Ark (10 page)

“You mean in Cortez? Where, then?”

“Mesa Verde. In the Cliff Palace.”

Zane was amazed. He had seen the Cliff Palace, his father had once taken him there, dwellings built by ancestors of the Pueblo people and pecked into the rock. Now that precious, ancient place had become home to this little ragged little girl.

“There are lots of us,” she said, matter-of-fact. “We have TV and stuff.” She approached Kelly, holding out a precious bit of paper and a sliver of coal to write with. “Can I have your autograph?”

19

T
he question was, what to do with their liberty. They spent a few minutes consulting search engines. Then they settled on making for the Hawkins Preserve, a couple of kilometers away. This hundred-acre cultural park had been preserved by the city fathers, who had decided early that even the children of refugees needed a place to run and play ball.

So off they set, led by Kelly and Wilson, following interactive maps that took them south on North Market Street and then right onto West Main, then left down South Chestnut. Most of the Candidates stared into their screens rather than at the town around them, devouring news and mail, gossip and speculation.

Venus Jenning said, “They’re still studying that detonation out in the Oort Cloud . . .” One deep space telescope, intent on exoplanet-spotting, had fortuitously caught a flash out in the halo of comet cores that drifted far beyond the orbits of the planets, cold and lightless. Later a handful of probes had reported anomalous traces of high-energy radiation and particles.

Zane asked, “So are they sure it’s a nuclear explosion yet?”

Venus shrugged. “That’s still the best fit to the data. Somebody lobbed a nuke out there and set it off, or a lot of nukes. But who? The Chinese, the Russians—”

“Could be the Americans,” Wilson put in dryly. “Our whole project is a secret.”

“OK,” Venus said. “But why? The whole world’s drowning. Why blow up a long-orbit comet? What’s the point?”

None of them had an answer.

“Shit,” Mike Wetherbee said. “The age-profile selection committee has handed down its recommendations.” This was a lot more interesting, something that would affect them all. They crowded around him to see, and started downloading data to their own screens.

The social engineers had been devising ways to give the nominal crew, the target number now set at eighty, the best chance of social stability while maximizing genetic diversity. For instance, it had long been decided that families would not be taken, as they represented too many copies of the same genes. There would be no parents on the Ark, no siblings; each crew member, as genetically distinct from the rest as possible, would walk onto the Ark effectively alone.

But how
old
should the crew be? A uniform distribution of ages, matching the human world they had left behind, seemed the obvious choice. But such a distribution would leave any one individual with only a small number of possible mates of her own age. So, the social engineers had decided now, to maximize an individual’s mating opportunities and to ensure the genetic diversity of the group as a whole, you had to have
everybody
on board about the same age: everybody would belong to a single “age-set echelon,” in the demographers’ term. The idea would be to wait for several years before having children—maybe even until after landfall on the destination planet—and then to produce another large cadre of children, all around the same age, who would follow their parents up the age graphs with a lag of twenty or twenty-five or thirty years. And, when they in turn came of age, they too would find they had a large choice of potential partners to choose from.

So that was the scheme. As it sank in, many of the Candidates looked troubled—Susan Frasier, for instance, who often spoke of her nephews and nieces, and her desire to have kids of her own, sooner rather than later.

Holle looked appalled. “My God, what a trip that’s going to be. Just
us
, no grown-ups, no kids, going on and on and on.”

Wilson grinned. “Can’t face it, Mouse? You want to wash out, and stay here to teach your babies to swim?”

“Don’t be an arsehole,” Holle said, her long Scottish vowels rich.

Zane kept his own doubts to himself. Personally he couldn’t care less about having kids or not, though if he made it into the crew it would be his duty to pass on his genes. But he was concerned about the age restriction. He was among the youngest in the group. What if he washed out just because his birthday lay just on the wrong side on some arbitrarily decreed limit? It was something else to fret about, another pointless, uncontrollable worry.

Something flickered in the corner of his eye.

He turned. It had been off to the north, like a distant lightning strike, or the reflection of the sun on a tilting window. Some of the others hesitated, distracted by the flash, or by reflections in the screens of their phones.

Now the phones started ringing again. Zane dug his own phone out of his pocket.

Holle covered his hand with hers. She had her own phone clamped to the side of her head. “Wait, Zane. Don’t switch it on.”

That eternal fear chewed deep into his belly. “What’s wrong?”

“Harry Smith is coming. He’ll tell you.” She glanced around, and pushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “We need to get you back to the Center. Don, help me.”

“Sure.” Don stepped up, brisk and competent.

With Don on one side, Holle the other, both of them taller than he was, Zane found himself being marched along the street. The others watched him sympathetically. Everybody seemed to know what was happening except him. Even the heavy-handed care of Holle and Don felt like a humiliation. It was as if his worst fears were coming true. “What’s going on? Has something happened to my father?”

“Wait for Harry,” Holle said. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

And then he heard a rumble, as of distant thunder, coming from the north.

20

B
ack at the Cultural Center, Harry Smith was waiting, dressed in black sweater and slacks. He was over forty now, a big man, strong and physically direct, and his expression was grave. As soon as Zane walked in Harry put his arm around him, and led him away from the others to an office.

It took a long time of working the TV, computers and phones for Harry and Zane to unravel the news coming out of Denver, and for the reality of it to sink into Zane’s bewildered consciousness. Through it all he kept remembering one glib phrase:
one gram of antimatter can give you a Hiroshima . . .

The accident had happened at his father’s collider facility at Byers. There had been a failure of an antiproton trap, a magnetic bottle. The amount of antimatter released had been a lot less than a Hiroshima gram. But it had been enough to devastate city blocks, to wreck the collider facility, to kill a dozen workers and injure a score more. The explosion had been the flash Zane had glimpsed; he had even heard it, the sound following the light flash through the air after long seconds.

It took the rescue workers minutes to find Jerzy Glemp, who had been working in the facility at the time. Sitting with Harry in the Cultural Center, following the operation on computer screens, far away, too far, Zane watched the paramedics ship his father’s broken body to the hospital. Then they began the long wait for news of his condition.

After two hours Zane’s strength was gone, and with it his self-control. Harry put his arm around him again. Zane resisted, but Harry was firm, and it was a comfort to rest his face against the black warmth of Harry’s sweater.

Then he let Harry lead him to the infirmary the students had improvized, a small two-bed unit in another office, a place with more privacy than the big communal dormitories—a place where, just for tonight, Zane could weep, sleep, be alone. Harry offered him food, warm drinks. He ate only a little. When he took off his shoes and lay down on the cot he found his eyes closing, his thoughts scrambling. It was only around seven p.m. It made no sense for him to be sleepy, yet he was. He curled up, his legs against his chest. He was aware of Harry pulling a thin blanket over him, drawing the shade and turning out the light.

He dreamed, a dream in which he was very young, his father a figure that towered over him. He was in his room in the Academy building, the old Denver museum, where he felt as safe as he ever had anywhere in the world, safe with his books and toys and computers and his phone, waiting for that precious hour when his father came back from work and might play with him, if his mood wasn’t for punishment.

He didn’t know how long he slept. When he woke the room was dark.

There was somebody else on the bed, lying on top of the blanket, legs spooned behind his, a heavy, comforting arm across his hip. Somebody heavy. “Dad?” Of course it wasn’t Dad.

“It’s all right,” Harry whispered. “I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. I care for you, you know that.” His breath was warm on the back of Zane’s neck as he spoke.

“My father—”

“They’ll have more news in the morning.” Harry’s arm moved up over Zane’s hip, and his hand pressed Zane’s chest, so Zane’s body was pulled back against him.

Zane felt as if he couldn’t move, as if he was trapped in a dream of immobility.

Harry whispered, “You poor kid.”

“Why am I a poor kid?”

“Well, so much is up in the air now. Your father may not recover. Even if he does there is bound to be a rescoping of the project. People died, Zane.” His hand moved, rubbing over Zane’s chest and stomach through his shirt, tender but strong. “You can’t be sure there will be a place for you after this. None of us can know that, not yet.”

That black fear bubbled. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

Harry hushed him. “I know, I know.” He pulled at the blanket so they both lay beneath it. Now Zane could feel the length of his body through his clothes, as they lay in the bed. Harry shifted and he passed his left arm under Zane’s body, and worked that hand under his shirt. His fingers roamed over Zane’s chest and belly, pushing down toward his groin. “Hush. Don’t worry.”

“But my father—”

“He fights with Edward Kenzie, you know. I don’t think Edward ever forgave Jerzy for the way he helped the President sequester the project. What Edward wants is for Kelly to be on that ship. Now it’s out of his hands. Oh, he’s angry at your father for that. Angry at
you.
” All this was whispered in Zane’s ear. Harry’s mouth was so close now that Zane could feel his stubble on the back of his neck, a soft scraping. Still he talked, steadily. “And then there’s this strange crew demography they’re planning, everybody the same age. As soon as I saw that I thought of you, Zane. You’re an outlier in the age distribution. There’s so much stacked against you, isn’t there?” The words were harder now, the breath hot and percussive against Zane’s neck.

With his right arm Harry reached over and grabbed Zane’s hand in his own. Zane resisted, just for a second, but Harry was so much stronger, and he pulled the hand behind Zane’s back, between their bodies.

“But I’m here.” He pushed Zane’s hand down. Zane felt a tangle of hair, and an erection, hot, the skin smooth. Harry made him close his fingers around the shaft, and Harry started thrusting, subtly. “I’ll defend you,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. Without me—without me—the others will get rid of you. But I’m here, and I’ll always make sure . . .” It didn’t last long. The words broke up in gasps and a shudder.

Harry released his hand, and Zane pulled his arm back. There was semen on his palm, hot and stringy. He wiped it on the sheet.

For long minutes Harry just lay there, his left arm still under Zane’s body. Then he withdrew his arm and kissed Zane on the neck. “Sleep now.” Zane felt the weight shift as Harry got out of the bed, and then a fumbling as he adjusted his clothes before walking out through the door.

Zane felt behind himself in the dark. The sheets where Harry had lain were a sticky mess, as were the back of Zane’s own pants. Zane got out of the bed, and stripped off his pants and threw them to the floor. Then he pulled the blanket off the other bed, wrapped it around his shoulders, and huddled down in the corner of the room, facing the door. He sat there, sleepless until morning.

21

T
hree days after the accident Gordon James Alonzo hosted a preliminary inquiry in the Capitol building in Denver. To her surprise Holle was summoned, along with Kelly Kenzie and Mel Belbruno.

The walk across town, escorted by Don Meisel, was grim. The city was now surrounded by rings of defensive perimeters, and internally was sliced up into control zones, with barriers between Auraria and LoDo and the Central Business District. The civic center was like a fortress. Don was alert, wary. There was a fear that the Candidates could be a target.

Holle thought the mood was changing, generally. The rising flood had now passed the altitude of the lowest point in Colorado, a place called Holly in the valley of the Arkansas, a symbolic moment. The water was coming, and the inward flow of refugees was intensifying. Invesco Field and Coors Field and the Pepsi Center had become not so much processing as detention centers. A potato blight had drastically worsened the food situation. And now the Byers incident had raised tensions. As the flood went on and on, relentlessly rising, the waters seemed to be washing away any hope, any optimism that this vast convulsion would ever come to an end. For the first time the idea that this really was an end of the world was being taken seriously, absorbed imaginatively. That was what lay under all the stress, she thought. And that tension crackled across the dingy downtown.

Magnus Howe met them at the State Capitol. Once they were through the security barriers he escorted them to a meeting room, and showed where they should take their places at a big conference table.

Holle looked around warily. Gordo himself sat at the head of the table. Behind him was a big interactive whiteboard, and flipcharts summarizing the status of the project’s various aspects. Screens and touch pads were set into the surface of the table before the attendees.

Down one side of the table sat senior air force, NASA and government people. The big names of the old civilian control of the project were lined up along the other side, including Holle’s and Kelly’s fathers. Liu Zheng and more of the technical team sat looking impatient, abashed. Some of the attendees had teams of assistants sitting behind their seniors, backs against the walls, so the room was filling up.

Holle’s father caught her eye and smiled. She hadn’t spoken to him face to face since the accident. Everybody had been running around too much, scrambling to cope with the accident’s aftermath, preparing for reviews like this, and thinking about options for recovery and rescoping. But Holle knew that it was at Patrick’s and Edward’s insistence that the Candidates had representatives here at this crucial meeting. They might not be able to contribute much, but in a sense the whole exercise was
for
them; they ought to be here. “Even if,” as Kelly had said gloomily, “it’s only to hear the whole show is going to be canceled.”

The air was already hot. The aircon was juddery, even here in the Capitol building. Everything was breaking down. Water jugs stood full on the table, glinting with dew, and Holle longed to pour herself a glass, but she didn’t dare. As the attendees filed in there was silence save for a scraping of chairs, an occasional cough. Everybody seemed so
old
, save the Candidates and one or two aides.

At last only one space remained at the table, and there was a tense pause. Then the doors opened, held back by an air force orderly, and a paramedic in a bright orange coverall pushed in a wheelchair. Jerzy Glemp sat in the chair, his whole body swathed in a green blanket. A patch covered one eye.

As he was shoved into position at the table, Patrick leaned forward. “Jerzy, you shouldn’t be here. The doctors insisted you stay in the hospital.”

“Fooey. I wouldn’t—” Jerzy broke up in coughing that jerked his body, and Holle could see the pain every movement caused him. The paramedic hovered with an oxygen mask, but Jerzy shook his head minutely, and she backed away. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Jerzy looked around, his one good eye glinting. He found Holle. “How’s my boy? They haven’t let him see me.”

“We thought that was for the best,” Magnus Howe said.

Jerzy snapped, “I asked Miss Groundwater.”

“Zane’s fine,” Holle said. “But—” She thought of Zane as he’d been in the hours since the accident, Zane who’d hardly spoken a word to anybody, Zane who seemed to cling to corners, to shadows, Zane pushed in on himself. She said at last, “He’s working. His work is good.”

“Ah. That’s all one can ask, isn’t it? Tell him I’ll see him as soon as I can.”

“I will.”

“So we’re all here,” said Gordo Alonzo, rapping on the tabletop with a fat, old-fashioned fountain pen. Holle wondered vaguely where he got the ink. “I have to face President Vasquez herself later today, and make my recommendations about the future of Project Nimrod. I suspect that in my heart of hearts I’d rather just can this bull session right now, and go do something more productive. Because, you know why? I think I already know what recommendation I’m going to make, no matter what is said today. That we pull the plug on this whole fucking shambles.”

“You don’t have the authority for that,” Patrick said heatedly. “In terms of the command and reporting structure—”

Gordo laughed. “Don’t you guys get it? Command structure! At this minute that’s me, pal. When your magnetic bottle went pop it took everything else down with it.”

Kenzie said, “There’s also the issue of hope, Colonel Alonzo. Of purpose. What would you have the administration do instead? Give the Homeland goons bigger sticks with which to beat back the refugees?”

Gordo said, “The sea is going to cover over us all in a few years or less whatever we do, buddy. I’m not sure if to give false hope is a worse sin than to give no hope at all.” He turned to his charts and boards. “Let’s get back to basics. Tell me how you think you’re going to fly this dumbass mission in the year 2040. Which, let me remind you, is just four years from now.” He stared around. “Who wants to lead off?”

Edward Kenzie spoke up again. “The basics are simple. We need to assemble a starship, with a crew of no less than eighty, in orbit.” He got up stiffly. With age he was getting ever stouter, and according to Kelly he suffered badly from gout. He went to a flipchart and turned pages until he came to a construction schedule. “From scratch, we built a space launch center at Gunnison, Colorado.” He tapped the whiteboard, and up came an image: a single launch gantry, blockhouses around it, mountains in the distance. He sat heavily in an empty seat by the board. “Intended to fly Ares I and V booster stacks, the launch technology designed to take humans back to the moon and to Mars, which of course never happened. We had to procure transport facilities. Fuel manufacture and storage—”

“Yadda yadda,” said Gordo. “You flew one bird out of there so far, didn’t you? One stick, one Ares I, unmanned, to orbit. How many launches you think you’re going to need to assemble your ‘starship in orbit’?”

Liu Zheng answered that. He tapped a touch pad, and the whiteboard lit up with graphics. “Fifteen launches, sir. Five of the heavy-lift Saturn V-class Ares V, unmanned, and ten of the human-rated Ares I sticks, each carrying eight or ten crew. The plan so far has been to reinhabit the abandoned ISS, the space station, and use that as a construction shack to—”

Gordo waved him silent. “Your deadline for completion of on-orbit assembly is still 2040. Right? You’ve managed one launch in the last four years. You imagine you’ll get through
fifteen
in the next four. Fifteen launches, and that’s without tests and failures, and you haven’t flown a single Ares V out of Gunnison yet.
And
you’re going to reoccupy the ISS, a station which has been mothballed for sixteen years. My God, at NASA we’d have looked at that alone as an activity that would likely take teams of trained astronauts years. It’s down here as a milestone on your chart—no resources assigned to it—nothing. Who’s gonna do that, the tooth fairy?”

Patrick steepled his fingers. “We’re at a point at which our schedule is expected to accelerate, as significant mission milestones—”

“Bull,” said Gordo simply. “This ain’t the first fucked-up project I’ve been involved with, Mr. Groundwater, and I recognize all the symptoms, and I heard it all before. We screwed up, we missed all the milestones so far, but the future is bright! And you’ll notice I haven’t yet come to the issue of antimatter production. Remind me. How much antimatter are you going to need for your starship?”

Liu Zheng said, “We believe half a kilogram. That may not sound much but such is the energy density of the—”

“Yes, yes. Let’s take a look at your production facility.” Gordo tapped the chart, and brought up live images of the ongoing disaster in the Denver suburb of Byers. The accelerator site was a crater from which protruded odd bits of wall or the skeletal tangle of reinforcing steel cables. Smoke snaked up from a dozen fires, and rescue workers crawled in their bright orange gear through mounds of rubble. In one place a refugee camp had been destroyed, canvas tents blown flat. On the fringe of the disaster zone, ragged protesters faced a line of cops and soldiers and Homeland goons.

“There’s your antimatter factory,” Gordo said. “A hole in the ground, which it would have been a lot cheaper to produce by dropping a fucking nuke. Let me tell you something. No matter what else comes out of this disaster, I don’t believe it’s going to be acceptable to President Vasquez to go back to manufacturing this stuff in the middle of Colorado.”

“Then we’re screwed,” said Jerzy Glemp, his damaged body twitching under his blanket. “Screwed. The whole point of the design is the warp bubble, Colonel. We can’t fly without that. And we can’t create a warp bubble without antimatter.”

“I’m aware of that,” Gordo snapped. “And I’m also aware of the short-cuts you took to get your precious atom-smasher up and running, Dr. Glemp.”

Glemp grew more agitated. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Like hell you don’t. I’ve seen the documentation trail. The asscoverers in your organization kept a record of every time you leaned on them to cut a test, disregard a safety precaution, push a design without a backup. If this was a court of law I’d have a case to prosecute you.”

“It is rich for you to berate us for schedule delays then accuse me of negligence for my attempts to meet targets.”

“It was always out of your reach,”
Gordo said. “This dream of star flight. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Dr. Glemp? You always saw that more clearly than these others, and yet you pushed ahead anyhow, as far and as fast as you could, regardless of the risks—”

Edward Kenzie stood up again. “Colonel, it’s four years since President Vasquez made her Nimrod speech, her Kennedy moment.
You
were involved then, and you’re sure as hell involved now. But none of the problems we’ve faced since have anything to do with you—is that what you’re telling us?” He pointed a fat finger at Gordo. “Is that the game, Colonel? Blame?”

Jerzy struggled. “I want to say—oh, let me speak—” His voice broke up into a coughing jag that left him shaking.

Edward tried to speak again, and Patrick, and others joined in, and Gordo tried to shout them down. It was a room full of old people shouting at each other.

Holle tuned out. She felt stunned, emptied out. She hadn’t suspected that the project was so far behind schedule, or that such risks were being taken to accelerate it.
And all for me.

Something in Gordo’s continual emphasis on the dates was working in her head. To her the flood had always been remote, something that happened to other people. Now she felt as if the world was closing in on her. In four years, when the flood waters would be lapping in this very room, she would be just twenty-one. Suddenly it wasn’t some abstracted future version of herself who would have to cope with all this. It was
her
who would have to face the future, and if the Ark failed it was
her
who would have to deal with the ultimate nightmare, the washing away of the very ground under her feet. A deep fear bit into her belly, like a fear of falling. She glanced across at her father, wishing she was nearer to him.

Kelly was watching her. “Hey. It’s OK. We’ll get through this. We’ll fly yet.” And she turned back to listen to the arguments, serene, confident, strong. Just for a moment, rivalries put aside, Holle could see why she was so popular with the public who watched the Candidates’ progress, their daily lives.

Gordo folded his arms, and silenced the room. “Then this is the crux. The way you have been progressing this project has led to delay and ultimately disaster. There’s no way I’m going to endorse the kind of launch schedule you put together here. It was always a fucking joke, and it’s certainly unachievable now. Unless you can come up with some new way forward,
now,
then the Ark don’t fly. So who speaks next?”

“Holle Groundwater,” said Liu Zheng.