are way too high,” said Miranda. “They’re fusing to the grid. I can see it.”
“Yeah, I’ve felt like I have had fifty cups of coffee when I’ve logged off the past few times,” said Benner. “I’ll log out for awhile.”
“Good. We’ve got to get Secretary of Defense Richard Finley on Intra-gps. That means you’ll have to go brick and mortar to do it. He’s not above the law here at Mount Windward,” said Miranda.
“I’m due for some brick and mortar time anyway,” said Benner, thinking of asking her to join him. “Last time I checked, you were due for some b and r time too.”
“Not this time. There’s too much shit happening right now. With the President about to arrive, I can’t afford to get loaded on your black market gin again,” said Miranda.
“Who said anything about gin?” asked Benner.
He pushes the button on the back of his helmet. His vr iii powers down. He pulls the helmet off, placing it on a tall pole with a round padded top. He pulls an intravenous plug out of his arm. The plug is connected to blue tubes lining the frame of the exoskeleton, which he removes one appendage at a time. He places them on metal arms extending out from the tall pole. The blue tubing along the exoskeleton glows neon blue. Its inner fluid moves around the tube like blood through veins. When Benner finishes, the entire contraption looks like the major sections of a human skeleton hanging from the tall pole. He heads to the door out of the vr floor. He places his hand on the red encryption image on the door’s security scanner. His biophysical stats appear on-screen.
mt. windward: cog citizen
class: special agent
title: lightwalker
name: michael benner
nanobot fluid levels: 40%
security status: active
blood type: o negative
The red hand-shaped encryption image turns blue. Miranda, stands at the door between the Comm Circle and the vr floor, watching Benner exit. Her expression has softened from her usual hard core.
“At 40-percent, the body experiences the jitters, and the mind, headaches,” said Miranda.
Benner recognizes that glimpse of what he has been waiting for from Miranda, that little twinge of desire in the static of her eyes. She has a different look in those blue ice pads, something with a little more combustion, and he wanted a part of it.
“At fifty-percent, the mind experiences a lack of motivation to log off,” replied Benner.
“And that leads to the desire to download more fluid,” said Miranda.
“And not long after that, the body is at eighty-percent and mostly fused to the grid. The mind is consumed with staying on the fluid,” said Benner.
“And by ninety-percent, the body needs surgery to get off the addiction. I don’t want to talk about what happens after ninety-five-percent,” said Miranda.
Benner thinks he better back off, knowing he has touched on a bad memory. It rears up in her eyes like a bad rerun.
“I’m only at forty-percent, so don’t worry,” said Benner, noticing she was not shutting her emotions down this time. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were getting soft on me.”
Benner hesitates in the doorway, waiting to confirm what he is feeling.
“Maybe, if you weren’t such a joeboy.”
“I thought you liked joeboys.”
“I hurt people, Benner. It’s what I do.”
“That’s why the joeboys then?”
She nods, a cruel curve creeping up at the corners of her mouth, that thing he loved her mouth to do.
“What if that’s what I want, an equal, someone who hurts back?”
“I guess that’s the chance you’ll have to take then, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Benner steps outside the door.
“The first place all new residents go is the bank. They’re all about the money,” said Miranda.
Benner exits the huge computer room. The first glass security door slides shut. The second opens out onto a metal platform.
He could shoulder his way through any crowd at any cyber lounge on the circuit, take home any woman he wanted, but they never held up to Miranda. Those women were always somehow less, a webwork of genetically enhanced parts. Sometimes that included the most intimate ones, like the one night he brought home an affordable escort from the cog referral service. He punched the bastard out cold when he found out she was not a she. Kev has never let him forget that one.
Nightclubs and fast women were getting old. Benner wanted a real woman, an equal on and off the grid. More and more lately, when he brought the referral service women home, Miranda was there in his dreams when he woke up and the service woman was gone. They were all his way to forget, but Miranda was not something he could erase. She was a Company woman. He liked that, she was hard-core. Her style was sleek, so was her frame. She looked fast but took it steady. He was not quite at the top of his game since she’d been gone from the grid. She was the best, nothing but grit and trigger finger when she was out in the mosaic. There was no getting around that.
Above the door where Benner stands is a white metal sign with red stamped out letters that state: cog security lightwalkers only. He stands at the Mag-v platform sitting beside a small set of tracks that carry three-person vehicle pods, suspended, guided and propelled by magnetic levitation. He waits for the Mag-v to pull-up. The cylindrical pods are short with titanium casing all around and small windows at the front and sides.
Benner opens the Mag-v’s door. He gets in and immediately identifies at the center console’s red encryption image. The red hand turns blue. Miranda appears on a live video chat on the console’s screen.
She has her cold television eyes on again, all snow static and noise. Damn that woman was hard to figure out.
“We’ve got Finley on face recognition in The Commons,” said Miranda. “The Intel is old, sixty-seconds, so he could be gone by now.”
“On my way,” said Benner.
They had a thing between them. They were like clockwork, parts that fit and worked effortlessly to keep rhythm together. He knew she saw it too. She always closed the doors on emotion with those eyes, blocking out the bad images that found their way there when they were together. That was the first sign that he knew she had it in for him. Somehow, she always considered him off limits though. He could see it when those memories invaded the cold space of blue in her eyes, dousing everything. Then she would call it a night and go home alone. He would get a woman from the Company’s referral service, head home and work it all out of his system before his next shift. The next day, she was all cold television eyes again.
He presses the icon on the map screen labeled: the commons. The Mag-v heads off down the tracks. The map resembles an old-fashioned circuit board from the microtech days. Micromeshes of blue lines run all over the place connecting components to one another in a blueprint of the facility. The general population section was not as advanced as the cog wing, but at least it was up to date.
6
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Entering Earth’s atmosphere and smearing fire across the sky, a small bolide no bigger than a large garden rock burns its way into the blue womb. It crashes into a London garden, spitting up a miniature smoke plume. On the narrow cobblestone street, an open pub door dimly lights the smoke cloud. Inside, the barkeep rolls a keg over to its perch. Squishing, turning, locking down the spout and it is done. He wipes his wet brow with the back of his sleeve. The vigorous motion from his elbow knocks the single light bulb hanging on a wire, swaying it back and forth over the dust-filled air.
“Now back to the wankers,” said the barkeep. “Might as well speak me mind while I’m outside.”
The barkeep opens a wooden door. He plods inside, letting door slam shut behind him. The pub is of fair size. Dirty white-collar business happens there, under the tow of proper British accents and tailored suits with ties that never loosen. Secret deals close in the late hours of the morning after a pint and too many scotches. Scattered around the room with their drinks, business people ignore the television, preferring their own deals above world news.
In one such corner of the cherry wood paneled pub, a sophisticated executive taps on his pipe. His old, puckered eye twitches with each tap on the pipe’s bowl. He stands up, pulling his vest down over his well-earned paunch.
“It appears someone has to do it, so it will be me,” muttered the executive, into his pipe smoke.
He marches straight over to the bar. On the television, a 24-7 news broadcaster rambles on with hardly anyone in the room taking notice.
“A meteor shower will hit Earth in the next few hours. Experts project London will be the first city hit. It’s anticipated the Earth’s upper hemisphere will be most affected,” said the broadcaster.
The barkeep is at the sink, wiping down the wet pints as he takes each one from the wash water. In a spittle of vexatious phlegm, the executive harrumphs the barkeep. He is a blustery old man with a guttural grumble in his throat, coughing-up years of pipe smoke as he speaks.
“I thought I asked you to turn the tele onto the news. The nasdaq,” said the executive, about to rage on at the poor fat barkeep, but the news catches his eye.
“The tele is on the news,” said the barkeep plainly, a seriousness in his eye.
“World leaders agree the meteor shower is assessed as small boulder sized meteors too small to fend off with nuclear defense systems,” said the broadcaster, in a formal tone.
The barkeep’s eyes are cold, a half dead sheen over the dark brown of his irises. Sweaty beads trickle down his face in a steady flow. The executive recoils, disgusted by the sweaty drops making their way into the sink water.
“That’s real, on the tele?” asked the executive.
The barkeep keels over. He vomits blood, twitching around on the hardwood floor like an out of control windup toy. The only one who appears to notice is the executive. Conversations around the room are hushed, intense. A hand clutches a scotch glass. On the other side of a round cherry wood table, the deal is about to fall apart.
7
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Reading from the prompter inside the British news casting studio, the London anchor moves his eye line to a view screen with an American station anchor standing by for her cue.
“We turn now to Turner Weaver, at one of our sister stations in the states,” said the British broadcaster. “Turner, Her Majesty’s intelligence estimates if nuclear weapons are used to destroy the meteors, too much radiation fallout would take place on a global scale from the numerous nukes needed to clear the meteor shower.”
On a large view screen in the major British new station is Turner Weaver, the American broadcaster.
“The damage estimates here in the States are the same,” said Tuner.
Back in the States, Tuner is in Small Town, a Main Street paradise nestled between towering mountains of majestic beauty. The snow-capped peaks show the signs of a fading winter. This is wild, unsettled countryside. Misted mountains tumble down into flowered meadows that let the lake waters ebb upon their grassy shores. Trains bellow off at a moment’s notice, roaring along the base of the mountains on tracks pitted against the lake water’s edge.
Inside Small Town’s news station, Turner Weaver has the respect of the stalwart news anchor she is in everyday life. She is in the blossom of her youth and comfortable in trendy clothing. Behind her anchor desk, she is a mainstream news figure, seemingly out of place in the small newsroom. The studio crew bustles behind the scenes in the chaos of the breaking story. The hot studio lights create a silhouette of the crew, moving around behind the camera. A larger view screen sits in the middle of the darkened part of the studio stage. The station producer is Calvin, a conservative, middle aged, all business American born Englishman through and through. He is the tallest silhouette behind the lights. He wears blue jeans and a black station crew shirt. He talks to Turner through her ear comm.
“Break for sixty-second commercial,” said Cal, in Turner’s ear comm.
“We will return to our live coverage of Meteor Shower Earth after the commercial break,” said Turner.
A muscle bound gaffer walks by Cal, purposefully bumping into his shoulder. Cal’s nostrils flare, even twitching. The gaffer heads over to the lighting gel, adjusting it on Turner. Camera operator Webster, a liberal black man, is behind camera one. His blue jeans fit his tall, slender thirty-three year old form well. His dreadlocks are natural for him and hang over the shoulders of his black station T-shirt, just above his last name: lee.
Webster pans his camera onto Turner as she makes her way across the studio to the anchor desk. He watches her through the lens. At the video village, Cal watches the feed for camera one. Turner’s slender form is round in just the right places. Her skirt lifts just enough as she walks to get a look at her slender thighs. Her legs are long. As she walks, her black heels barely make a sound. Her long slender fingers delicately turn her note pages. Webster adjusts the camera, watching Turner move in and out of focus until the image finally rests on a clear take of her. A small view screen is behind Turner with the British broadcaster on live. Cal is unexpectedly standing beside Webster.
“Back in the day, I could’ve had you jailed for one look at her,” whispered Cal.
“Grimy little mates such as yourself were run off our land in apartheid too,” retorted Webster.
“We’re live in three, two. . .” said Cal, in a bellowing voice that carries across the studio.
Cal silently hand cues Turner on one. He ignores Webster, continuing business as usual. Turner maintains her dialogue with London. The broadcaster sits tall, listening to Turner’s report carefully.
“We return now to our live coverage of Meteor Shower Earth. northcomm reports also indicate only minor structural damage would take place if the event were left to its own devices. . .” said Turner, her voice trailing off as images flow across the screen.
The broadcast turns to snowy static and then changes to a satellite view of London streets. Blazing fireballs dive bomb London, reshaping its cityscape into large pits of smoke-filled catastrophe.
“Stay with it, Turner. You have to keep the news flowing. Paris is live now,” said Cal, in the ear comm.
“We’re turning now live to Paris, France where they are experiencing a similar catastrophic fate as London,” said Turner.
On the view screen, the satellite changes to the streets of Paris. A large fireball barrels down on the City of Light. The Eifel Tower tumbles over in pieces. A wake of roaring debris flies through the air. The satellite view pulls back to include the whole of the European coastline. A bombardment of smoke and fire completely engulfs the ancient line of water cities. The massive firestorm’s ocean reflection grows large, twisting into an angry red armada of flames marching across the sea’s mirror.
“Prompter two, and for the record, you weren’t a fling,” said Cal, through the ear comm.
“It’s evident at this point, northcomm isn’t telling the entire truth about how dangerous this meteor shower is,” added Turner, glaring at Cal’s silhouette.
“Keep your eye line on camera one,” snarled Cal in the ear-com.
Turner continues the breaking headlines from the news prompter.
“We have breaking news. Our weather team has counted at least one-thousand bolides, or smaller meteors generally known to be precursors to a larger meteor known as harbingers, on our weather satellite. The bolides range in size from five to ten miles wide. This massive series of meteors is on an impact course with Earth in what northcomm has termed a possible extinction level event since a high level briefing with the President five minutes ago, sources speaking on condition of anonymity said after the White House briefing,” said Turner.
Behind the anchor desk, Turner is on camera two, speaking to a second news anchor on the view screen.
“We turn now to Iceland. Bear with us as we experience intermittent static and periods of no communication,” said Turner.
A distraught Icelandic news broadcaster is at his anchor desk, on live on the smaller screen in Small Town’s news station.
“Thank you Turner. Our weather satellites indicate the shower is making its way across the Atlantic towards Iceland and the States. Our weather team also believes we’re looking at an impact that appears to be a possible extinction level event,” said the Icelandic news broadcaster, his voice quivering as he speaks.
Turner cuts into his report.
“This just in, northcomm has reclassified the meteor shower as a meteor storm, having yet to openly admit they have since just a few minutes ago termed today’s terrible tragedy as a possible extinction level event. northcomm continues to remain unavailable for comment. All statements currently made are press releases posted on the Internet. It’s clear our own government knows more than they’re admitting,” said Turner.
“Indeed. Our government, too, thought it was better to leave us in the dark. We’re looking at quite a few bolides on our weather satellite right now. Our weather team’s estimation is to expect at least two-hundred bolides per hour,” said the Icelandic broadcaster.
“The early signs of the larger meteor storm are what nasa terms bolides. These very bright meteors leave a trail in the sky that can stay visible for several minutes. Often a loud and unmistakable sound thought to be caused by very low frequency radio waves will occur at the same time as a bolide,” said Turner.
The small view screen suddenly turns to snowy static.
“We apologize, folks. The meteor storm is responsible for worldwide difficulties with communication systems,” said Turner.
“Tech is on it,” states Cal, in the ear comm.
“Bear with us while our technical team works to get Iceland back with us,” said Turner.
“The line is dead. Satellite is up on two. northcomm is definitely lying,” said Cal, into the ear comm.
On the larger screen center studio, the Icelandic region is a pulverized mist of snow. Caught off guard at the raw destruction of an entire nation, Turner remains silent, staring at the screen in astonishment.
“Move on. Move on. New York City is live on two,” said Cal, softly through the ear comm, perhaps a little too softly.
Turner looks at the taller silhouette of Cal. Her eyes soften.
“I’m getting that vibe again,” whispered Webster, to himself. “That goddamn, flirty, I’m going to tell Webster it was a long night in the research department vibe. I hate that vibe.”
Cal watches Turner, waiting until her eyes land on him, and then he deliberately turns away.
“Our station in New York is with us live now,” said Turner, jolted back to her live national news broadcast by the red flashing light on camera one.
Turner moves across the studio to the larger view screen center stage. She catches Webster watching her every move through the camera. He looks up from the lens, throwing her a glare just long enough nobody in the studio could miss it. Superimposed behind the well-known New York broadcaster is the last shot of pulverized snow mist.
“Turner, are you getting all of this in Small Town?” said the New York broadcaster, with a slight dig.
“Indeed we are. It’s a tragic day for humankind,” said Turner, maintaining a professional tone.
Coney Island beach goers are scattered across the sand in spring weather clothing. It is early evening on the east coast and an otherwise beautiful day, except for the large fireball in the sky. A college girl points her finger at the large trail streaking across the blue sky.
“What is that?” asked the girl of her boyfriend.
“Some kind of comet? I’m not sure. It’s really bright,” said the boyfriend.
A bolide flames down, smashing the Statue of Liberty into chunks. A deafening sound fills the air. A low humming rumble shakes the ground. The college kids cover their ears. The seawater pulls back, draining the beach of its water.
“Oh no, look,” said the college girl, pointing her finger in the distance off the coastline.
A huge wall of water makes its way towards them. Many other fingers across the beach point in the same direction. Panic ensues across the island. Families, children and the two young lovers run, creating a chaos of panic. The bolide’s crash creates a smaller tidal wave that collides with the oncoming tsunami. The two walls of water head for New York City.
The background of the New York City news broadcaster’s screen flickers to the station’s studio set, where they appear to be experiencing an earthquake. Counters shake, glass shelves topple over and crash onto the studio floor, electrical wires come loose and hot sparking wires flail about in the background. The New York newsroom fills with smoke.
“It’s pretty clear a meteor has hit here,” said the New York broadcaster. “It landed in the harbor.”
The large screen fills with a wall of water, sweeping away the New York broadcaster and leaving only a steady stream of snowy static. Turner stands motionless, caught in the wave of water that wiped her colleague off the screen.
“On satellite view now,” said Cal, in the ear comm, pulling Turner out of another two-second shock.
On the large screen broadcasting the New York disaster, a tsunami floods the longstanding eastern stronghold of the United States. New York City’s skyline tumbles into a huge wall of oncoming water.
“Folks, we’re witnessing Earth’s biggest nightmare,” said Turner beside the large screen.
“Good, keep the news flowing. D.C. is live in five seconds,” said Cal, in the ear comm.
On the streets of D.C., a seasoned newscaster, and member of the White House press circus, is in mid-interview with a flashy U.S. Senator. He is a young charismatic Massachusetts Senator who used his looks, and whatever other assets his physique provided, to get elected.
“The United States in a single day lost her allies and largest city, a beacon of the history of the American. New York was the vital economic center of the global economy. We can expect economic impacts from this on a global scale, recessions, shortages, low markets everywhere, for many years to come,” said the Senator.
“Senator, why didn’t you go with the other members of Congress to the undisclosed locations” asked Biggs.
“Biggs, haven’t you learned anything yet? There are no undisclosed locations for Congress. Politics is a dog eat dog world. In our country, the decision makers only made accommodations for the President,” said the Senator, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes.
Biggs turns towards the camera.
“Folks you’ve heard it from your own representation. Congress did not go to the emergency shelters, as presumed by the media in the absence of communications from fema and other government sources. This disaster could take out our entire Congress,” said Biggs.
The Senator gets into his black limousine. The limo drives off into the distance, headed towards the Washington monument reflection pool. Overhead, the low rumbles of ultra low frequency waves shake the streets. Biggs turns around to see a smaller bolide smash into the Washington monument. The Earth rumbles and shakes under his feet.
In Small Town’s news station, Turner gears up for another interview with Biggs.
“We turn now live to Washington, D.C. where we hope to learn more about the President’s whereabouts,” said Turner, speaking towards the large screen where Biggs is on live.
“Turner, absolute mayhem has overcome this normally orderly city,” said Biggs.
“Do you have the status on the President and the First Lady?” asked Turner.
“The President and First Lady were taken to undisclosed locations, according to a Senator we just interviewed. A National State of Emergency has been declared. All Cabinet members and Congressional leaders were left out of the loop, according to that source. There doesn’t seem to be any sort of plan to deal with this sort of disaster,” said Biggs.
The screen shifts back and forth between static, blue screen and Biggs.
“We apologize for the communication difficulties, folks. We’re changing to a satellite view of the D.C. area now,” said Turner.
Maintaining her position beside the larger screen, the images change to a satellite smoked out view of the Washington, D.C. streets in front of the White House.
“No further reports have come in as to the status or whereabouts and safety of the President and First Family, or the President’s Cabinet. We have lost contact with our D.C. station. Our excellent technical team has managed to gain a larger satellite feed for that area,” said Turner.
On the larger screen, the smoke whiffs off into the distance. The epicenter of world politics is leveled, leaving nothing of the White House but a haze of smoke and flames.
“Somehow in this maze of horror, our D.C. reporter made it to safety and is live with us now,” asked Turner.
“Wiley Biggs reporting to you live from what’s left of the White House,” said Biggs.
“You’re confirming we’ve lost the White House,” asked Turner.
“It’s been wiped off the map. It’s terrible. This is one of the worst catastrophes for the world. Flames are streaming out of a huge hole in the ground. It’s hard to speak of it. My friends were in there. There’s nothing left but smoking wreckage! The horrific consequences of this on the political front are unimaginable. The source of all things political in which the average American harbors contempt is gone, yet that one old White House was the historical symbol of all things free,” said Biggs, his broadcast suddenly cut off.
The news station is in utter silence. A shockwave of fear rises for the first time on their American faces.
“Ignore the crew, they aren’t on camera. Keep it flowing, Turner. Imagine how the rest of America is feeling right now. Hell, the rest of the world for that matter,” said Cal, in the ear comm, managing a small comforting smile.
8
____________________________________________________
Living on adrenaline and fear, two Secret Service agents carry the American President by both arms at a rapid pace. They rush down a collapsing tunnel buried two-hundred-fifty feet underground. The President’s feet do not touch the ground as they sprint along. He struggles against the agents.
“Let go! Let go of me!” said the President.
“Mister President, it’s our duty to ensure your survival,” said Agent Ben Campbell, the larger of the two agents.
Campbell and the second agent, Tom Brown, lighten their grip on the President but maintain course down the tunnel. The President struggles harder to break free.
“I am the President of the United States of America,” said the President, breaking free of their grip. “I take orders from no one.”
The President straightens his tie. He heads down the tunnel at a rapid pace with Campbell and Brown. The tunnel racks with a tremendous jolt. Smoke further fills the long corridor. Large pieces of cement fall from the ceiling all around the President and agents.
“We’re sorry, Mister President. We’ve got to get you to Mount Windward, now,” said Campbell.
The two agents again grab the President by the arms and hurry off with him down the smoky tunnel. They reach the Dulles Corridor where Train One is intact and on its tracks. Posted on every wall is a white metal sign with red stamped out letters that state: use of deadly force authorized. A fleet of deadly train track vehicles waits in line behind Train One, but no one is there to man them.
“Welcome,” said B, over the tunnel’s loudspeaker system. “Identify.”
The President places his hand on the red encryption image on the scanner’s screen shaped like a hand. He waits as a red line of light swipes back and forth across his hand, encoding and deciphering his handprint.
“Thank you, potus. Access granted,” said B.
Campbell and Brown indentify themselves on the hand scanner too.
“Thank you, Agents Campbell and Brown. Access granted,” said B.
Train One’s door slides open. The agents haul the President inside. The door slides shut. The bullet train takes off down the tracks. The row of tunnel lights blur into one solid stream of light out the window.
“Next stop, Military Platform One. Security access required,” said B over Train One’s PA system. “Mount Windward disembarkation in sixty-minutes.”
Secretary of State Filmore opens Train One’s Oval Office door.
“Harry, thank God,” said Filmore.
He puts his hand into the President’s hand, shaking it vigorously. The President enthusiastically shakes back.
“Where’s Carol and the girls?” asked the President.
“Um, Harry. You’d better sit down,” said Filmore.
“Why? Where’s my family?” asked the President.
The agents and Filmore remain silent.
“You said my family would be here,” said the President to Campbell.
All three men sit silent in the fast moving train.
“Goddamnit, answer me!” shouted the President.
“Harry, they couldn’t get to Carol in time,” said Filmore.
“You left them?” asked the President.
They all remain silent in their compassion for the President.
“That was my family, my family. Do you hear me?” shouted the President, frantically running his hands though his well-groomed hair. “Don’t you ever lie to me again. I am the Commanding Officer of this country. I make the decisions.”
“With all due respect, Mister President, our first line of duty is your survival at all costs, even at the risk of our own lives, if necessary,” said Campbell.
“My God man, do you know what you’ve done to me?” said the President, dropping onto the sofa in Train One’s Oval Office antechamber.
His head falls into his hands, hiding his anguish from the other men. It is a private moment for the President, maybe his last. He gathers some composure, and then lifts his face from his hands.
“What about the Vice President?” asked the President.
Filmore shakes his head hesitantly, slowly.
“The Secretary of Defense?” asked the President.
“Richard is already at Mount Windward. He’s on the White House Bravo Team and assigned to that facility under cog,” said Filmore.
“What about Bill?” asked the President, furrowing his brow.
“I’m very sorry. Your sister and brother-in-law were on the same plane as the Joint Chiefs. We lost them all,” said Filmore. “It’s just you, me and Richard now, Harry. The last report said there were deaths in the tens-of-thousands nationwide, many from the storm and more from a high fever that came about after the storm hit. At that point, we’d lost many cities. There’s been no further above ground communication here in the Dulles Corridor ever since.”
“Military Platform One approaching. Security access required,” said B.
Train One slows down on approach to the platform. A bloody, crazed Army Corpsman’s face hits against the slow moving train’s window. As he loses pace with the train, his bloody hand streaks a squeaky stain across the window.
“Secure the President,” said Campbell to Brown. “I’ve got the Secretary.”
Agent Brown guides the President by his arm, hauling him to the Presidential Suite at the opposite end of Train One. Brown locks the two of them inside, his gun at the ready as he stands guard at the door.
Campbell pushes Filmore into the Oval Office. He locks him inside. Campbell locks the hall door that leads to the Presidential Suite. He places his hand on the red encryption image at the door’s security scanner. The red hand-shaped image immediately turns blue.
“Thank you, Agent Campbell. Access granted,” said B.
The door unlocks, and then slides open. The crazed Corpsman presses on with some new found strength giving him a surge of energy. He bolts toward the open train door. Near the edge of the door, the Corpsman unleashes an onslaught of snapping snarls and teeth. A grisly bloody gurgle erupts from his mouth. The crazed Corpsman has gnarled hands that snatch at Campbell’s feet, scrapping, clawing and latching into his skin with incredible force.
Campbell fires a series of rounds at the Corpsman’s head. The crazed man’s eyes roll back in their sockets. He falls flat backward. Out the window, Campbell watches the Corpsman’s body wrench then vomit blood. The Corpsman lies quiet in the dark death that took him, blood and sweat covering his face. Campbell closes the door.
“Area secure!” shouted Campbell.
Inside the Presidential Suite, Brown turns to the President.
“Wait here, Mister President,” said Brown.
“Tom, be careful,” said the President, tossing a taser gun to him.
Brown exits the suite, hiding the taser in his inside jacket pocket. He heads down the hall with his gun at the ready. He sees the threat has passed with all hallways clear. In the antechamber, the door is closed and Campbell has his back to him. Brown holsters his gun.
“What was that?” asked Brown.
Campbell turns around with splatters of blood streaked across his face. His eyes are dark and irises wide, a blank turmoil in the world around him. A huge gash bleeds profusely at his ankle covering his shoe in blood. Campbell’s face is sweat-beaded.
“Ben, you’d better sit down. You’re bleeding,” said Brown.
Campbell’s eyes narrow, glaring at the hallway door that leads to the President.
“I’ll finish him myself,” said Campbell, through a bloody, gurgling growl.
His face contorts. His hands reach out, stiff-fingered, intent on wrapping them around the President’s neck.
“Not another step, Ben.”
Brown steps in front of him with his gun at the ready.
“Stay out of this, Tom.”
Campbell fights a surge of fever chills. His cheek bursts with a star hemorrhage just beneath the skin. Blood oozes from his eyes. He steps forward, his hands shaking. Brown lunges at him. The two struggle for control of the weapon. Campbell smacks Brown’s gun out of his hands. The gun fires a stray shot. A red alert sounds, sending all doors into an automatic lock down across Train One.
“Auto lock down initiated,” said B.
“Tom! What’s going on?” shouted the President, pounding on the door of his Suite.
Inside the Oval Office, Filmore backs away from the door, nervous energy compelling him to step back. Inside the antechamber, Campbell shoves Brown across the compartment with incredible strength. Brown slams against the bulkhead, losing his breath. Bending over to catch his air, Brown slides the taser out of his jacket pocket. He stands up, firing at Campbell. The taser dart’s prongs attach themselves to Campbell’s skin. The taser shoots off a five-second round of electrical charge that surges through Campbell’s central nervous system. He convulses at a rate of sixty-thousand volts per second, an electrical-muscular disruption that makes Campbell drop to the floor and out cold. The gun falls just out of Campbell’s reach.
Brown relaxes against the bulkhead, taking in a deep breath of relief. He wipes his brow of sweat. Turning his back to Campbell, he bends down to retrieve his gun. A bullet zings just passed his ear, digging deep into the couch beside him. Out of pure reflex, Brown whips around firing at Campbell. The shot drills deep into Campbell’s forehead. Blood splatters out the back of his head against the Oval Office door. On the other side, blood spurts through the door cracks, splattering against Filmore’s face and shirt. He stands frozen still, lost in the panic of blood covering his skin. In the antechamber, Campbell collapses to the floor. Blood oozes out the back of his skull into a pool on the blue and white carpet.
Inside the Oval Office, Filmore is in a panic to get his bloodstained shirt off. He tears at the buttons, ripping off his shirt and undershirt. He wipes his face clean with a clear patch of cloth on his undershirt. In the office closet, he takes out a clean shirt. He dresses, and then packs the bloody clothes in the trash bin.
Brown moves to the security panel at the door. He indentifies at the hand scanner.
“Thank you, Agent Brown. Access granted,” said B.
The door unlocks and then slides open. The outside lights pass by Brown at a blurring rate. He heaves Campbell’s body out of the train. Campbell slaps against the side of the tunnel splattering blood everywhere. His body crumples onto the tracks. Campbell becomes mincemeat under the train’s wheels as they grind against the tracks.
“Mount Windward disembarkation in forty-minutes,” said B. “Security access required.”
Brown wipes his face with his handkerchief. Tiny splatters of blood smudge the silk cloth. He stuffs it into his inside jacket pocket, unaware. Brown pushes the button, watching the train door slide closed.
“Situation all clear, Mister President,” shouted Brown.
He places his hand on the red encryption image on the door’s security scanner. The red hand immediately turns blue. Brown chooses the auto unlock menu choice.
“Thank you, Agent Brown. Auto unlock sequence initiated,” said B.
All interior doors on the train unlock at once.
9
____________________________________________________
Inside the Presidential Suite of Train One, the President sits at his desk. An image of an eye scanner appears on his computer screen. A red beam projects outward. The President places his right eye in line with the beam.
“Thank you, potus. Access granted,” said B.
A web video plays of Secretary of Defense Richard Finley.
“Harry, I hope you get this message. As you can see, Washington Number Four Telecom is fully operation here at Mount Windward, even all the way to Train One, if you can see this Webmail. Bravo Team has the situation room prepared for your arrival. Oh and Harry, the pharmacy has your heart medication ready when you arrive,” said Finley.
The Web video stops. The screen returns to the eye scanner image.
10
____________________________________________________
Gouged with neon blue lights, the narrow city blocks cling to the dark patches between the lengthy spaced lights, shadowy holes of secrecy ripe with deals made by the desperate. Tiered off from Mt. Windward’s City of cog, and deep on the other side of the wall, lie the grimy streets of the blue-collar workers. The brick walled buildings spaced closely together create narrow streets, dark with the lust for deviance. This is the world of insurgence, where Mindbenders and the usual hacks work in the shadows of the Basic Protection Corporation, the Company. This is Lost City.
A grimy fat man with greasy hair plods down one of the more narrow streets, squeezed together by the tall brick buildings on either side of him. He stops at one particularly large brick building, then opens its rusty metal door. The hinges creak from lack of attention in BPC appropriations to Lost City. There was no way out for anyone on this side of the wall, no exit plan. Once signed on to BPC while above ground, that was it. That drab, unkempt city was their life. They are the worker bees, the forgotten favorites serving the sovereign, the City of cog, the elite city that consumes most of Mt. Windward’s resources. The fat man walks through the rusty metal door.
Inside the building, dripping water sieves through a hole in a busted pipe above his head. The fat man enters the metal detector, guarded by a cop, a round-bellied cop of the slippery kind that can be paid-off, if necessary. Sometimes a new microprocessor or neural implant was all it took. The fat man walks into the detector. A triangular set of red lasers burst out of the metal detector’s sides, scanning the fat man head to toe for gear not permitted by bpc. The red lasers turn blue, collapsing back into the detector’s bowels.