Authors: David Sakmyster
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban
Chapter 7
Back at Solstice headquarters, on the sixth sublevel, in another mock grove with wall-screens that gave the appearance of being on a clifftop overlooking a twilight scene of forests and rolling hills, Hespera Milne made a furtive call. After assuring the room was empty, and the standing stones concealed no one, she walked through the circle, around an altar masquerading as a conference table, and leaned against one of the wall screens. Gazing out through the tiny pixels, seeing through the illusion of nature, she placed the phone to her ear.
“It’s secure,” she said. “And I have confirmation, Solomon acted on the plan. Can you confirm? Is Palavar—?”
The youthful male voice on the other line was succinct. “Not confirmed yet, but he hasn’t returned to Hollywood, his GPS stopped sending its message two hours ago, and he can’t be reached. Assumption is that he is lost, as are the others on the council.”
“Dear Mother Earth.” Hespera bit her lip. About to speak, she paused, thinking she heard a slight creak behind her. She turned, but perceived nothing there, just shadows from the tall smooth stones.
“What’s my next move?” She asked. “I don’t know how long I can hold out, pretending to be the bimbo HR manager.”
“A little longer, then we’ll pull you out. We need to find out what Solomon’s plans are. The Council failed, but it’s clear his plan has evolved and is in its final phases. If we are to act, we must have full clarity.”
“But can we even act? Palavar, Morris, Heidi … without them, our numbers are too few, and word is that many will defect.”
“That can’t be helped. But numbers aren’t everything. I hear also that there may be a new player, someone with power equal to his, someone deserving of his own seat perhaps, on the council.”
Hespera shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I don’t even think the one you’re speaking of knows he has such power.”
“Then he’d better learn. Fast. We’ll talk again soon. In the meantime, remain vigilant.”
Hespera terminated the call, then wiped the call history. Satisfied, she backed away until the view solidified from the countless pixels into a seamless view of natural perfection.
She longed to step through the wall, into that field, strolling down the path to the verdant glen, to pull off her boots and wade into the clear stream, to feel the power of the earth in the wind, the water, the sunlight, and the insects and—
A hand clamped around her mouth. Big, powerful, just as another clenched her wrist.
She made a muffled cry and instinctively kicked back at her attacker’s shin while simultaneously leaning forward and then thrusting her head back. She heard a grunt and a satisfying crunch that may have broken his nose, then twisted free. Dropped her phone and crouched, ready to run.
But her assailant wasn’t alone. Victor, holding his bloodied face, had a dozen hooded acolytes at his back, guarding the way to the door.
“Shit,” Hespera said. “You brought the cavalry.”
“Submit, traitor.”
He reached for her, but she squirmed away.
One chance
, she thought, diving behind a stone. She tucked into a ball, closed her eyes and willed a change. She could do this, even under pressure. She had been trained by Palavar himself, years ago. Ready for such a mission. Her cover was blown, but she could still escape intact. It wouldn’t be easy, but … there …
The pain rippled through her muscles. Her clothes ripped apart in a burst of fur and expanding flesh. Her snout lengthened, ears popped and fangs grew, and before Victor could close the gap, she was in full wolf form, darting around and between the stones. She leapt on the table and then, snarling tore through a gap in the acolytes, to the door and out—
—where two more druids were waiting, with electrified staves that struck at once in her breastbone and hindquarters.
The shock rippled through her marrow and nearly shattered her incisors. The pain, too intense, forced the change and in moments, she was in human form again. Naked, panting and dazed on the cold floor.
But not for long. Moments later, a multitude of hands lifted her up and brought her back into the room, to the mock-grove and in the middle of the stones.
To the altar.
She turned her head, looking through the gap in the grey robes, past Victor’s hulking form, barely registering the curved knife in his grasp.
The forest beckoned, the sunlight flickering in golden shafts across the fields and the swaying sycamores.
A smile may have formed on her lips, but she couldn’t tell. Not with the pain of multiple blades piercing her flesh at once. Carving and slicing.
Dimly, the sounds of chanting and the offering of sacrificial blood drowned out the running brook and the chirping birds, and even the dwindling sound of her own screams.…
Chapter 8
Gabriel was waiting alone in the rear seat of the limo to pick up Mason from JFK, and it was another surprise that Mason calmly took in. Clouds were thick overhead, and light flakes fell over his head as a bitter wind cut through his clothes and the too-thin sport coat. He slid inside quickly, taking the seat opposite from his son.
He met the smile, and as the limo lurched into traffic, Mason observed, “So you’ve been spending excessive time in a tanning booth?”
Laughing, Gabriel reached for a flask inside his briefcase. Raised it to his father and took a swig. “Just a little well-earned R&R. Which, by the way, doesn’t officially end until noon today, so I’m having another sip.”
“Suit yourself.” Mason crossed his legs. “Go anywhere nice?”
Gabriel only smiled. “Tropical cruise. You going to ask who with?”
“I wasn’t. I don’t really know any of your friends, unless it’s that pretty coworker. Annabelle?”
Gabriel raised the flask in another toast. “Give the man a cigar.”
“Are you drunk now?”
Shrugging, Gabriel looked out the window, then up. “How about this weather! The Big Apple’s not really used to this white stuff.” He winked at Mason. “Hope it doesn’t get worse and start piling up. What’s your prediction, weatherman?”
Mason looked away, toward the small TV built into the side door so they could both see. Weather dominated the news, from the flash flooding in Africa to the aftermath of the Jamaican tsunami to the hurricane still slamming the East Coast and the cleanup and efforts to find the missing in Minneapolis.
Gabriel saw his look. “Mother Nature’s being a bitch, huh Dad?” He tapped his flask to the screen. “Wonder how many billions of dollars she just wiped out in a single night around the world? And she’s not done yet. How many millionaires are now without their second or third homes? How many snobby tourists too stingy to help out the impoverished locals are now sifting through the debris looking for their friends’ bloated carcasses?”
“Gabriel! Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”
“Me?” He leaned back. “Not a damn thing. Life is great. My dad and my twin sister are working with me, all together again in one big happy family.” He grinned wide. “And the world is all right, after all. Remember how I was so consumed by that environmental nuttiness? How as a kid I’d even go after people in the park who didn’t pick up their trash, and the protests and the letters and hell, the outright vandalism—half of which you never found out about?”
Mason looked at him sideways. “Yeah, and you’re telling me that’s changed?”
“Of course, I know now, Solomon has showed me the truth. I was overzealous, concerned when I didn’t have to be.”
“How so?”
“How so?” He laughed, swigging again. “Why, look around, Dad. It’s a blizzard in New York City. Tornadoes are ripping through Minnesota and, outside of hurricane season, the Carolinas are getting whacked upside the head. Tsunamis, flash floods in Africa for God’s sakes!”
“And your conclusion is that nature—the earth—is striking back?”
“Hell yeah! In ways no environmental activists could ever dream. Legislation? Protests, lobbyists? The EPA?” He cleared his throat and Mason feared he might actually spit on the floor in disgust. “All bullshit compared to what the earth itself can do. She protects herself. And yeah, she’s had enough. Global warming? Yeah we’re behind a good chunk of it, but Mother Nature’s just kicked off another heat cycle, turning up the thermostat to cook us out. Starve us, hit us with drought and extreme weather, melt the ice caps and drown us like an unwanted colony of ants.”
A wild light shone in his eyes. “She’s got so many, many sweet-ass weapons in her arsenal.”
Mason shuddered as another wind gust rocked the limo and the flakes turned to a near whiteout. He glanced over his shoulder, through the barrier, hoping the driver knew how to handle these conditions.
“So Gabriel, you’d be happy when? If ten percent of the population gets wiped out?” He met his son’s eyes, which only flared even more. “Or is it just the top two percent you care about harming?”
“Oh they can go for sure, but no. Two percent or ten percent, it’s not enough. Malthusian’s theory. We’re in an unsustainable cycle. I blame the damn geneticists and doctors for curing all the big diseases that used to keep our population in check. 370 million people on the planet in 1350 after the Black Death, all with an average lifespan only in the late twenties. Four billion by 1950. Eight billion today, and we’re damn near living till ninety years old. We’re on track for 10 billion by 2050 if not sooner.”
“I’ve heard all the arguments. Unsustainability, natural resources depleted, not enough food, but those theories and Dan Brown scenarios all miss the point.”
“Which is?”
“That humanity’s greatest asset is its ability to adapt.”
“Bullshit.”
“We’re not dinosaurs or any of the millions of other species that went extinct because the temperature changed or one food source ran out. We have technology, we have brilliant minds that create the next wonder drug, vaccine or super crop. We invent, we build. Skyscrapers to house people vertically. Robots to enhance our lives, new methods of conservation and recycling and …”
“As I said before, it’s bullshit. And it’s just arrogance to think otherwise.”
“No, it’s not. You’re just incredibly cynical. Not sure where I went wrong with you, but the answer isn’t to wish for genocide or the end of civilization. You’ve been on this planet less than twenty-five years and in that time you think you know all the answers to how the world can be saved?”
Gabriel chuckled. “But that’s it, Dad. What I’m telling you. It doesn’t need saving. It can do just fine on its own.”
“Then aren’t you and your boss at cross-purposes? He seems to want to save people. To set up this early warning technology. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To convince the world of just what I’ve been talking about—humanity’s ability to adapt. To overcome and predict. To sidestep nature’s wrath, to protect ourselves and go on living, multiplying and growing—and consuming.”
Shaking his head, Gabriel took another sip. “Oh, you’re just so smart, aren’t you? First day on the job, and you think you know everything.”
“Then tell me, son.” Mason leaned in. “What don’t I know? Because damn it, nothing’s adding up. I was told to study up on the technology in advance of my talk, and all they downloaded to my tablet was a two page patent application for barometric algorithmic sensors, something high tech but far from revolutionary. Oh, and some abstract that spouted various benefits from a few days’ advance warning on weather changes.”
Gabriel’s laughter died as he took one last swig and covered the flask.
Mason pointed. “Do you have anything else in your case there for me? Because I don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Oh just be yourself. Wing it like you’re so good at.”
Mason opened his mouth, wanting to get this conversation back on track. He felt he was almost at the point of having Gabriel give something away. In his condition, it wouldn’t be hard to find out if he was hiding something. Maybe he could pry into what Solstice was really doing, to fill in some of the gaps.
But just then he felt it, a sudden gust, a blast of wind, sliding of the tires, veering to the left, and great crunching of metal on metal.
“Gabriel, hold on—”
And then they were fishtailing, and through the side windows he saw the headlights of an onrushing SUV barreling towards them through the snow.
Chapter 9
Outside the UN General Assembly Hall, Solomon finished with a call, then turned off the phone.
“Everything all right, sir?” asked a thin security agent by his side, preparing to escort him within.
“All going according to plan,” Solomon said with a smile, straightening his pressed silk suit. “Just a little hold up on the expressway. Looks like I’ll be going this alone.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Sure I will, too.”
The doors, flanked by huge potted plants that seemed to sway toward his approach, opened and he followed the agent into the immense hall. Inside, he paused a moment and soaked in the thrill of entering new territory, one where the eyes of the world—and every member government—would be on him. He smiled and flexed his hands, feeling the warmth, gathering the moisture, what little there was in this dry re-circulated air. He strode down the inclining aisle, past row upon row, surveying the eighteen-hundred seats, less than half full with delegates on their headsets, reading documents, scanning headlines or just chatting with their neighbors quietly while they waited.
He strode toward the upper dais, keeping his eye on the UN Emblem: the map of the world as seen from above the North Pole, flanked by olive branches. In his periphery, he noted the two great abstract murals painted on either wall, donations from French artist Fernand Leger. As he approached, the giant LCD screens adjacent to the UN emblem switched over to the presentation he had emailed the secretary earlier.
Smiling at seeing the Solstice logo imposed over another map of the world, entwined with a mistletoe branch twisting up from the ground, it posed a looming and powerful image. He made a point to stare at it as if it were a cross and he was about to genuflect before he took the world stage.
He waited for the Secretariat to introduce him and call the session to order, and then he graciously took the podium. Looking out over the faces of the delegations, seeing the yawns and the glassy eyes, the bored stares or the distracted murmurings, he could barely control his disdain and he had to remind himself of the larger purpose. The one shot he was about to fire that would be way over the heads of these nobodies. The one that would be heard, and acted upon, by the right people at the right time.
And that time was at hand. He got their attention—not when the presentation began, with all its power and muster, with its graphic imagery and templates and tables of weather-related loss of life, with disturbing video and images, of floating carcasses, frozen women and children, malnourished villages, tornado-wracked cities and tsunami-battered resorts—but he got their focus by bringing home a more personal issue.
The guest speaker, one Mason Grier—who had intended to be here at his side … a well-respected and award-winning meteorologist who had just joined the Solstice team—was himself in a terrible accident on the way here, due to the weather. A freak blizzard in New York? Sure there would be jokes about Global Warming and how the alarmists are just trying to scare up concessions and force guilt upon advanced countries when the evidence is no longer showing a scientific correlation, and in fact most people were suffering extreme cold and digging out from mounds of snow when previous winters had been much milder. Solomon covered that deftly with a series of graphs and data backing up the climate models showing that heating the atmosphere unevenly actually led to severe weather swings and unpredictable convection patterns resulting in exactly the sort of situations they were seeing today.
“My own lead representative lies in the hospital at this very moment, a victim of this kind of unpredictable and violent weather we are seeing across the globe.” Solomon looked at them all, finally seeing their attention on him, the gravity of events taking hold because of its focus on a personal, single individual level. Mason had unwittingly played his first role perfectly according to Solomon’s script.
“The truth of the matter is that my firm has patented technology that today, here before you all, I offer to share with the world. And only through this esteemed body of representatives, can I make clear the potential it has to dramatically improve forecasting, to save lives, to safeguard crops and stave off mass starvation and disease.”
That got their attention. Solomon went on to show a test case, a sudden tornado ripping through a small suburb in South Dakota, and how the town had evacuated the suburbs and boarded up stores and consequently had no loss of life or livestock, and only minimal structural damage.
“This works,” Solomon insisted. “On a small scale and, with your support and the assistance of members contributing resources, it can and will work on a global scale.”
It wasn’t the end of the presentation, but the questions started coming, as he knew they would. “What resources do you mean?” asked the representative from Belarus, and Solomon couldn’t miss the distrust in his voice.
“Yes,” chimed in the delegate from Peru. “We’ve heard this sort of thing before, an apparently altruistic offer wrapped up in concessions of a myriad of hidden fees and regulations, all designed to further impede our sovereignty, with ultimately nothing substantial for us to gain.”
“This technology,” scoffed the Iraqi counsel, “seems like it could be quite dangerous, in the wrong hands.”
Solomon raised his own hands, urging calm. “All valid concerns, but first let me assure you, this is why I am here before you now. There is no single country, no world power behind this science. I insist its capabilities be shared by all, much like a new vaccine or water treatment process. What benefits one country, benefits all. Every country can see that. I can show you further data supporting how, like in the Butterfly Effect theory, environmental disasters in one corner of the world impact us all—through the global economy, commodity prices, impact on oil production and shipping, not to mention humanitarian aid on a massive scale. Imagine what forewarning of such disasters could do to economic confidence, to recovery plans and new developments.”
He let that sink in. “And as to your question, sir, about resources. All we require is a sharing of information.” He licked his lips. “Information only. This technology, you see, is only as good as the data feeding it. Data in this case, from each country’s weather centers. Access only is what we require. Access to the WMO’s data centers.”
“But,” insisted the Chinese delegate, translated on the screens behind Solomon, “why would we do this? Everything you suggest, we already have through the WMO. Unless I am mistaken, we currently share data collection among the member countries. We have …” he checked his figures and Solomon tapped his fingers, waiting for the inevitable flood of data, “… 10,000 land stations, 3,000 aircraft, 1,000 upper air stations and 1,000 ships, all working with 188 National weather centers and 50 regional centers … 50 operational satellites …”
“Yes,” Solomon said. “Exactly what I’m asking for. You don’t need to rebuild the wheel here. Only make it a better mousetrap. You all are doing a marvelous job. Through the WMO, you have made vast improvements, and we all know the statistics. Improvements so that a five day forecast now is as good as a two-day counterpart twenty years ago. But I’m telling you with absolute certainty that I can improve even further upon that. Solstice can give you a two-week forecast as good as that five-day one. As good as a one-day forecast.”
“And all we have to do is open up our computers for you?”
Would be far easier than having me have to try to hack into them,
Solomon thought, teeth clenched.
“Just the data access. Let us know what you know, and have access to the real time data from all those sources.…”
Especially the satellites.
“And then put our technology to the test. Give us a month and run comparisons. Your current system versus ours.”
Let that sit with them a moment.
And it did. He could hear the palpable buzz around the room, the members discussing. Eventually they would dismiss him and talk some more amongst themselves, then put it to a vote.
“We can discuss it,” said the Secretariat, “at further length. But this decision, and your demonstration, will have to be directed again to the WMO. Their next meeting is next week Tuesday.”
Solomon lowered his head. He had feared as much, but he couldn’t overplay his hand. “I thank you for the consideration, and we will happily provide whatever further information is necessary.”
“And maybe your representative … hopefully he will be recovered and available for further questioning.”
Solomon smiled. “Thank you for your concern, speaker. And I’m sure he will make a speedy recovery. We’ll await your decision.”
He was about to leave when several hands went up, and lights flashed, signaling more questions. The Russian delegate leaned forward, after confirming something first with a colleague. “You may bring this to vote,” he said sternly, “but we will veto it. We will argue thoroughly against any such collaboration with a private company based in the United States.”
“I’m sorry,” Solomon said in response. “But we owe no allegiance in this respect to our home based country. And in fact, we are multinational in scope, with offices in London, Paris, Delhi …”
“It matters not,” the delegate said. “You could have a shack in Moscow and it would mean nothing. CIA, NSA, we know that if this technology works as you say, they will use it to their advantage, if they are not doing so already.”
Solomon grumbled. “Really sir, if you just …”
“No! Already US military has taken so-called peaceful technology and turned against others.”
Oh no,
Solomon thought,
here we go. Not—
“The HAARP project, we know about it, we have spoken at length about it here.”
The Secretariat spoke up, countering: “And dismissed such claims that the Alaskan radar array is capable of any such things as you claim. These are—”
“Conspiracies that amount to nothing, yes yes, that is what you say.” The Russian was unfazed. “And yet we do not agree. And many of the members here do not agree, but we have no smoking gun, yet. The technology exists, this we know. Weather modification is possible with these arrays, and their microwave output far in excess of anything needed to study near-earth atmospheric conditions. It exists, and we believe it has been used. Repeatedly. Against us in 2010, causing heat waves and mass crop failures. Against Haiti in the last earthquake. Even your Hurricane Sandy bears its fingerprints.”
“I’m sorry,” said Solomon, trying to break through this. “This lively debate is certainly well-intentioned, but I must reiterate. It bears not a whit on our firm, or our technology. We operate privately. We are governed entirely by myself and a board of directors, all with stake in the company. We answer to no one and we will never share information—”
“Unacceptable under any circumstance,” the Russian said, taking off his translation headset, crossing his arms and leaning back. Apparently the discussion was finished.
The Secretariat approached Solomon and covered the mic. “We will speak more on this, but thank you for your time.”
Solomon clenched his hands into fists, nodded and forced a smile to the audience. Head up, he stepped down and descended the stairs, walking past the rows and rows of foreign dignitaries, pausing for a moment at the row with the Russian delegate, who was leaning behind him, speaking animatedly with the French minister.
Turning away, Solomon quickened his pace.
His pitch was dead in the water, and although he knew this possibility was a strong outcome, it didn’t sting any less.
Time for Plan B.
O O O
When the doors shut behind him and he was back in the cooler air of the hallway, he crossed to the windows and looked out under the swirling gray clouds over the New York skyline. He directed his attention through the flurries to one, then another nearby high-rise, scanning the rooftops.
After the security agent had resumed his post at the door to the chamber, Solomon retrieved his phone. He dialed, then spoke quickly. “Are they ready? Yes … we are acting. I have several targets that must be eliminated. But first, send Nexus up.”
Almost on cue as he ended the call, the elevator doors opened and a young man, dressed colorfully in island garb, approached—and handed him Palavar’s staff.
My staff,
Solomon thought. “No problems getting it through security?”
“Not dressed like this, no sir,” said the man, an eager zealot from Oregon, if Solomon recalled. “All part of the island pageantry exhibit and photo shoot, which isn’t entirely happening.”
Smiling, Solomon hefted the staff in both hands, then set its tip on the ground and leaned on it. “I’ll have the focus point ready momentarily.”
“And the sacrifice?” the youth asked, his voice trembling as he glanced around.
“Inside,” said Solomon with grit teeth.
“You know what they’ll say, afterwards?”
He looked back at the young druid. “Oh, yes. The irony of all this, right after a speech on the unpredictability of the weather. Glorious …”
And right after that lunatic Russian’s mad ravings about HAARP.
Too bad, he was right in the deeper conjecture, but so wrong about the source.
As if those Alaskan fools had any clue about what it really takes to wield power of the elements.
They were like decrepit old shamans waving sticks at the sky and hoping the rain clouds would come.
“See you outside,” Solomon said. “And … enjoy the show.”
With that, he strode back toward the entrance doors, already anticipating the security guard who came back to meet him, an inquisitive look on his face.
One that morphed into one of complete confusion as something sharp burst into the back of his neck and punctured through. It turned sideways, hooking around his flesh, and then roughly tugged the agent out of the way.
The enormous potted plants were growing exponentially, green tendrils shooting in several directions, snapping at the air and writhing at Solomon’s approach. He aimed his staff at the far doors, and the closest plant swung its appendages there, circling the handles and forming an unbreakable lock.