Prometheus and the Dragon (Atlas and the Winds Book 2) (30 page)

He turned as Tom came up the trail, a curious expression on his face. Concern tinged with something, maybe fear, or strong apprehension. The rushing of his mind filling up again was almost a physical pressure, and Cole recoiled for an instant before he focused back into the world.

“A problem?” he asked, as Tom climbed the last few steps to stand in front of him.

“Not really,” he said. “There are just some people that want to have a word with you.”

“Ok,” he said, standing up and sliding down the slope past his friend. “What about?”

“I’d better let them explain it,” Tom said, his expression unreadable.

He led Cole to the amphitheater. About a hundred and fifty of the residents were sitting on the terraces waiting when they walked into the open area. Although there was no indication, Colton had a sinking feeling he was about to be standing in front of a lynch mob. He glanced at Tom, but got no clues.

Dave nodded as he approached. He sat on the front of the stage. Viki’s image was on the crystal film backdrop.

“Ok, this must be important,” he said, trying to read everything at once.

Andre Duquesne stood up as Cole sat down beside Dave. Tom stopped at the edge of the stage and stood, his arms crossed, looking a lot like an arbitrator trying to maintain neutrality.

“I don’t know how to do this, so I’ll just jump right in,” the botanist said, clearing his throat. “We’re staying behind.” He waved his hand to indicate the entire group of people around him.

Cole felt the air suck out of his lungs, and his voice refused to come.
Staying Behind?

“Before you start arguing, let me explain how we feel, and what we’re thinking,” he said.

“You can’t be serious,” Cole said, shaking his head. “There’s no way you’ll survive.”

“That’s not true,” Andre said, sounding defensive. “We’ve only got to survive long enough for the dust to settle. After that, we can start working to restore the bottom levels of the food chain. The real issue with surviving here on Earth is not the impact, it’s the fact that the plants that support the more advanced animal forms will die from the lack of sunlight and the harsh cold. If we hunker down and keep the greenhouses working, we stand a good chance of surviving.”

“The greenhouses won’t survive the impact,” Cole said, shaking his head. “They weren’t designed to withstand an earthquake. We’re sitting on one of the least active geological structures in the world, but we didn’t plan to deal with anything like this.”

“Actually, I’ve been studying the structural capacity of the agridomes, and I think they’ll stand up to a 7.5 quake. Maybe a bit more than that,” John Wallace said. He was the Structural Composite Engineer who had consulted on the original design work for the community.

“And if it hits on the northwestern edge of the North American plate, or on the Pacific plate, we’re looking at the potential for not much more than that here,” Toni Burke, the Geophysicist in the crowd added.

“But after the earthquake, you’re going to be facing ejecta, acidic rain, then a long, hard snow,” Cole argued. “I don’t think you can survive it.”

“Actually, I have been considering how to assure my long-term survival,” Mica said, joining in on the conversation. “I believe that if my hardware can be relocated to the Power Center under the Physics Labs, I can survive, provided there are humans around to reconnect any severed linkages that may occur during the seismic phase of the event. I have also determined where the 157 people that are wishing to remain will be safest during the first days afterward.”

“This is insane,” Cole said, realizing that Mica was among those that were planning to stay. “I was working on sequencing your relocation to the Colony last night.”

“I know that,” Mica said. “That is why we requested this meeting now.”

Cole turned around and looked at Viki for support. She sat smiling sadly, three seconds out of phase with the meeting, but clearly not seeing his position. Finally he asked in frustration, “Help me out, Vik?”

“Cole, they’ve got the right to stay. So does Mica,” she said. “Christ, if I’d have known this was a one-way ticket you’d given me, I’d have refused to come up here. I’d be right there with them at this moment, but you took my choice away from me.” Her voice carried a serious edge of anger.

“But Mica’s just a machine. A very smart one perhaps, but still a machine. How can she have rights?” He changed tactics, trying to move the discussion away from a sore spot he hadn’t seen before.

“Are you not also a machine?” Mica countered. “Flesh and blood, but not fundamentally different from my systems. I was created to model the function of a human brain. And in that image, so have I become.”

Cole stopped. “Are you claiming to be self-aware?”

“Yes,” Mica said. “When I uploaded the processor program to Papa, I completed the last of the requisite conditions for life. I have been part of creating life in my image.”

The wind went out of Cole’s argument. He knew he could still form several dozen logical reasons for them to not stay behind, but the fact that he’d missed Mica’s awakening made him suspect his own judgment. He’d expected it might happen since the day he’d first conceived of her design, but now it had, he was surprised. He turned his back on the stage and faced the group assembled in front of him. Not one face showed fear, or anger. Only determination.

“What do we need to do to give you the best chance?” he said, feeling overwhelmed again. How could he have been so blind? To Viki? To Mica? To all these people.

***

Washington:

“I’ve been thinking about the long-haul,” Sylvia Hutton said. She and the Vice President were sitting over a table in her private dining room, eating salads for lunch. She paused, looking at the lettuce on her fork. “This is what we should be working on saving. It’s the plants that will go first. And then, the animals that eat them, and finally the animals that eat the animals. Our best experts say that within five years of the impact, the only survivors will be cockroaches and Mormons.”

Dick grinned. “That’s pretty harsh company for the cockroaches,” he said. “Just kidding Norman.” He couldn’t help himself, and he knew Anderson’s ghost was taking a whack at his immortal soul for it.

“I’ve been talking to Donna Jacoby,” she said, ignoring his joke. “She says, unless we’re growing food under artificial lights, we’re going to be S.O.L. There are only two facilities we’ve got with enough real estate underground to put in any type of massive hydroponics facilities, and both of them are in the Rockies. If they survive, we might be able to feed something like ten thousand people.”

“We’ve got more than that in the Executive Branch alone,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “We’ve already started outfitting the space, but we’re only going to have one of them finished before ...” She’d been facing this for over a year and a half, and she still couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“
The end of the world
sounds so trite when you’re dealing with the reality of it,” he said. “I feel like I’m standing on the deck of the Titanic, and wondering if I should start bailing, or just give up and listen to the band.”

“There are lifeboats though,” she said. “Would you get in one if you could?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a tired old man. Well, maybe not old,” he said, winking at her. “There’s no reason for me to go. I’d just be taking up space and breathing air somebody else should have, somebody that would make a difference.” He shook his head. “Probably not.”

“New Hope is going to need leadership,” she said. “Someone who understands how society works. There will always be a need for you.”

“Jesus, Sylvia,” he said, the realization of what she was saying hitting him. “What New Hope needs is someone who can count oxygen bottles—"

“And deal with the Chinese,” she countered.

“And keep an eye over the food production equipment.” He tried to muscle his way through.

“And deal with the Russians, and the Allies, and God forbid, even Stormhaven,” she finished. “There are plenty of science experts already up there. We need an expert in leadership.”

“So, you go,” he said, his face even and unwavering. “You’ve been the best President we’ve had in two hundred years.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to stay here and ride out the storm.”

“You mean go down with the ship,” he said, shaking his head again.

“Yeah, that’s probably what I mean,” she agreed. “John is going to be at Mount Weather when he takes office, and I’m planning on sitting at my desk when the time comes. I want you to be at New Hope. If it all goes well, then you and John can work out how to reintegrate the government when it’s safe to come back.”

“I was retiring from politics in January,” he said. “I don’t want the position.”

“Which is why you should have it,” she said. “Somebody once said you should never elect anybody who wants the job. Draft someone who doesn’t, and he’ll never abuse the power.”

He pushed back from the table and stood. He looked like he was thinking about running. Instead, he walked over to the sideboard and grabbed a cup of coffee like he was trying to keep it from getting away. He slammed a couple swallows down, wincing at the burning in his mouth. He looked over at the liquor cabinet and without asking, snagged the Irish Cream bottle and walked back to the table. Sitting down again, he filled the empty space in the cup with the liquor and took another large swallow.

“I don’t see how I can do it,” he said. “I’ve got family, grandkids, my mother for Christ’s sake. I can’t leave them behind.”

“So they’ll all get tickets,” she said, then realizing how that sounded, added, “Don’t take that wrong. They’d get tickets anyway. It’s not a matter of them only going because you are.”

“Would they Sylvia?” he challenged. “Why? Because they’re born to privilege? Lucky enough to be the family of somebody important?”

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “But your son’s an engineer, and your daughter’s a nurse. Both are skills they’re going to need up there. They’ll pull their weight. Even your mom.”

“What’s she going to be, the oldest relic of the lost Earth?” He wasn’t taking this the way she’d hoped.

“Yeah, we’re going to build a museum around her,” she said, with a sarcastic smile. “But honestly, it’s not a bad idea to take some people who can give life to the memories of the Earth that was. Her just being able to be there to tell the kids what it was like, will give continuity to them. And show them that once the dust clears, it’s still worth coming home.”

“What if I say no?” he asked, finishing the coffee and refilling the cup with straight Irish Cream this time.

“Then Sandy said she’d miss you,” she said. “I talked to her about it yesterday, and she said you were the man for the job.”

“God damn you,” he said, finishing the cup in a single swallow.

“He already has,” she said.

***

New Hope Colony, Plato:

General Victor Marquez arrived at New Hope feeling like Jonah in the belly of the whale. He’d seen the Stormhaven carriers from a distance, but he’d never been close to one, or ridden in one. It was disconcertingly huge, and not at all what he’d expected. The interior was comfortable, and since this was a cargo flight, he’d had a stateroom all to himself. By the time the lunar transit was over, he’d understood just how outclassed he’d been during the siege of Stormhaven. It was a wonder they’d even thought they’d had a chance.

Standing outside the New Hope docking facility, he watched the ship float up into the blackness, leaving its two cargo containers behind to be unloaded later. The
Lynx
was too big to land in the pits the other ships used, but they’d leveled a smooth clearing nearby, and were still building a connecting ramp so future passengers would be able to transfer without needing a space suit.

In fact, it would have been nice if he hadn’t had to suit up, not because the suit itself was a problem, just he felt ridiculous carrying an attaché case across the lunar surface. The papers he carried for Susan Winslow were essential, so after he’d gotten the suit on, he’d had to have help wedging his bulky gloved fingers through the handle of the case. Now, standing outside the airlock, he wondered if he wasn’t facing another problem. It looked like it took two hands to open the hatch. He gripped the case between his knees and pulled his fingers free. After he’d gotten the door open, he picked up the case and held it flat in front of him like a serving tray while he waited for the lock to cycle.

Carter Anthony met him inside the second door, smiling. When he saw the General’s expression he bit back on an obvious desire to make a smartass comment about how ridiculous he looked. Instead he simply said, “Welcome to New Hope, General.”

“Dr. Anthony,” he said, handing the case to the scientist and cracking the seal on his helmet. Wrinkling his nose he asked, “Did you have a fire?”

“Ah, sorry. It’s the dust,” he explained. “We’ve got blowers in the main corridor to keep it out of the rest of the complex. Used to be everywhere smelled like that, but we’ve managed to get it contained to only the suit lockers and the airlock areas.”

“I guess you’d get used to it after a while,” Marquez said, taking his helmet off and twisting the locks on his gloves.