Gabriel's Stand (24 page)

In his Boston offices, Knight Fowler was looking across his desk at a scientist bearing bad news. The man was prematurely balding, pale, and under-exercised, a faded man in his fading thirties, an earnest innocent, devoid of political sophistication. “I thought you should see these results right away,” he said.

“Why don't you just give me the essence?” Fowler said.

“Okay. Several months ago you asked our demographic research section to run some simulations concerning dramatic population reductions.”

“Thinning out.”

“Yes. Thinning out. ‘Reducing the world population load,' I think you called it.”

“Exactly. What have you found?”

“As you requested, we assumed that the three disease outbreaks that are causing trouble at the moment are pandemic, and go through the human population without medical intervention. No antibiotics. No vaccines.”

“You meant the really bad ones, that are already causing fatalities in India and New York—TB 6, Staph 7, and AIDS type 23?”

“Yes, sir, that's the deadly trifecta. Here's the bad news: We confirmed something I was particularly concerned about: There is a negative cascade effect. We're calling it the
Panda Cascade
. We named it after the trend to extinction when the wild Chinese Panda lost its habitat. The computer models show that a deadly tipping point is reached when populations—like the Panda habitats—are just not strong enough to rebound, at least without high tech assistance. You take away the high tech assistance and they do not make it. It works out that the same model will apply to all human populations…when they are deprived of technology.”

“But there still are Pandas in the world, correct?”

“Yes, but only because they have become, in effect, human pets. The Panda population is maintained by artificial insemination. The entire species is now dependent on human technology.”

“Go on.” Fowler was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Like the Pandas, we humans have become so dependent on technology that, without it, we can die out. We are easy prey for disease. Worse still, the deadly trifecta will be much more dangerous than in any past pandemics. Over the years, we've been in an arms race with the microbes. They will win unless we come back at them with the most advanced medicines available, the kind that Vector and Edge Medical produced. The kind that are now banned. The timing is also significant. Within ten months, every continent and island not already affected will soon be contaminated. The projections are truly startling. We face a population drop so sudden and catastrophic that the remaining population approaches non-viability.”

“Non-viability? What does that really mean?”

“An irreversible trend to extinction.”

“Good grief. Surely, you are exaggerating. I thought a certain percentage of the human population always carries an immunity to any particular disease.”

“Sorry, Mr. Fowler. That was true for the Black Death, and even for the early versions of AIDS. But these are super-pathogens, enhanced by decades of competition with modern medicine. And we're talking about multiple pandemics coupled with the breakdown of civilization's immune systems. We know that crowded, undernourished populations are disease incubators. But it is a modern myth that such disease epicenters can be safely allowed to burn themselves out. But every point on the globe is physically connected to every other by modern transportation. Disease propagation has never been more rapid; it is inevitable. And because antibiotics propagate equally fast among the wealthy everywhere, the pathogens can adapt ever more rapidly. A hundred years ago, 98% of the population of a continent could potentially die in a pandemic. In this era, assaulted by ramped up pathogens and a cluster of intersecting pandemics, humanity could go away entirely.”

“But extinction? Surely, you are overstating the risk? What about Asia? India? Africa? You must mean
virtual
extinction, centered in the ultra-high tech centers, particularly in Europe and America.”

“Sorry, sir. Our computer simulations project a ninety-nine percent probability that we will arrive at a point of no return. This will likely be the last generation of Homo sapiens.”

“Everyone? Everywhere? Come on!”

“Based on the technology-loss projections due to the Commission's seizures of medicines, destruction of research facilities, we are rapidly disarming humanity against these diseases. EVERYONE. EVERYWHERE. You may recall that the Chinese and the Indian governments and all the Third World countries all signed on to technology retirement.”

“Couldn't the medical technology be recaptured toward the end? Rebuilt?”

“Toward the end? Sir, I'm afraid that you've hit on the essential problem. The end is the point of no return. That is the beyond-all-hope point. It is definitely less than three years away. We can't rebuild medical technology right away. The required infrastructure is too sophisticated. By the time things get so desperate that individual countries might try to break out of the treaty regime, it will be too late. Neither the Chinese nor the Indian drug industries were ever quite up to the challenge. America's Edge Medical and Vector Pharmaceutical were the last enterprises with the technology and production capabilities to keep up with the new pathogens.”

There was a silence while Fowler struggled to assimilate all this. “Go on,” he said. His tone was suddenly bleak.

“It is a scale problem. Too little technology; too many clever pathogens; and ultimately the isolated pockets of human survivors would be too small to come back. Think of the Mountain Gorilla or the Neanderthal. And just like other extinct species, shrinking food supplies will be the final nail in the coffin.”

Fowler was now in shock. “You said this was a computer simulation?”

“It wouldn't have been possible without the outlawed AI technology we are using.”

Fowler's heart fell. How could he get the word out without revealing his own technology violations? “Can you make a convincing case without revealing it was a computer simulation?”

“Sorry. Then it's just some wacko science fiction story, sir. Not enough credibility.”

“Do your best—your very best. The people I need to talk with need to be fully convinced, but my other friends could prosecute us for using banned technology.”

“I'll get a team together. This will take time.”

“A small team. Show me the names. Rush it. No expense spared. This is ultra-confidential.”

“Of course. When do you want another report?”

“The very second you have something I can use.” The bearer of bad news left. Fowler put his head down, hearing the door close. After a few minutes, Knight Fowler picked up the phone—then he thought better of it.
Who the hell can I talk to?

——

Knight Fowler's hands were still shaking later that day when he dialed Longworthy's private line. “Rex? I have a simple question and I want your word of honor that we did not talk. Agreed?”

“Of course,” Rex said. “You sound upset.”

“Upset? You might say that. What if population thinning got completely out of control? What would the Sisters think?”

“Knight, this is rhetorical question, right? We both know their ideology. They wouldn't object at all.”

“What if I told you that… Rex, I have just learned something rather chilling from our very best people. What if humans could suddenly reach an irreversible point in this thinning process? A point of no return?”

There was a very long silence. Knight could hear Rex Longworthy's labored breathing.

“How soon?”

“I have one estimate. Within three years.” Fowler had barely whispered the answer. The phone clicked. “Rex? Rex?”

When Louise Berker learned about Fowler's recent meetings, she immediately booked the next available flight for an unscheduled confrontation with the billionaire. Aboard the plane, Berker's mind drifted to her earliest killings—still vivid years later. After these, the Baron had given her some advice. As she drifted to sleep in her seat, Berker thought it over.

“Louise,” the Baron had said, “you are too valuable an asset to waste on a revenge killing. From now on, think like an administrator. Assassins are expendable.” But Berker had added a mental codicil to the Baron's advice at the time, one that had served her well.
Some tasks cannot be delegated.

——

The next evening, Knight Fowler looked up from his desk, startled to see Louise Berker standing there.

He tried not to show surprise. “My, you are a quiet one, Louise. What a pleasure to see you. As you can see, I am working late.” He glanced at his watch. “I did lose track of the time.” He paused, frowning slightly. “I didn't think you had a key.”

“Please don't get up on my account, Mr. Fowler. I was just stopping by before returning to Seattle. I wanted personally to tell you just how grateful I am for all you have done for the cause over the last years. It's really a monumental accomplishment… a genuine legacy.”

Legacy?

Berker was sitting on the edge of Fowler's desk. She reached across the space between them with the quick grace of a cobra. She stroked his cheek, leaving a thin red scratch.

“Ouch,” he said. “What did you just do, Louise?”

“Sorry. Must have been my ring. Knight, I just wanted you to know that your funding support and political contacts have been of great value to the movement,” she said.

“
Have
been?” he said, rubbing his cheek where she had scratched it.

“The recruitment of key executives, the political influence, that magnificent advertising campaign… When the history of this era is written, we will be sure…” Fowler was staring fixedly ahead, his eyes vacant. “We will be sure to include your accomplishments.”

Berker walked around the desk and stood at the man's side. “You are losing cognitive function as I speak, Knight,” she whispered. “Did you dream for a second that you could stand up to Gaia herself?” She experimentally flicked a finger at Fowler's ear. There was no reaction. “Don't be alarmed. You're just having a massive stroke. Of course, the stroke will be totally disabling. You see, I can't afford to let you die.” She smiled. “No. That might cause an autopsy to be performed. This way, one of your physician friends will see you long after anything can be done to reverse the damage. By tomorrow morning, all your blood work will be completely consistent with a naturally occurring catastrophic cerebral ischemia.”

Berker did a little pirouette. “You get the picture.” She chuckled. “Or perhaps not.” She was smiling like a child with a new toy. “Oh, what a cute name by the way. ‘Panda Cascade.' I wish we'd thought of that. You thought we didn't know about the possibility of eventual human non-viability? It was our goal all along.”

Berker stopped at the doorway. “Of course, someone will have to control the assets of the Fowler Foundation. Now that you are so tragically disabled…” She placed her hands together and curtseyed. “Thank you, Mr. Fowler, for your foresight in naming my organization. Bye, bye.”

She gently closed the door and left by the freight elevator.

Several months later, inside an auditorium in upstate New York, Fred Loud Owl was looking down on another graduating class.
My new spiritual warriors
, he thought.

Snowfeather was standing at the back of the room as her mentor began. She was slightly distracted because she would be meeting up with Roberto Kahn in a few minutes; and she had just heard his terrible news.

This was Fred Loud Owl's “The Great Spirit-as-Raccoon” speech, a warning about Gaia as the latest ploy of the Trickster.

Loud Owl smiled. “One fine morning the Great Spirit came to me in the form of a raccoon. ‘I am the Great Spirit,' she said. Human vocalization is a real challenge for a raccoon, so I had to listen very carefully.”

“‘Did you just say you are the Great Spirit?' I asked.”

“‘Fred, you
are
kidding, right? When is the last time a raccoon talked to you?'” The students laughed.

“‘Okay, I just had to ask.'”

“‘Yes I am the Great Spirit,' she said, ‘but you already know my voice. This is the last time I will repeat myself.'”

“‘Sorry,' I said. ‘I
am
listening.'”

“‘I am the distributed voice of Creation. Your people used to see and hear my voice everywhere. Now they are deaf.'”

“‘I suppose many of my people are,' I said, ‘along with most modern people. May I ask a question?'”

“‘You want to ask me about Gaia.'”

“‘Yes.'”

“‘There is no Gaia, separate and apart from nature. Gaia is a system. I, the Great Spirit am Person, Creator: the One with many voices but One Being. The apostles of Gaia are following a false deity. Witting or witless, they are the enemies of life and creation. They are my enemies. And yours.'”

Snowfeather quietly slipped out of the building.

A handful of the deciduous trees on campus had begun to show color, stray red leaves among the oaks, and a few glittering gold spots among the birches, but the grass was lush and the sun warm in her hair. Snowfeather winced in the brilliant light; then she saw Roberto Kahn near the sidewalk, waiting for her.

Roberto was standing alone, a solemn figure in black.

“Oh, Roberto,” Snowfeather said softly, “I got your message. I am so sorry.” She hugged him. There was nothing else to do. Roberto motioned to the park across the street. They walked for a moment while Snowfeather held her silence. It was Roberto's story to tell.

“That call from Columbia stopped my life,” he said, staring ahead. “‘Your son, Isaac, is gravely ill.' I could hardly hear the next words. Something about TB 6 and the short supply of antibiotics.” He stopped at the edge of the park. “I don't even remember the flights. I got to his room at three in the morning.” Roberto choked, and began sobbing. “I was too late. Isaac never woke up…”

He pounded a fist against a large tree trunk. “How can a father say the Kaddish for his own son?” He looked away, his chest heaving silently.

Snowfeather put her hand on Roberto's shoulder. She tried to say something but the words stopped in her throat. Roberto turned, tears burning down his lined face. “It's the wrong
order
, you know. It's the perverse sequence. Isaac was supposed to bury
me
.”

Snowfeather hugged him again for a long time, his face hanging over her shoulder, eyes closed, forehead creased in pain.

“Roberto. I should have been there.”

“Not practical,” Roberto said, gently breaking the hug.

——

Fred Owl was continuing his speech inside the auditorium. “‘Gaia is part of nature' the raccoon's voice said to me. ‘But no part of nature is my real voice.'”

“‘Excuse me,' I said. ‘Aren't you part of nature?' The raccoon stood on her hind legs and looked directly at me. It was very disconcerting. ‘Loud Owl, now that was a silly question. Nature is
part of me
. And you know that raccoons don't talk. Didn't you recognize my voice?' Suddenly, the raccoon's animal-self was released; the intelligence left her eyes and she left to join her mate at the creek. Point taken.

“As you can imagine, I've thought about this encounter many times. I think that God, the Great Spirit in my old tradition, is vastly more comprehensive than any earth deity and far more subtle that we humans first thought. But this subtlety is coupled with persistence so powerful that the rise and fall of an entire universe is a bump on the trail. The idea of Gaia as deity is a fraud.

“Last semester, one of my students asked me if I could prove this.

“I said that this part is slow. We must wait and watch. Proof is as subtle as the track of a deer over moraine.

“He challenged me: ‘You just wait and watch?'

“‘Yes,' I said. ‘After all, waiting and watching is the game of the hunter.'”

——

Outside the auditorium, Roberto took a deep breath. “Actually, I came to see you for a different reason.” They sat down on the park bench. “In your last letter you said you are impatient.”

“I just want to help people. I don't need to be a priest or a deacon or a shaman or anything like that.”

Roberto's face suddenly changed. “I have something to show you.” He reached into his coat pocket. “Isaac wrote it for me when he first got sick. Here.” He fought back the tears again as he fished out the worn envelope. “It was in his room, after…” He handed it to Snowfeather and she regarded the wrinkled paper with the shaky handwriting.

Dad. I will miss our talks.

Is this the next Shoah?

Fight them for me.

I love you,

your proud son,

Isaac

“Oh, Roberto!” she said.

“He knew I'd find it.” Robert began crying again; then he fought his way back to control. “I am so raw, Snowfeather. I know this Gaia attack on all our medical defenses is the next holocaust. Unless we—”

“We? Do we have a plan?”

“The Human Conspiracy has a program.”

“Yes, Fred Loud Owl told me to wait…”

“The waiting time is up. They've just recruited me. Now they want you.”

“Me?”

“You. I'm to meet an underground Catholic Bishop in New York.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am. Bishop Gardiner evidently launders all the Conspiracy money from secret benefactors like John Owen.”

Snowfeather sighed. “What's next?”

“We are to meet Fred this afternoon for a sendoff, if you are in. And then you are to come with me to meet Bishop Gardiner Saturday. We're expected to make trouble. Are you in?”

Snowfeather smiled. “All the way.”