Authors: Jon Land
“Then we’ll find a way and once we do, the world will never be the same again. Contact the scientists in Geneva,” Roy continued. “Tell them a jet will be coming to pick them up first thing tomorrow.”
“Should I tell them why?”
“Only that the time has finally come.”
Hank Folsom arranged for Captain Seven to set up shop at the New Orleans Homeland Security offices inside City Hall downtown on Perdido Street. Doubling as the region’s headquarters for Emergency Management, the offices occupied the sprawling tan and glass slab of a building’s top three floors. The lowermost floor was accessible only via a dedicated lobby elevator and restricted to authorized personnel.
“Here’s the thing,” Folsom explained, after meeting them outside. “Homeland has created these regional centers to be capable of overseeing operations on a national level in the event some kind of catastrophe or attack knocks out our main headquarters and command centers.”
“Sounds wise,” McCracken acknowledged.
“What you need to know is that this New Orleans center is a kind of prototype with enhanced security procedures.”
“Meaning?”
“Better you see for yourself, McCracken.”
•
McCracken saw exactly what Folsom had been referring to as soon as the elevator deposited them in a reception area outside the entrance to Homeland’s self-contained floors inside City Hall. A waist-high robot on treads, looking like a minitank, stood vigil outside the glass entry doors.
“During the early days of the Iraq war,” Folsom explained, “our technicians converted bomb-disposal robots to carry machine guns, grenade launchers, even rockets. Within a year, a bunch of these SWORDS, or
S
pecial
W
eapons
O
bservation
R
emote reconnaissance
D
irect action
S
ystem, robots were deployed in the arena.”
“First I’ve heard of that,” said McCracken.
“That’s because there were problems, MacNuts,” noted Captain Seven. “Isn’t that right, B-rat?” His final remark was aimed at Folsom.
“Kinks we’ve now ironed out.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” the captain smirked, turning to McCracken. “Dude, I could build better machines out of Tinker Toys.”
Through the glass, McCracken could see SWORDS bots patrolling the Homeland facility’s halls. And perched on twin pedestals just inside the entrance were a pair of humanoid robots nearly as tall as Johnny Wareagle complete with arms, legs, feet, and torso but no head he could discern.
“That’s the Atlas model,” Folsom said, noting McCracken’s interested gaze. “Built by Boston Dynamics as the next step in robotic evolution. The Atlas will move through difficult terrain using humanlike behavior: sometimes walking upright as a bipod, sometimes turning sideways to squeeze through narrow passages, and sometimes, when the terrain gets its nastiest, using its hands for extra support and balance. Unlike most other humanoid robots that use static techniques to control their motion, Atlas will move dynamically, leveraging the advanced control software and high-performance actuated hardware.”
“Sounds like a sales pitch you’ve given before, Hank.”
“Oh, once or twice.”
“Why don’t you tell him about the reason for the Atlas deployment delays?” Captain Seven prodded.
“They’re off-line. For display purposes only.”
Captain Seven looked toward McCracken. “That’s because one of the prototypes played trash compactor with its programmer. Apparently it had temperament issues. Vision problems, too, since prototypes like these have continued to have trouble distinguishing between the good guys and the bad guys.”
Folsom swung toward McCracken. “Who is this guy?”
“Specialist you authorized to help the cause.”
“What’s your security clearance?” Folsom demanded of Captain Seven.
“Higher than you’ve ever heard of, B-rat. I’ve been designing shit that actually works since you were crapping your diapers. In fact, I once made a bomb made out of crap.”
“Can we just get started?” Folsom asked, flashing his ID card for the sentry SWORDS machine guarding the door.
“What’s he doing now?” from Folsom once they were inside a high-tech conference room, as Captain Seven walked the perimeter of the walls, tracing a finger down the center.
“I don’t know,” said McCracken. “I’m not even sure he does. Must be something they do on the planet he comes from.”
Captain Seven suddenly stopped and turned. “Building wiring wouldn’t keep a seventh grader working on a science project from breaching the firewall.” The captain’s dull blue eyes fell on Folsom, shaking his head with a cocksure smile. “And you’re trying to build robots, B-rat?”
“What does ‘B-rat’ mean?”
“Short for ‘bureaucrat’ in the captain’s lexicon,” McCracken elaborated as Wareagle stifled a smile and a wheeled SWORDS robot stopped in the doorway as if to register who was present inside.
“Synonym for asshole,” Captain Seven continued, eyeing Folsom. “Hey, you smoke dope? I hear the government grows some badass shit for approved medical purposes only. In my mind, you should distribute it to Congress and watch legislation finally get passed along with the joints.”
“I have no idea how to even respond to that.”
Captain Seven’s eyes twinkled. “Speaking of which, my supply got ruined in the storm. Caught a natural high for a time off being on that rig, but I feel a need coming on.”
“No worries,” McCracken told him. “The DEA has offices in this building too. Maybe I can rustle some up for you from their stash.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Captain Seven didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. His long gray hair hung in twisted ringlets from the storm and sea’s effects hours earlier. He plopped down into a rolling chair set before a computer and leaned back far enough to splay his leather vest over the arms.
“Think I’ll get to work.”
“How bad I say this was last night and this morning?” Captain Seven asked an hour later after running any number of computations and reviewing the data off the NSA site he’d hacked.
“Bad,” McCracken told him.
“Well, it’s worse.”
“So what else is new?”
“The
Venture
, as in on the subatomic level. Another level beyond molecular, in case you were wondering. I’ve been chasing this off and on for five years now, ever since it nearly got me killed in the Mediterranean. Man oh man, I never thought I’d find it.”
“Find what?”
Captain Seven hesitated ever so slightly before responding. “Dark matter.”
Katie DeMarco had tried them all—every phone number, the contacts for WorldSafe she’d long committed to memory—to no avail. All of them had gone to ground in the wake of what happened in Greenland.
Or worse.
She’d spent the night walking the streets of downtown New Orleans, lingering in hotel bathroom stalls and in the darkest corners of fast-food restaurants out of view from the street as she dried out from the storm’s deluge. She let instinct guide just how long to remain in each, her thinking finally clearing with the approach of a dawn that had found her huddled in the damp dewy mist rising off the ground of Saint Louis Cemetery Number One. The aboveground burial vaults offered plenty of cover, and the cemetery’s location close to the Mississippi River just one block from the start of the French Quarter provided ample escape routes if it came to that.
She’d found a spot to hide herself amid the cold stone, granite, and marble vaults where she greeted the sun’s first warming rays. Fear and fatigue had made it hard to collect her thoughts, but the sun revived Katie enough for her to consider her next move in clothes that felt stale, damp, and musty.
WorldSafe, its name now sadly ironic, offered no respite. Her contact Twist was dead. The Aum Shinrikyo cult was after her for one reason, the killers behind the massacre in Greenland for another reason entirely.
All because of whatever had happened to the
Deepwater Venture
in the hours following her hasty departure.
Katie rose and peered out from behind the crypt holding Etienne de Boré, scion of New Orleans’s early sugar industry and first mayor of the city. Finding the cemetery still deserted save for her and whatever ghosts might be about, she slid out with the trees as cover and clung to side and back streets en route to the French Quarter, where she used a side entrance of the Hotel St. Marie. She ducked into a restroom toting a drugstore bag stuffed with fresh bandages and antiseptic to redress the cuts on her palms that still smarted from closing her hands around the basement lightbulb.
Her mind began to crystallize around a plan beyond that, as she wrapped her wounds with fresh dressings and chucked her original dressings in the trash. There were a few other contacts she could call upon, fervent supporters of WorldSafe who would be made understandably livid by what had transpired. Katie wouldn’t tell them everything, not even close, just enough to make them understand she needed their help.
She emerged from the restroom, reconstructing phone numbers in her mind when a pair of police officers with guns drawn lurched out before her.
“Stay where you are! Show us your hands!”
Heavy footsteps pounded the floor behind her, more police closing from there as well.
“Down on the floor!” the first cop ordered, gun steadied straight on her. “Do it now!”
Katie complied, crying out in pain as her arms were yanked behind her back and cuffs slapped on her wrists.
“What?” was Captain Seven’s only response to the skeptical stares cast his way.
“I was hoping for a more rational explanation,” McCracken told him.
“You want rational, you got the wrong guy. You knew that when you called me in.”
“I still wasn’t expecting something out of science fiction.”
“You mean like milking jellyfish for their toxin? Wonder if that rig’s crew would’ve felt any better if they knew it was only something out of science fiction that killed them.”
“I get the point.”
“You better,” Captain Seven said, shaking his head. “So typical. I expected more from you, MacNuts, you of all people who hijacked a space shuttle, stopped a Russian death ray from destroying the country, fought genetically enhanced supermen, saved the country from a coup, saved Disney World, the Alamo . . . Oh, and did I forget to mention New York City?”
“Same man,” McCracken told him. “Just younger and less jaded back in those days.”
“Superweapons are nothing new, MacNuts; you’ve been fighting them for thirty years now. But this one’s different from anything you’ve faced before. We’re not talking here about a city or even a country. We’re talking about dumping the whole freaking world into a Mixmaster and seeing what’s left. You want somebody to blame for what happened in the Gulf and it pisses you off there was no hostile action involved.”
“But somebody ordered them to drill in that spot, and that somebody got Paul Basmajian killed.”
“You can’t bring him back, Blainey,” Wareagle said abruptly, breaking his own silence.
“I think I know that, Indian.”
“I wasn’t talking about Baz. I was talking about the hostage we lost. You never had a chance to save Baz, but you could have saved that boy. Don’t let this be about that.”
“Give me some credit here, Johnny.”
“I just did,” said Wareagle. “Saving the world’s not a bad way to make up for losing one hostage.”
“Hey,” said Captain Seven, “I hate to interrupt you guys but . . .”
“Go on,” McCracken urged.
“So what if it wasn’t?”
“Wasn’t what?”
“An accident. What happened to the
Deepwater Venture
.”
“Keep talking, Captain.”
“Somebody associated with Ocean Bore was looking for something, even though they must’ve had at least some idea of what might happen if they found it.”
McCracken’s black eyes narrowed. “Talk to me about dark matter. Science
fact
, not fiction.”
“Goes back to the big bang theory. You think the universe just showed up or grew randomly?” Captain Seven shook his head. “No such luck, MacNuts. Close your eyes.”
“Is this guy for real?” Folsom wondered aloud.
“He once devised a heat-sensitive explosive disguised as cough syrup that helped us take out a terrorist mastermind with a cold. That real enough for you?”
“You heard me,” Captain Seven reiterated, “close your eyes.”
All three of them finally did.
“All right,” Captain Seven resumed. “Can you see me?”
“Is this some kind of joke?” Folsom snapped.
“Answer the question.”
“How can I see you if my eyes are closed?”
“Exactly, B-rat. You can’t see me, but you know I’m here. Same thing with dark matter. Nobody’s ever seen or isolated it, but we know it’s there. You can open your eyes now.” Captain Seven waited to meet their gazes before continuing. “Dark matter makes up around a quarter of the universe while traditional matter composes only around five percent of it. We know that because of gravity and the study of other solar systems through telescopes like the Hubble. I’m giving you the CliffsNotes version here, so bear with me.”
Captain Seven shifted about in the chair, suddenly looking antsy.
“Dark matter, or something like it,
has
to exist. There’s simply no other explanation for the creation of the universe through mass and energy. The problem and the challenge is to quantify something no one has ever identified or even positively confirmed the existence of. All we’ve got are theories and one of them, I’m afraid, explains exactly what happened on the
Deepwater Venture
. You familiar with the work they’re doing at CERN in that giant supercollider tunnel on the French-Swiss border?”
“Not very,” McCracken told him.
“Well, it’s pretty much been a circus with not an awful lot to show for the several billion spent across the board,” Captain Seven explained. “Great fanfare, a doorway to the fucking future opening on day one in September of 2008. Lots of champagne bottles popped and then this multibillion-dollar piece of machinery gets shut down nine days later. Press and officials were told a badly soldered electrical splice overheated and set off a chain of damage to the magnets and other parts of the supercollider.”