Energized (13 page)

Powersats: the most mega megaproject of them all. If Kayla understood what mattered to Dillon—and, of course, she could not possibly—she would have picked a different example. Likening her endeavor to powersats had turned his stomach.

In her ignorance, she kept talking. “Of course not every OTEC facility will use beamed power. Where we lack a line of sight to land, and maybe for really large-scale generators, we expect to run marine power cables. You know, like the big offshore wind farms use.”

And Dillon suddenly knew exactly what monkey wrench to throw into these particular works. “I have interests in a superconducting cable start-up.” Even though the bunch in Illinois did not yet know it. They had been eager enough to get some of his money.

“Zero-resistance underwater cables to the power grid on shore. Of course, that would be great.” Kayla hesitated. “At the capacities we'll need, superconducting cable is experimental at best. We've got a lot on our plates as it is.”

“No, this could work,” Dillon said firmly. “Look, I'll put my cards on the table. One-of-a-kind investments aren't worth my time. I look for synergies, win-win situations. Here we have one. The other bunch would get an impressive, real-world demonstration. You would get first crack at a more efficient way to bring OTEC power ashore.”

“Does this mean my company has your backing? That you
will
invest?”

Dillon gazed out across the Santa Barbara Channel, saying nothing, the breeze whipping his hair. She could do the math.

She straightened, squaring her shoulders. “If you back Jorgenson Power Systems at the funding levels we've discussed, we'll assess our fit with your other company.”

“That's all I'm asking.”

Because commercializing technology of this scale would involve several more rounds of capitalization. Getting follow-on investments was all but impossible without the tangible endorsement—second-round buy-in—of the earlier investors. So: Kayla's people
would
factor the new technology into their plans. Just as, when Dillon called to dangle a bit of venture capital, the Chicago bunch would swallow hard and agree to a marine deployment—
despite
the complexities that would introduce—for their first big field trial.

With a few million bucks of other people's money, he would tie
both
ventures in knots.

 

CONVERGENCE | 2023

 

Monday, July 31

The blasts of cold air began as soon as the mantrap door swooshed shut. Gusts tousled Marcus's hair and tickled his sock feet, and he shivered in a sudden draft as the isolation-booth air-return vent sucked up whatever molecular detritus the randomized puffs had dislodged. Chemical sensors sniffed for explosives. Magnetometers scanned for metal. Somewhere in Dulles International, he presumed, a TSA agent studied his full-body scan.

Short of administering colonoscopies, TSA could not be any more obtrusive.

A speaker crackled. “You may now leave the security station and reclaim your belongings. Have a safe flight.” The door in front of him slid open.

As Marcus reclaimed his shoes and pocket gear, Ellen stomped—as best she could in stocking feet—to the carry-on inspection area. The security-booth air gusts had left her hair in disarray. A TSA screener had upended her purse into a tray and was sifting through the contents. She muttered, “Ah, the joys of modern air travel.”

“Tell me about it.” Marcus opened and reclosed his datasheet, which inspection had left more crumpled than folded. “At least we have time to get coffee before heading to the gate.”

“There's that.” She raked her fingers through her hair, slipped on her shoes, and repacked her purse. “I know
I
feel safer.”

On cue, the airport PA system reminded them that the terror alert status had been raised to red. The week before, passengers on a Boeing 787 inbound from Dakar to Atlanta had subdued terrorists assembling a bomb in flight.

Oh, for the simpler era when color-coded security alerts had briefly gone away. What color would TSA proclaim after the next incident? Infrared? Microwave?

The terrorists (the Jihadi Alliance? The abortive attack had all the earmarks of their work, but no one was saying) had yet to admit how they had smuggled explosives aboard. Marcus guessed they had only to
say
they had carried the explosives internally to reduce air travel to utter chaos.

Infrared. That was when the colonoscopies would begin.

Cups of coffee in hand, he and Ellen rode the airport train to their gate. Marcus said, “Tell me again why everyone doesn't just network into this meeting? The off-worlders will link in whatever the rest of us do.”

“It's too important. Sometimes you just have to be face to face.”

“Then why don't they come to us?”

“I run an energy program,” she said. “How would it look if I insisted lots of them travel so you and I didn't have to?”

“But bosses have prerogatives.”

“I do.” She grinned. “That's why you're getting on the plane with me.”

As they exited the train and once again as they walked along the concourse, the PA reminded them of the alert level. And that unattended packages would be incinerated. Together with their owners, once identified. At least that was how Marcus chose to interpret the distorted announcement.

There was a blinding flash over the tarmac. Thunder, loud and rolling, rattled the concourse a second later. Marcus said, “We're not getting out of here anytime soon.”

“I guess not.” Ellen slowed to read an airport monitor, on which
DELAY
was suddenly very popular. “It's official. Our flight will be late.”

He offered his best long-suffering expression.

“Seriously, this is an important review. Just between us, I
wanted
to hold it in California. Lots more opportunity that way to interact with the techies.”

Without Phil Majeski stage-managing every conversation, she meant.

The Test Readiness Review
was
a big deal. If all went well, Kendricks Aerospace would get the go-ahead for preliminary operation of PS-1. Test beams sent to ground stations, starting at trivial power levels and stepping up. Device failures simulated to test autonomous repair by the onboard robots. Short-range maneuvering, exercising thrusters and the onboard navigation software. By year's end, barring some unpleasant surprise, PS-1 would begin its long boost to geosynchronous orbit.

In his mind's eye, Marcus pictured it: on station, motionless in the sky, streaming power on demand to converted solar farms across the country. The ultimate proof of concept, after which many more powersats would be built. The first step to energy independence …

“Fair enough,” Marcus said. “I admit it. Some things are worth a bit of travel.”

Ellen flashed an enigmatic grin. “I'm glad you think so.”

*   *   *

“The worst flight
ever,
” Marcus groused. “Storm delay. Air-traffic delay at the far end. In between, mewling and puking babies. Crammed in like cattle.”

Valerie let him vent, relieved he had called. “Did you get any dinner?” she finally asked. Body time, it was after 10
P.M.
for him.

“Ellen's talking to her husband, and then she and I plan to head out. Tex-Mex, maybe. Anyway, I wanted to say hi first.”

To let
her
know that his plane had not blown up. Terrorist bombs, even failed plots, struck way too close to home. And Marcus still had to fly home. “Go, eat. You must be starving, and I know you have several big days ahead of you.”

“I am, and I do.”

“Think you'll have time to talk after you eat?”

He grimaced. “Sorry. The jerk contractor uploaded drafts of several briefings while we were in the air. I should check them out.”

“Understood. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Maybe,” he said dubiously. “Good night, hon.”

“Good night.” Reluctantly, she broke the connection.

Their bots on Phoebe got to spend more time together than they did.

 

Wednesday, predawn, August 2

Dillon slinked along corridors and down stairways, feeling heroic and a touch theatrical. At two in the morning, he was apt to be the only person awake on the former oil platform, turned OTEC pilot plant. R & D types did not work nights.

He certainly hoped he was the only one awake.

Stepping off the bottom deck onto one of the massive pillars that supported the structure, Dillon's mood crashed from self-conscious to terrified. A fall from the ladder to the ocean far below could kill him.

When Yakov had proposed this—mission?—it had seemed daring. Exciting. A stimulating change from Dillon's usual subtle, long-term sabotage. He remembered feeling flattered by the suggestion that he might be a man of action. He remembered how good it had felt to figure out how to sneak men onto the platform, how proud he had been of Yakov's praise.

But they had had those discussions by light of day, on solid land. Could he actually
do
something so bold?

Now, his heart pounding, Dillon wondered if he had been crazy to agree.

Or if maybe he had lost his mind long ago.…

*   *   *

Years ago, after a really bad fight with Crystal, he had had to get away. It had been two weeks on a Harley, biking all over the Southwest, with only nature and his own thoughts for company. On good days, not even his thoughts had intruded. He had picked the Southwest for no deeper reason than that he had never experienced it. Flown over it, of course. Flown in and out of Phoenix and Albuquerque on business, ditto. But never explored the countryside.

At first he saw only wasteland, but after a few days a curious thing happened. He started really looking—

And found wonders. Here, yucca plants peeking above the dunes, their roots hidden deep below. There, stunted but stubborn, clusters of oak and juniper. All around, stretches of piñon pine, sagebrush, and chaparral.

When he got off the bike, he found animal trails. Oddest were the delicate footprints with two toes pointing forward and two back. Roadrunner footprints, he learned, when he retrieved the datasheet from his saddlebag. And there were insects and animals, too, from tarantulas to armadillos to pronghorn antelopes.
Everywhere
he found a rich tapestry of life—

Except around towns.

Sodded yards, to his newly heightened sensitivities, were an abomination. So were the little yapping dogs, the thirsty ornamental trees, the swimming pools. And the big waterworks projects that made possible the other desecrations.

Camping one night in the desert, the gypsum sand ghostly pale by moonlight, the stars brilliant overhead, he had had an awakening. A revelation. An epiphany. If Gaia was a true deity, not just the embodiment of nature, then a religious experience.

And anyway, who was he to say who Gaia was or was not?

He had learned young how quickly a fool and his money were parted, and even earlier how many people, his parents included, could never manage to get any money in the first place. But from generalized contempt, he had awakened into a heightened realization.

Humanity was a plague on the planet, screwing up all that truly mattered.

He had returned from his road trip-cum-retreat a changed man. He apologized profusely to Crystal. They had not fought about her inability to have children, not exactly—but the tension
because
of it had strained the marriage almost to breaking. Now, he rejoiced. The last thing the world needed was more people.

But more—much more!—must be done. Only what? What could one man do?

Then, out of nowhere: the Crudetastrophe.

Finally, Dillon saw the way. Energy drove everything. Cut off energy supplies, and you starved the beast.

He
would find ways to starve the beast, too.

*   *   *

Dillon shivered, chilled by the wind and spray. Back pressed against the immense post, hands clenching a railing, he felt that the wind could carry him off the catwalk at any moment. Twenty feet below, glimmering in the moonlight, the waters of the channel foamed and surged.

Subtle sabotage sounded better with each passing minute.

From the sea: a brief double flash, a pause, then a triple flash. A small boat, its engine muffled, emerged from the darkness.

Dillon released the brake that secured the gangplank cables. He cringed at the whine of the winch and, moments later, the thud of the gangplank against the floating dock, although he doubted either sound could be heard on the platform far above.

Three figures dressed in black and wearing black ski masks bounded up the ramp to his catwalk. Two wore tool belts; the third carried a clanking satchel. “Thanks, boss,” the man in the lead said. “We'll take it from here.”

Lower the gangplank. After the unannounced visitors did their work and sailed off, raise the ramp again. The three men would be in and out within the hour, and no one would ever know they had been here. Just as no one would know Dillon's role.

Only that another upstart energy technology would have gotten a black eye.

Tomorrow or the next day, when things went awry, Dillon would be as incensed as anyone. No,
more
incensed. And disappointed. And shamed. And compelled to pull the plug.

As for why direct action was so important at this particular time to Yakov? That, Dillon did not get.

*   *   *

Eve Moynihan sat in her bunk, flashlight in hand, sheet pulled over her head, reading a graphic novel on her datasheet. It was hot and stuffy under the covers, but Grandpa got up, like, a zillion times a night to go to the head. If he saw light under her door, he would tell her to go to sleep. That would not do: if she could sleep, she wouldn't be reading.

Thinking about the heat only made it worse. She clicked off the flashlight and threw off the sheet. It was
still
hot and stuffy. She was dripping with sweat.