LOCAL EVENT (a novel) - CHAPTER 1
by Steve Orr
CHAPTER ONE - The Book
April 23, 2038
His carriage erect, his shoulders squared, Ansel Yopp strode through the Great Hall at a pace that belied his years even though he knew he would pay for his bravado with aching muscles and sore joints. However, since he knew that Davidson, hurrying along in his wake, would make note of his apparent vitality and could be counted on to tell the others, it was worth the price.
The room was a rough isosceles triangle. Yopp's immediate goal was a little reading area before the massive fireplace which formed the "peak" of the three-sided hall. To either side of the fireplace, stretching over 20 feet along each wall were floor-to-ceiling windows. He settled into the wingback chair and gifted himself with a long, savoring gaze out the tall glass panels. He saw a breathtaking view of the waterfalls, sparkling in the sunlight of, by alpine standards, a beautiful spring day. Windows like that were just two of the joys of living in a house with twenty-foot ceilings.
Reluctantly, he tore himself away from the view and looked at the book Davidson had urged upon him just minutes earlier. According to the stamp on the spine, it was published by Third Coast Press, whatever that was. On the cover, in garish colors, was a large rock hurtling through space, apparently on a collision course with the Earth. The rock seemed to be on fire -- on fire . . . in outer space. Above this were the words, "The Strike: Coincidence or Conspiracy?" The large letters of the title appeared to have been hewn from the same flame-edged rock. Below, in similar but smaller letters, was the author's name, "Charles Dexter." The words also appeared to be rushing to bombard the Earth.
Quickly, before Davidson could do it, Yopp reached out and pulled the floor lamp closer to the chair. At one-hundred-twenty-three years, he was, to the best of his knowledge, the oldest man on the planet. Despite all the years, he felt healthy and strong. He resented having people always trying to do things for him. Hadn't he clawed his way to the top of this organization? Did they really think he would let something like age impair his ability to lead? Besides, it just plain got on his nerves to have them hovering about all the time.
Ignoring Davidson for the moment, he opened the book to the Preface and read silently:
It finally happened. After all those stories and books, all those radio plays, television shows, movies, and mini-series on holovision; after all the scientific speculation about what could happen, should happen, would happen; after all the publishing in journals, it really did, finally, happen. Shortly after the beginning of the third millennium of the so-called "Christian era", a sizeable chunk of space dust finally found its way to the Earth.
Perhaps you wonder at the title to this book. How, you might ask, could it be anything but a coincidence? How could anything so massive, so destructive, so . . . astronomical be the result of a conspiracy?
But, suppose for just a moment, suppose you really believed it was a conspiracy. You would have to wonder just what kind of beings would have the ability to rain death down on an entire planet. The scale, alone, boggles the mind. There is an even more fantastic consideration. What kind of beings would do such a thing?
Many people will read no further. Some may have already closed the book and moved on down the aisle. Only those of you who have always wondered remain; only those who are labeled 'paranoid' by unbelievers. You know, though, don't you? You know about
Yopp was already irritated at Davidson for his solicitude; and now, this book. The writing was amateurish; even the punctuation was done poorly. He had the distinct impression of conflicting styles; as if more than one person had written it. Why was he even bothering with this thing? Behind him, he could hear the voices of the children playing out on the lawn. Well … yes … that's why he did these things. If not for the children, he would never involve himself with such matters.
With a wave of his hand, he indicated that Davidson should sit, then smiled to himself because the only place nearby was the ottoman. It positioned the younger man slightly lower in relation to himself.
Speaking without preamble, his gravelly voice echoing faintly in the cavernous room, he asked, "Why have you brought this to me?"
Davidson had not quite lowered his bottom onto the ottoman and now stopped with mere inches to go. "Well, your eminence, I thought it might be important."
"Tell me Davidson, do you call me 'your eminence' because you respect me or because that's what you want to be called when you manage to take my place?"
Davidson's face turned a deep crimson.
Having gotten what he wanted, Yopp moved on. "Never mind. Sit, sit! Tell me about this book and why it is so important that it needs my personal attention."
Still red in the face, Davidson sat. He cleared his throat. "It came to my attention that this book, the distribution of it I should say, was quashed by Lars Wol over two years ago. We’re puzzled why he never reported to us that he did so."
"The real mystery," countered Yopp, "is that he ever bothered with it in the first place! Just look at it. What possible impact could a piece of trash like this have on us?"
Flipping it open to the same page, he found the place where he had stopped before, and read aloud.
If we are going to find the truth, though, we are going to have to move beyond speculation. We have to start with what everyone knows.
It's been said that numerous "strikes" have occurred in the deep past. Some believe just such a strike killed off the dinosaurs. However, with the possible exception of the mysterious Siberian explosion of 1908, there have been no large strikes in recorded history. If comets or killer asteroids or giant meteors have hit the Earth, the best we can do is point to craters and cracks in the ground as evidence of the events.
Still, most everyone thought it was just a matter of time before it happened again. So, when the announcement finally did come, one would think people would not have been so unprepared. But almost every person on the planet was unprepared. Almost every person.
The stories of what happened before The Strike are numerous, and can be found in any bookstore or library. The fear and panic, the suicides, the murders and other acts of lawlessness have all been well documented.
Yopp looked up from the page, staring off into the distance. "What was Wol thinking? Why involve himself with this? We've seen these I-Found-Atlantis-In-The-Bermuda-Triangle kinds of books, before. The decision was made long ago to just leave them alone, to allow the conspiracy buffs a little bone to gnaw on."
Davidson shifted on the ottoman, apparently unable to make himself comfortable. "Sir, I think this section is not a true representation of..."
Yopp resumed reading aloud, his voice drowning Davidson's.
As we all now know, The Strike was not the extinction level event so many had postulated. At the (cosmically) last minute, the big brute broke apart. We all call what happened "The Strike"; but, in truth, there were many strikes, scattered across the globe; each one of them a local event.
The stories of what happened, as each chunk slid down our gravity well and into history, are as numerous as the lives of those affected by the impacts. The effects of those impacts have been long-term. We even divide our memories between BTS and ATS.
It has been almost two decades since The Strike. Yet, questions remain. What were the forces that shaped these events?
Or, instead of “what,” should we be asking, "who?"
Was it all just a big cosmic coincidence? Or was it accomplished through an intricate and devious plan? Only now are we beginning to discover the truth.
What kinds of beings could do such a thing -- would do such a thing? The most dangerous kind of beings in the known universe. Human beings.
Yopp raised his eyes from the page, this time fixing them on Davidson. "Now, really, does that sound like something we should fear? There's not enough reality in there to matter."
"Sir, I think you should read something besides that page. I've taken the liberty of marking certain sections. If you will read those, I think you will see the problem."
Yopp continued to stare at Davidson for several seconds. Then, he closed the book, setting it on the side table next to a small handbell. He lifted his eyes to the enormous hearth and continued to stare at it until Davidson cleared his throat again. At that, Yopp picked up the bell and rang it.
To Davidson he said, almost offhandedly, “Where is my angel?”
Flustered at the change of subject, Davidson struggled to respond. Before he could do so Yopp asked, clearly agitated, “Well? Where is he?! It’s been over a year now. Why do you waste my time with such matters as this book, when you should be bringing me a report on my angel?
Finally finding his voice, Davidson sputtered, “But sir … the book…”
"Oh, all right! I'll give it some thought. Leave me now … and find my angel!"
He could see that Davidson resented the dismissal, wanted to say more, but kept it in check.
He watched Davidson leave, passing the servant arriving with a load of firewood. While the servant busied himself building the fire, Yopp reclaimed the book.
He had, of course, lied to Davidson. Even in the rubbish he'd just read there was enough truth for them to worry. He would read the selected sections, and more. Indeed, the irritation of a few moments ago was gone.
Looking again at the book's cover, he felt something else, something that caused him to shiver. At first, he could not identify what it was. When he finally did understand, he realized his chill went beyond what the fire could address. For the first time in several decades, Ansel Yopp felt the chill of fear.
####
The Hill
Sal's weekly meeting with the Congressional Oversight Committee was not going well. For starters, the heat in the meeting room was pervasive and inescapable. The relentless questioning ground on her, as well.
"Ms. Wozniak? Are you familiar with a term or concept referred to as U-D-M? Have you and your folks gathered any information on this?"
The question came from the new Chairman of the Oversight Committee. Sal reviewed what she knew about the woman; Southerner, bright, multi-term member of the House, extremely ambitious.
Chairwoman? How did she want to be addressed? Oh, yes. "Sorry, Madam Chairman, I have no knowledge of such."
"Mmm. Well." Sal watched as she wrote on a pad of paper. "Then do you have any information on a person named Charles Dexter?"
"Sorry, Madam Chairman, I have no knowledge of such."
The Chair, again, made notes on her pad. Sal had lost count of the number of questions to which she had responded "no knowledge of such."
"I've done some checking on you, Ms. Wozniak. The previous Chair of this committee was very forthcoming when I telephoned and asked about you. He says you have a problem with -- How did he put it? -- 'deliverables?' He told me you and your staff seem to always be busy, but that you rarely finish anything. I must say, I have begun to wonder, as well. Tell us, Ms. Wozniak, what have you done for us, lately?"
Nothing Sal did to ease the impact of the heat had any lasting effect. She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs for the momentary relief it gave her. It didn't help that she had to wear so many layers of clothing to attend these things. Never far from the center of her thoughts was the desire to shed some of it, all of it (maybe just the nylons) . . . any of it!
From her seat near the foot of the long, oval table, Sal was not even an arm's length away from the thermostat. She could see it was cranked all the way up to 35C. She desperately wanted to reach out and dial it down to a far more comfortable 25C, or, better still, 20C. It was so close, so tantalizing.
She knew better, though.
Besides, honesty kept her from blaming it all on the thermostat. Not a little of the heat coming her way was political, with the main source being the Chairman, herself. The fruitless questions had been streaming toward her for the better part of an hour. She had yet to recognize a single reference.
"Ms. Wozniak? Did you understand the question? The Committee is waiting."
Madam Chairman's honeyed tones, a product of her southern heritage, often served to misdirect her opponents from a razor-sharp intellect, itself a product her genetic heritage and the best education
Sal was not taken in by the woman's drawl. She knew exactly what was going on here. She was being put in her place. She wanted to reply in kind, but held back because she knew the stakes. Sal was not in a position of strength, here. This Oversight Committee had the power to shut down her baby, and this particular Oversight Committee would do whatever its Chairman wanted. The change in administrations had seen to that.
Sal looked from face to face.
With the notable exception of their chairman, there were no women serving on the Oversight Committee. She knew that most of them would, given the chance, be looking up her dress. She supposed she appreciated it in a certain way. Still, she doubted she would have to dress this way if any of them had any experience wearing women's clothing, and none of them did. Then her eyes lit upon the esteemed member from a small
And, she thought, every person here had reason to want her gone. She was the only barrier between them and their dominance of her staff. She hadn't made any friends here over the years.
Sal remembered the early days. The face-to-face meetings, then, were annual. She'd enjoyed a truly collegial relationship with the original committee Chair. And she missed it still. A lot can change in 15 years, especially in the shifting political landscape of
Sal decided now was the time for her prepared remarks. Collecting the eyes of all the members, Sal then focused her gaze on the Chairman and gave them all a truly dazzling smile. It was a high wattage, photo-op kind of smile. It was the one her mother's sister had called her 'angel smile,' and it was the reason classmates at the Academy had dubbed her 'the shark' ("Sure man, it's plenty toothy. It's just not a smile.").
"Madam Chairman. Esteemed members of the committee. I appreciate this opportunity to speak with you today." She spoke the words from memory. This was the same formal opening she had used the last one hundred times (and change) she had appeared here. "As many of you know, The Core's charter calls for us to concentrate our activities on the policing of the Federal Investigators, the FINs. Your questions, today, while certainly intriguing, do not appear to fall within our charter."
The Chairman interrupted. "Oh, yes, the fabled government bogeymen. The FINs."
Before she could go on, the door behind Sal opened and a member of Madam Chairman's staff hurried to the front of the room. She leaned close and spoke so low that Sal couldn't hear. She did see Madam Chairman's eyebrows rise, just a fraction. Turning back to face the group, she said, "I apologize to you all, but I must close out this session, immediately. My staff will make contact regarding a re-schedule. Ms. Wozniak? Could you come forward please?"
Such was her power that none of them questioned her abrupt adjournment. As the Committee members, most with puzzled looks on their faces, exited from the room, Sal swam against the tide, slowly making her way to the front.
The Chair did not speak until everyone else had exited the room. Handing Sal a small piece of paper, folded once, she said, "It appears you have a little crisis to handle."
She watched as Sal opened the note and read its contents. When Sal looked up, stunned at what she'd read, the Chair was smirking.
"You realize, of course, if this kind of thing keeps happening, there won't be anything left for your little group to do. Now, wouldn't that be a shame?"
Without another word, Madam Chairman turned her back on Sal and strode from the room.
####
The Metro
So, thought Sal, the woman in the apartment is dead. It was an unwelcome bit of news, more so in that she had learned it from the Chair of the Oversight Committee. That's just great, she thought, making a sour face, one more nail in our coffin. She would have to investigate as soon as she got back.
"Farragut West," purred the standard announcement in a deep, male, voice. "Doors opening on the right. This is the Orange Line to
Packed into the subway car, literally shoulder to shoulder, Sal had to admit, at least to herself, that she was not happy.
As the doors opened, people flooded all around her, leaving the car to accomplish whatever business they intended in the blocks surrounding The White House. In her distracted state, she was almost carried out with them. Then, as others poured into the car, she found herself being pushed deeper in. She snagged a purchase on a pole near the door.
Sal Wozniak smoked too much and she drank too much. She knew these things about herself. Neither was the cause of her present unhappiness, though. A growing part of it had to do with the way she looked. Her not-as-blond-as-it-used-to-be hair came from a bottle these days. She had a hint of a double chin and she hated it. She could see in the mirror that she was heavier. Sal was on the downhill slide. Such was her self-perception.
The truth, she had been told by others, was the exact opposite. She still retained much of her earlier beauty. She was no longer model thin, but the extra fleshiness laid on by the years, and by her vices, made for a pleasing effect rather than the other way around. Of course, she dismissed this. Sal had never been one to look beyond herself for personal affirmations. So, the periodic appreciative comments she heard did nothing to alter her own negative perception. She held, as her mother used to say, firm views.
"Please stand clear of the doors," harped the announcement, this time as a perturbed female. Sal could see that the doors were not closing completely. However, on each attempt, they got a bit closer together.
"Please stand clear of the doors," it cried again. Then, Sal felt the crowd shift, saw the doors close, and they were underway.
None of this was at the forefront of her thinking. She was aware of it, but not distracted by it. She was unhappy, mostly, because the meeting on the Hill had not gone well. Sal was worried about funding. The Core (my baby … my brainchild) was in jeopardy; she felt its days were numbered. If the Oversight Committee decided to cut off funding, it was history.
Sounding exactly like the well-known host of an all night easy listening program on cable-audio, the voice said, "Foggy Bottom.
Her thoughts went back to the Committee meeting. She had tried, for the umpteenth time, to reason with them. Once again she tried to get the Committee to see that what it was she did was stalking; stalking the bad guys. That was what the Core had been designed to do. The proper term, the less exciting term, the one used by the Committee members, was "surveillance." Instead, they saw the Core as an arm of their committee, developed and funded so that their part of the federal government could keep tabs on other parts of the federal government.
Rocking slightly with the Metro car as it followed its Stygian path under the
In this case, the "watchmen" were the FINs, the Federal Investigators. As far as Sal was concerned, they were the enemy. If asked to explain that, she would have said, "Absolute power corrupts absolutely."
She knew that their power was not really absolute, but it was extensive enough to have corrupted several of them. That is where The Core came in. As sordid as it might seem to an outsider, Sal knew that she directed an effort of high purpose and of unusual importance.
Plato was wrong, she thought, there's nothing absurd about guarding these guardsmen.
Over the years, The Core had scored several impressive successes, bringing an extensive array of technologies to the task. Early on, they had nailed several of the original target group, FINs who thought they could act with impunity. Those people weren't acting with anything, anymore. But, in recent years high profile wins, the kind needed to keep their black ops funding flowing, had been sparse. It was beginning to look, even to Sal, like
The Core's glory days were gone. In
"Rosslyn," soothed the announcement. "First stop in
She wondered why they had never changed the announcements on this line. It's not like any of us can actually go to
####
As the crowd flowed out of the car and onto the platform, Sal allowed herself to be carried along. She was swept up the stairs and on outside to face the cold and gray of April in
The tread of her steps purposeful and steady, she headed up the hill. The sunlight was wan; she could barely feel its warmth. All the same, it was nice to be outside, even if only for a short time. She could have taken the tunnels, but she felt she had earned a few minutes of open air. Besides, the Rosslyn area was safe enough, especially during the day. She let her mind fill up with the sensations of sun, wind, and snow.
Too soon, the non-descript granite building that housed, among other things, The Core, appeared on her horizon. The closer she got, the larger it appeared, and the more her thoughts turned to what was ahead for her. She would have to address the matter of the dead woman, and then, she would have to do some serious thinking about how to save her baby.
####
The Core
“Ground Level” was the only open-air entrance to the building, and was as nondescript as that of any other federal building in the DC area. Sal took the elevator down to “Tunnel Level” where she rejoined the crowd of people entering and leaving via the vast tunnel system connecting all buildings in the
Before her were several rows of floor-to-ceiling file cabinets; a narrow catwalk fronted each row at about the six-foot level. She turned left and walked a short distance to one of the unlit corners of the room. Facing the wall, she raised her hands, palms out, to be level with her eyes. She waited for the scan. There were no lights or sounds to indicate it was taking place. Its sole purpose was to verify a set of biometric implants. Anyone attempting entrance without them would be met by armed personnel and escorted to a holding area until a determination could be made about them. Once the scan was done, a narrow portion of the wall to her immediate left slid open. She stepped through it into a large room.
As soon as the wall section closed, the entire room began to descend. The one-floor drop took her to the first security checkpoint. When the opposite wall opened, she was met by six armed Marines. They stood behind lexawall barriers, their weapons pointed at her through narrow slits. She took off her coat, boots, and gloves, dropping them onto a conveyer belt on her immediate right. Once they had been cleared for possible biohazards, and any other potential threat, they would be returned to this checkpoint for her to claim when she left the building. She then walked directly to the 'decon' room under the alert eyes of the Marine guards. Closing the door gave Sal some privacy, but she was quite aware those weapons were still aimed in her direction.
Once inside, she disrobed, placing her clothing into a large plastic bin. These, too, would be processed and held until her return. Sal placed her hands on rungs embedded in opposite walls, and then she placed her feet on cold metal pads set widely apart in the floor. The effect, she knew, was to make her appear as a human 'X' with a head. Many might find the situation uncomfortable. Sal gave it no thought at all. She had designed all the security protocols for entrance to and exit from the building; to her, this was part of going to work every day. These scans came with lights and sounds. Their purpose was to discern any biological threat that might be on, or in, her body.
Once the scanning was done, the 'decon' room opened automatically into another. There she donned a blue jumpsuit and comfortable sneakers.
She walked back through the 'decon' room, opened the door, and once again faced the Marines. Weapons following her passage, she stepped back into the elevator and she waited.
A metallic sounding voice said, "Clear."
At that, the Marines lowered their weapons, the doors closed, and she continued her descent.
When the elevator stopped a few seconds later, she exited and walked down a short corridor. At the end were several scan stations. Going to one, she stepped onto the base, placed her palms on the respective hand scanners, and leaned forward to align her eyes with the retinal scanners. At the word, "Clear," her station rotated 180 degrees. When she stepped back, she was in a different corridor, one that led to a third, more conventional elevator. This time, the drop took a full minute.
At the end, she walked out into a brightly-lit lobby. There were Marines here, as well, but none with weapons drawn. Blocking the path from the elevator was a desk. She stopped there and retrieved a photo ID card that would adhere to her jumpsuit. Without a word, she moved past the desk and into a short hall. No one challenged her; at this level, she was the ranking person. She swiped the ID card through a reader, and then smoothed it onto the front of her jumpsuit as a door opened into The Core.
When she had designed it, her inspiration had been a can of tuna. Of course, she had never actually told anyone that. Government workers were notorious for appending humorous nicknames to their buildings and agencies. She was serious about her work, and could not abide anyone making light of it, even the work space. Mostly, it was one very large, circular room, its diameter more than twice its height. But, with the screens filling almost half the circumference, and tier upon tier of console stations terraced up the other half, the room seemed smaller than it was. It existed in perpetual twilight. In fact, none of the people who worked so industriously within it, save Sal, had ever seen it in greater illumination. Outside light did not reach The Core.
Stepping up to her station at the center of the main floor, Sal could see that each person was going about his or her work at a steady, thoughtful, pace. Everything was not in readiness, though. She had expected to return to find things neat and tidy. Instead, here and there wall panels and floor plates were still open, providing a clear view of The Core's naked entrails. Heads appeared at floor level and backsides jutted from the walls where service technicians were implementing her latest budget wizardry.
The repairs and upgrades were needed, at least in her view. The fact that the Oversight Committee wouldn't allocate funds for them wasn't about to keep Sal from making them. She just had to take the monies from somewhere else. She wondered, without any true concern for the answer, if they would someday find out what she had done.
Due to what the Chairwoman had called "the present downtime," the Core had been reduced to performing routine surveillance activities on whatever persons or groups were deemed important by the Oversight Committee. These were really pet projects, though, and it galled Sal to have to do them.
At the moment, the denizens of The Core were busily trying to determine why the subject of their current assignment was dead. All manner of sensitive equipment had been secreted within the woman's apartment. Today was to have been the first day they observed her. What they had planned to do was check each surveillance device, ensure its operability, and then check each backup device for the same thing. They were going to do a test recording of all the data flows. Today was supposed to have been a low key "shakedown cruise."
When they brought up the sensors for the initial run through, they discovered instead an apartment full of police, crime scene investigators, medical examiners, and EMT's. And, of course, the dead woman. Even though she would never say it out loud, Sal was thinking, Well, at least this will be interesting. But, she also knew that, with one less person to surveil, her group was going to move one step closer to zero funding.
Raising her voice slightly, she said, "All right boys and girls. Listen up! Please include the following in your search routines: the letters U-D-M -- probably an acronym of some sort -- , and the name 'Charles Dexter' -- that’s D-E-X-T-E-R. Oh, and reprioritize 'hummingbird' to 1-A. We need to find out what that refers to. It's been two weeks since that first came to our attention and I've had nothing from you.
"Now, we're going to go ahead with our data flow check. Or, as best we can with repairs continuing. While we're at it, let’s see if we can find out what happened to Ms. Powers while our backs were turned, hmmm? Let's get everything recorded. Hopefully, we can learn something use ---."
Even though she had been talking to the tiers, she had been facing the screens. The largest screens in the center, about forty of them, were combined to show an oversized view of the dead woman's
"Target!" she barked.
Suddenly, everyone in The Core was scrambling to get fully operational. She waited, impatiently, as the seconds seemed to crawl by.
Near the ten-second mark a crisp female voice called out of the twilight, "Our database indicates the target is Samuel Jones. He is one of the original Federal Investigators, fully empowered. His record is spotless. We have never been able to catch him abusing his portfolio." Sal made a mental note that this report came from Hardiwick. She thought, Way to go, girl.
Without taking her eyes off the screens, Sal called out new orders. "Full push. I want every thing. I want to know why he is at that apartment. I do not believe in coincidences, so don't try to sell me any! And turn up the volume. I don't want to miss a single word."
Up on the screens, the FIN was arguing with someone, most likely the police detective in charge. She saw that the detective, if that's what he was, had lost the battle. The sound came up. People in the apartment were gathering up equipment, closing notebooks, and heading for the door. She could hear people grumbling and cursing, but not loud enough to bring any of them to the FIN's attention.
This is going to be more interesting than I thought. She lit a cigarette and settled back to watch.
