Genesis (3 page)

As the alien rain swept across the world it left the deep-frozen Antarctica untouched. The rest of the world quickly disappeared, and the Antarctica survivors believed themselves to be all that was left. They were well stocked with both food and fuel thanks to the two resupply ships sitting in the port and waiting to be offloaded. They believed they had time to wait out the effects of the red rain.

They continued to believe that until the day of the great storm.

The world-spanning storm swept inland from every direction, erasing half of the continent with an ever-tightening noose around the survivors’ necks . . . then it stopped, less than a couple of kilometers off McMurdo. The research station was not unscathed. By the time the storm died away and the survivors emerged out onto the ice, one of the two supply ships had been swept out to sea along with its crew and all its remaining supplies, presumed sunk. The other, the
Maria Consuela
, was taking on water and threatening to capsize along with all its precious cargo.

The human toll was even greater. Everyone who had not made it to McMurdo or hunkered down in their own base had perished. At least, the remaining survivors
presumed
they were dead, as not a trace could be found when rescue teams had been sent out. Of the original 2,000 or so to have survived the red rain, just 628 people were left alive on the island after the storm.

The USS
Michigan
had dived deep before the full force of the storm hit. By the time it surfaced again and headed back to McMurdo, it had suffered only the equivalent of a few minor bumps and bruises.

If there was an upside—and Emily had made a veritable habit of turning sows’ ears into silk purses these days—roughly one third of the survivors were women, which greatly helped to reduce some of the tension the Point had been swimming in.

The days after the storm were bleak for the McMurdo survivors, but they pulled together enough to salvage the majority of the supplies still left on the
Maria Consuela
, before patching her up and making her seaworthy again.

It had taken months before the base’s radio tower was repaired and the weather had settled enough that Point Loma’s nightly radio signal, Emily at the microphone, found its way to McMurdo.

It was difficult for Emily to describe the swell of relief that swept through the Point Loma survivors at the announcement that they had found more people alive out there. It was as though the entire base had been holding its collective breath and, at the news, had released it. The air felt lighter afterward.

Still, not everyone at McMurdo had wanted to come to Point Loma. Some had decided to stay and eke out whatever existence they could in the freezing wastes of the South Pole. While Emily could understand the choice to stay behind, she did not think their chances of survival were going to be high once the food ran out. But the majority of McMurdo survivors, thank God, had decided that California sounded like a good idea after months of freezing their asses off.

It was just a shame that one of them had to be Sylvia Valentine.

Valentine, according to others from McMurdo, had been a vocal advocate for staying put. But her tune had changed once it became clear that the majority would be leaving, and that, with or without her consent, the supplies would be going with them.

There was no way the USS
Michigan
could accommodate all of the McMurdo residents, so straws had been drawn for the remaining spaces after essential personnel and supplies had been loaded aboard the submarine. The remaining survivors, those who had literally drawn the short straw, were to wait for the USS
Michigan
to reach Point Loma and sound the all clear and then set sail on the
Maria Consuela
. The cargo ship would make its way to the United States over the course o
f three months, but a problem with the engine had delayed the ship’s departure.

The McMurdo survivors had arrived two months ago. And somehow, in that time, Valentine had gone from a newcomer on the fringe of the community to insinuating herself into every major aspect of the running of Point Loma. Emily had been convinced that the other survivors would eventually see her for what she was, but now Emily realized that view had been rather naïve, and it had been well and truly laid to rest when the two-faced bitch was elected as the chairperson of the Camp Council.

By the time Emily and Mac filed into the packed gymnasium designated as the town hall, the council meeting was already underway.

“
’Scuse us . . . Sorry . . .” Mac said as he forged the way past several seated people Emily recognized only in passing. The place was packed, with the majority of the camp present. Point Loma now had so many survivors she could not recall everyone’s name. She was going to have to work on that.

Within a couple of months of the Argentine sub
San Juan
and the French submarine
Le Terrible
arriving at Point Loma it had become obvious that some kind of government was needed. Between the growing number of newcomers and the varying nationalities, a common ground of law had to be established if the survivors were to coexist.

A three-person council had been appointed, comprised of each of the sub captains—no elections needed, apparently. When the military is in the majority, it tends to do things the way it knows works; at least, that is what they told Emily when she raised her objections. Not long after the USS
Michigan
arrived, the council had been expanded to seven, the four new places assigned to the captain of the
Michigan
and three civilians appointed by the council. Emily had not been considered.

She took her seat in the audience next to Mac. The plastic chairs were arranged in a horseshoe facing a raised stage with a table at the center of the gym.

Emily knew all of the councilors sitting behind the table: the French captain, Victor Séverin; Ignacio Vela, the captain of the Argentinian sub
San Juan
; Simon Patterson, the captain of the
Michigan
; Lynda Hanson, a botanist, and Deryck Maslanka, a structural engineer, both of whom arrived in the
Michigan
; Raoul Béringer, a French journalist who had somehow found himself aboard the
Le Terrible
when it set sail just as the red rain hit Europe, and, of course, Valentine. She had replaced Captain Constantine when he stepped down. Emily knew that Maslanka and Hanson were both in Valentine’s pocket; they were going to vote any way Valentine told them to, and she suspected Vela might be enamored enough with the woman to be persuaded to vote with her—Emily had seen the way Valentine smiled and touched the man’s elbow whenever they were within stroking distance of each other. She was on the fence about Béringer; in all Emily’s dealings with him, he had struck her as a decent sort.

“. . . so let’s put that to a vote, shall we?” Valentine said from the podium in that annoying sickly sweet Southern drawl she used whenever she expected to completely get her way. And sure enough, whatever agenda item was being discussed before Emily and Mac’s arrival got a five to two approval. Valentine, Hanson, Maslanka, and Vela. And, surprise, surprise, Béringer’s hand was raised with the others, which got a disapproving stare from his fellow countryman, Captain Séverin.

“And on to item four on the agenda: the creation of an expeditionary force to investigate the potential for expansion outside the Point Loma peninsula.”

Emily stiffened, unsure if she had heard correctly.

Maslanka took up the item, his deep sonorous voice filling the room: “As you are all aware, we are facing a looming crisis. Food, ladies and gentlemen. It is not going to last forever. And, yes, I know that Captain Constantine and his crew are about to set sail for Svalbard, but let’s be real here, folks: there’s no guarantee that they are going to get there in one piece, and, if they do, and they are able to find a viable seed crop, there’s no guarantee that they are going to make it back alive either.”

Emily felt her blood go from a low simmer to its boiling point in a few seconds flat. Did this asshole not know that the majority of the crew he was talking about were sitting right here? She started to stand up and say something.

Mac placed his hand lightly on her knee before she could even lift her butt two inches off the seat. She turned to look at him . . . and stopped. Jesus Christ!
How the fuck does he stay so damn calm?
she wondered as she saw him smiling back at her. She could feel the pink flush of anger on her own skin, but he was his usual Limey pale, his face betraying nothing but calm . . . except for his eyes. His ey
ebrows had furrowed just slightly, barely noticeable to anyone who did not know him, and his eyelids were half closed, not enough to be called a squint but sufficient for Emily to know that Mac was pissed, with a capital fucking
P. Relax,
Mac’s expression said,
don’t give them the pleasure; we’ll deal with this when we have to.
Emily allowed herself to grudgingly drop back into her seat.

This had the stink of Valentine’s manipulation all over it. Of course, there was no way she would bring forward an item like this herself. Instead she would get one of her minions to put it out there, thereby maintaining her distance until she was able to judge whether the plebs approved or not before jumping on board.

This woman put the “fuck” into poli-fucking-tician.

“. . . so what we . . . what I am proposing, is that we create several small groups of military and science personnel. Each unit—I call them Pathfinders—will be tasked with exploring the remains of cities and towns in an attempt to locate stores of food and potentially to identify areas untouched by the invasive species.”

“And what about the Caretakers?” someone shouted from the back of the room. It was followed by a smattering of giggles from the crowd. Emily twisted in her seat to try to see who had spoken, but all she saw was a few condescending grins and dismissive glances.

“I’d like to answer that, if I may,” said Valentine. She stood and looked out across the sea of faces staring back at her. “We have only the word of a couple of sailors who admit that they saw ‘something’ and a woman who claims that she had some kind of communication with”—Valentine paused dramatically and Emily half expected the woman to make air quotes; instead, she coated the next word with a heavy tone of sarcasm usually reserved exclusively for the tinfoil hat brigade—“
aliens
. . . who told her we all needed to stay in our cozy reservation.” Her tone changed to a patronizing sweetness and Emily found herself again bristling as Valentine continued. “None of us are arguing that a cataclysmic event overtook our world; we have only to look beyond the borders of our camp. But the suggestion that it was
aliens
?” She let the last word hang in the air, long enough for another well-timed smile of concern. “We have all suffered losses, and we have all experienced untold grief, and most of us have managed to overcome those painful memories and move on, while the impact on others may have been greater, the emotional damage deeper . . . more damaging.”

Did that bitch just call me crazy?
Emily thought.
Seriously?
She almost laughed out loud.
Oh yeah, that would look great. The crazy lady giggling in the center row. They’ll lock me up in a second.

Mac’s hand tightened on her knee.
Easy now,
it said.

Valentine continued, closing her argument, “Well, I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I for one think we need to do a little checking for ourselves. But, of course, that is entirely up to our esteemed council members.”

“I should have fucking shot her when I had the chance,” Emily mumbled a little too loudly, smiling innocently when Mac turned to give her a wide-eyed “use your inner voice” stare.

Valentine continued, her chin tilting upward slightly as though she were personally witnessing the second coming: “Now I know that our very bravest and finest are leaving soon to travel to Svalbard, but I suggest that when they return we organize the expeditionary force of our most trusted citizens to travel into the interior of the red jungle and confirm whether these”—Valentine paused again, as if she was having difficulty finding the right words—“whether these ghost stories are real . . . or not.”

Emily stood up.

“Oh shit!” said Mac, quietly.

“And you’ll be the first to volunteer, I suppose?” yelled Emily, sounding way too calm for anyone who knew her.

All heads turned to look at her.

“Mizz Baxter. I think that you—”

Emily talked right over her. “Oh, and you’d better come up with a plan on how to replace whoever it is you’re going to send off on your little expedition, because I can tell you that those”—she did make air quotes—“
aliens
you are so fucking skeptical of will turn them into mincemeat, or worse.”

“Mizz Baxter, there’s really no need for such language. I am merely drawing attention to the fact that you are the only one to claim to have seen what you allege to have seen. No one besides you and the three men with you has witnessed these—what did you name them?—oh yes, these ‘Caretakers’ you say abducted you. And let’s be honest, I’m sure most people here find it rather unbelievable that if these so-called aliens actually exist that they would choose
you
to pass on their warning. I’m sure you can understand our skepticism.”