First and foremost I thank my father, Bruce Langlois who passed two years ago. He unknowingly gave me an artistic drive. He taught me how to make something out of nothing. I thank my Mother, Joan Jones, who always encouraged me when others thought I was wasting my time. I want to thank my daughter A.J. for teaching me to have the courage to be myself. My son Chris taught me anyone can do what others think you can’t.

After this book was conceived, I needed the help of those with writing talents. The first person I approached was Doug Buchanan. A retired editor of a local newspaper, Doug gave me drive and hopes to follow a dream. He saw something in the story and pushed me on. Thank you, Doug.

Carol DeFord McClain and Tom Grady each hosted meetings in their homes. I loved being understood; we spoke the same language. Thank you, Carol and Tom and all who were there.

At Carol’s first meeting, I met Linda Rondeau. A successful author, Linda not only taught
me, but inspired me. Thank you Linda, you are my mentor.

I joined The Adirondack Center for Writing at Paul Smiths New York. There I met several famous authors, agents and publishers. I learned about the industry. Thank you Nathalie Costa Thill, administrator of ACW.

Thank you to my editor Meredith Efken at Fiction Fix-it Shop. A year and a half passed from the time she received my first submission till I was ready for the final line edit. Thank you, Meredith, for your patience.

The artist, who did my cover, gave far more than I paid for, and has become a friend. His encouragement and tips have been invaluable. Thank you, Dan Waltz.

I want to thank Lori Doughty Hickman. She came into the frozen Adirondack woods to take the photo on the back of this book. You are a true professional.

My slogan “Sci-Fi for the Working Guy” goes to all the people I work with at an aluminum smelter in upstate New York. I would love to thank all of them, but I know I would miss someone, and I am limited on space. One small group I must thank is my Alpha team (my Beta readers): Barry LaBar, Mark Goodfellow, Chuck Collins, Chris Adams,
Adam Crump, Pat Bronchetti, Nick White, Mike Gollinger, and my toughest critic Paul Fedoryk, Thank you. Without your input, this would have been a very different story.

Thank you to everyone at Alcoa, Massena West.

Finally to my loving wife Charlene, your tolerance is immeasurable. Thank you, sweetheart.

I hope you enjoy the read.

PROLOGUE

The world’s population approached the twelve billion mark. Millions migrated. The problems of every landlocked nation changed almost overnight. The destruction of low-lying cities along the coasts of every continent pushed civilization inland, taking up valuable farmland. Global flooding destroyed another third of the planet’s fertile soil. Farming moved north, but all too slowly. Famine plagued all nations.

A planetary power grid and bioreactors built to produce synthetic meat were the only solutions. They were astronomically expensive and took a big chunk out of every country’s budget. When the true effects of mankind’s carbon footprint became blatantly obvious to the taxpayers, the people who warned of the future problems of climate change were the first to be denied grant monies; funding for science seemed less important than money spent feeding the masses.

Concerns shifted to solving immediate problems and away from studying possible problems of the future. Telescopes lay idle all over the globe
and in outer space. Fuel supplies and coolants ran out in existing space observatories; they were never replaced. Mars was unattainable. NASA no longer existed. Exploration was put on hold. Anything above the outer atmosphere was deemed unessential spending. Commercial spacecraft made regular flights to several In-Orbit Hotels where the affluent went to vacation in a zero gravity, Vegas-like atmosphere with planet Earth looming out every viewing portal. Space had gone commercial. The human race wanted to play in it before we learned more about it.

No funding was given for asteroid or comet observations, most of the objects considered a threat wouldn’t hit until long into the future. The prevailing opinion was that there was plenty of time to develop ways to deflect a threat. Ninety-nine percent of all objects had been mapped and were being tracked.

“Some things come in hot,” was the explanation given to the most powerful man on the planet. Nothing could be done. He and all the leaders of Earth unanimously agreed to keep the fate of their species a secret. It would be the last act of humanity.

Chapter 1

Good to Have a
Choice

“Is that a real steak?” Beth asked. “I can see it now on the news, ‘Local man, Nicolas Hunter was arrested for possession of non-certified beef. The offense will include a hefty fine, which in turn will result in one pissed off wife!’”

I knew she would bitch as soon as she saw them. Getting caught with unregistered, uninspected beef or any other animal tissue was a misdemeanor. All “Once Alive” meats must come from huge farms, strictly monitored by the federal government for safety and health, and the majority of that was reserved for the military. I think most of it gets eaten in Washington.

Everything else comes from the huge bioreactors popping up everywhere. Bioreactors are where Eco-Meats are cultivated, grown, harvested, processed and packaged. Raised in a vat from stem cells of living animal host, slabs of beef, pork and assorted types of fowl lay motionless at the bottom of a pool of steroid-rich brine. The two
near Syracuse and the one in Watertown made three within two hundred miles.

“I work hard. I deserve the best once in a while. Yes, dear, these wonderful T-bones were walking two weeks ago. I’m sick of Phony Bologna. I need flavor, and I need texture. That test tube stuff tastes deader than dead. That’s because it never lived. I need muscle, fat and gristle. I want to suck the marrow out of a bone. Tell me when you hear it sizzle on the grill if it is or isn’t worth the risk. I’m sure the cops are eating steaks off the same cow right now.”

“Who sold it to you? Did you buy it from someone at the farmer’s market?”

“You know we don’t reveal our sources. I didn’t get it at the farmer’s market. Nobody would try to peddle that stuff there. I was called out to relocate some raccoons, and the customer was so happy she gave me a couple steaks.” My mouth watered like some Pavlovian dog. The petri dish stuff just can’t give off that sound or that aroma of …fat. “Come smell this.”

“I’m just worried we’ll get sick on it, it hasn’t been inspected and who knows what the conditions were like where it was butchered. At least Phony Bologna is grown in a sanitary environment. This cow was walking in its own shit. I bet you got it from the Yoders. They’re the only people permitted to have cattle.”

“The Yoders are not the only Amish around, just the closest. Come on, Beth. You can’t tell me you don’t like the taste of real beef compared to that manufactured crap.” I held the grill cover shut till she got close enough, and then rapidly lifted the cover to give her a smell. Smoke rolled under the cover catching Beth head-on.

Her head snapped back from the intensity of the heat. Once the smoke curled over her head, she wiped her eyes to focus on the two T-bones. “You better hope the breeze stays in this direction. You can certainly tell the difference. Nothing smells like real steaks on the grill.”

“Will you stop worrying? Nobody’s going to turn us in.”

“No, I mean we don’t have enough to share.” She smiled and took another sniff. “Make mine well done, I don’t want to get sick.”

“You won’t get sick; your stomach can digest far more than you think it can. You could eat this beef raw if you wanted to.”

“Yeah, and I could eat bugs too, but you’ll never see me munching on butterflies.”

“Oh, that reminds me…” I ran to the truck and lifted the panel with the magnetic sign of my company, “Careful Critter Catchers,” and took out the vacuum canister. I needed to incinerate all the cockroaches we’d collected this week. “Here,
they’re not butterflies, but I think they might taste the same.”

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