Ark (8 page)

15

T
he crowd that had gathered around the clean obelisk of the veterans’ monument, before the steps of the State Capitol, was smaller than Holle might have expected, only a couple of hundred. A selected group, but most of those close to the heart of the Ark project seemed to be there.

President Vasquez herself was already in place by the time the Candidates got there. She was a stocky woman in a dark blue suit, standing behind a lightweight podium bearing the presidential seal. She had a backing of military people, cops, city officials and suited security officers. Periodically checking her watch, Vasquez spoke to a man in a blue air force uniform. Stern-faced, tanned, very fit, he might have been sixty.

The day was dull, overcast, but warm, humid. Not a typical midsummer Colorado day, old-timers said, but then no day was typical any more. The Capitol looked the worse for wear, the pale stone streaked by years of dirty rain, but two big Stars and Stripes hung on poles to either side, stirring in the fitful breeze. Holle glanced back over the park, which was fenced off from the government buildings around it. Marble pavements had been dug up to reveal raw earth, and shabby residents worked on rows of potatoes. Potatoes were the Food of the Flood, according to official government advice.

Standing in the crowd, Holle felt self-conscious in her colorful uniform, aware of resentful glances from those around her. The Candidates were becoming celebrities, of a sort, even to their coworkers. Though hundreds worked on various aspects of the project, such as the huge construction sites out at Gunnison, few even knew that the whole idea was to build a starship. But even so it was clear the Candidates were being groomed for some great adventure. Not many in Denver were leading aspirational lives, and a lot of people liked to follow the Candidates’ activities, their ups and downs, as if they were characters in some reality TV show. Some of the Candidates played up to it. Kelly and Don competed over hits on their blogs. But the downside was resentment and envy.

Holle recognized a lot of the faces around her, including the rich men and women of LaRei, some of them parents of Academy students themselves. The parents, huddled in little knots talking seriously, were mostly men, fathers. The Candidates had observed that many of their number came from families without a mother, like Holle, Kelly, Zane. Maybe only fathers dreamed of shooting their children off into space. Edward Kenzie, Kelly’s father, wasn’t here, however. Holle had heard rumors that he was spending a lot of time at Yellowstone Park, pursuing a different Ark project—Ark Two, maybe. But if Kelly knew anything about that she wasn’t saying. Secrecy was everywhere, endemic.

Holle’s father found her. He gave her a brief hug. “Hi, sweets.” He looked tired, edgy. But then he always looked tired and edgy.

“Any idea what’s going on, Dad?”

“I just got called out of a meeting, and then called you.”

“If something’s going on you should know about it.”

Patrick shook his head. There was movement on the podium. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

Suddenly this was a key day, an exceptional moment. Holle felt a knot in her stomach tighten. As a Candidate, always aware of the possibility of expulsion, you lived with an edge of anxiety, and you didn’t like surprises.

A suited aide stepped up to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said simply, “the President of the United States.”

Linda Vasquez stepped forward, pocketing a phone and checking her watch as she did so. She glanced at the military man to her right. “The cordon is complete, Gordo? I can speak freely?”

“Correct, ma’am.”

“All right.” She glared around. She was a heavyset woman; she looked strong, ageless to Holle. She had held the presidency for four full terms, almost, three years longer than Holle had even been alive. Rumor had it she was planning to run for a fifth come the elections in the autumn. Holle found it difficult to imagine anybody else in her role. When Vasquez spoke, her voice still carried the lilt of the New York Alphabet City slums where she’d grown up, and which had slumped under the waters in the days of her first administration.

“I guess you know who I am. And, looking around, I know who you are. This is Ark One, right? You are the group who are intending to fly an honest-to-God starship right out of here, out of Colorado. And for this reason, this remarkable, wonderful, hopeful goal, my administration has been happy to back you. And also because of the synergy. The nation will need a space launch capability in the event of any meaningful recovery program in the future.

“But now things are changing. The flood doesn’t let up, in case you haven’t noticed. In the last year alone the water rose another seventy meters. Seventy meters! And that vertical rise translates into much more lost territory as the water pushes inland across the continents.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I get out of bed in the morning, and I look at my daily update, and I still can’t believe what we’re having to deal with.”

Holle was amazed that a president should speak to them this way.

“However, deal with it we have to, as best we can. I continually review and revise my priorities. And as the flood keeps on pressing, what were once outlandish options for the worst case slowly become more realistic, more vital. Because in the end those extreme options might be all we have left.

“Which brings me to Ark One.” Unexpectedly, she slammed the podium with her fist; there was a blare of feedback that made Holle jump. “And what’s been going on here is simply not acceptable. Chaotic organizational forms, lack of leadership, waste, infighting and general confusion are strangling this project. You’ve had seven years since the start-up meeting that kicked off the whole thing. Am I right? Seven years. I’m told it’s only a couple of years since you even got together a feasible design—I say ‘feasible’; my science adviser tells me that in this case that means a design that doesn’t actually break the laws of physics. And you haven’t flown so much as a Fourth of July rocket out of Gunnison yet. Seven years! The Second World War was won in four.”

“Six,” Patrick murmured to Holle in his soft Scottish brogue.

For a panicky instant Holle was convinced the President was going to cancel the Ark altogether.

But Vasquez said, “Things are going to change. As of now the civilian administration of Ark One is over. By presidential order I’m hereby requisitioning the project, its personnel and all its resources. From now on Ark One will be run under the auspices of the air force. Consultants from NASA and other agencies will be attached to the project as appropriate, but again under overall air force command. If you’ve been following the news you may observe that this isn’t out of character for my administration. I took similar drastic action last year when I sent the army and the National Guard into those Friedmanburgs up in the Great Plain states. There will be a trade-off. I will lock in place the resources for you to complete the work, even if some other asshole is standing here addressing you a year from now, after the election. Let me begin that process by putting a personal stamp on the thing. ‘Ark One’ is kind of a dry name, isn’t it? Numbers never got my heart beating too fast. From now on you’re ‘Project Nimrod.’ You’ll find out why.”

Vasquez took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her forehead; for a moment she looked like a weary old woman. Nobody spoke; there wasn’t a sound, save for a breeze that sang softly in the cords of the twin flags.

“You may wonder why I don’t just shut you down. Some lobby for more resources to be devoted to potential recovery projects, rather than last-resort options like this. Even among the pessimists there are those who argue I should turn over what’s left of our infrastructure to more practical activities, like building rafts. I still believe we are capable of more than that.” She paused, and looked around at her audience. Holle felt a peculiar thrill when it seemed the President looked directly at her. Vasquez said, “I’m no John Kennedy. If you want to hear the speech he gave on 25th May 1961, go find it. But the mandate I’m giving you now is similar. You have a challenge to fulfill that is immeasurably harder than flying to the moon, yet immeasurably more important. Your starship must be ready to fly by 2040, or all our futures may be lost. I guess that’s all. Do good work.” And she stepped back from the podium.

The crowd broke up into humming discussions.

Holle saw LaRei big beasts stalking Jerzy Glemp. “Jerzy, you bastard, you sold us out. All the fucking money I pumped into this—it’s my ship, damn it . . .” Jerzy backed off, his hands spread defensively.

Patrick murmured, “So Jerzy engineered this takeover. Can’t say I’m surprised. We needed the resources, the leadership. But I wonder what kind of deal he struck for himself. He’ll have made enemies today.”

Holle didn’t care about the politicking. She tugged Patrick’s sleeve. “Gee, Dad. That was historic, wasn’t it? Wow. The President! But what do we do now?”

“I guess we’re going to find out.” He didn’t seem excited or enthused.

He just looked more tired than ever.

Both their phones sounded.

16

H
olle’s call was a summons back to the Academy. By the time she got there, the students were lining up in the big North Atrium on the museum’s ground floor, an open space of three stories of brickwork and a glass roof, where the museum’s café had once been housed.

And here was the big, upright sixty-year-old military man who had stood by the President at her podium, his uniform air force blue. With a handful of aides at his side, he climbed on a step, facing the students. A couple of youngsters in uniforms, unknown to Holle, stood beside him, standing military fashion, legs apart, hands behind their backs. The Academy staff lined up nervously by one wall, before a whiteboard.

The officer began to speak while the latecomers were still filing into the room.

“My name is Gordon James Alonzo. My friends call me Gordo. To you I’m the Colonel. If you want to know who I am and what I’ve done, Google me. Do you little assholes still say ‘Google’? Whatever. You’ll learn I was air force trained, and flew shuttles with NASA. And now, at the President’s request, here I am back in air force blue, and taking on this fucking shambles of a space project. That includes turning this kindergarten into something that resembles a crew training academy.” He glared at the Candidates, some of whom were as young as eleven. “I’m not going to spare you, by the way. I’m sure your language is a lot filthier than mine.

And anyhow, if your performance records are anything to go by, most of you aren’t going to be around here long enough for my foul mouth to make a difference one way or another.

“I looked over the records of the classes that were going on here just this morning. Sociology! Ethics! Jesus Christ. And I’ll tell you one thing.” He looked at the staff. “There’ll be no more treasonous abider bullshit here. Is that clear? From now on things are going to change. Your training, those of you who survive the cull, will be wholly based on aspects of the actual project you’re working on. Ship’s systems—propulsion, comms, environment control, life support, G&N, that’s guidance and navigation, pressure suits, cockpit integration. Oh, and general relativity and all that horseshit. Also wider aspects of the project, planet-finding, recovery systems, mission planning, training programs. If you’re smart you’ll pick a specialism and dive into it. Make yourself indispensable to the program—indispensable to
me.
Don’t try to hide. If you do, you’ll be out.

“Everything will be purposeful. Even your recreation time will be focused on the physical aspects of the mission. No more fucking soft-ball. Ben, make a note,” he said, turning to an aide. “We ought to get a centrifuge up here. And we need to get some flight training, or anyhow flight experience. How about a Vomit Comet? At least we could rig up a zero-G table. And so on and so forth.” He glared at the Candidates. “Any questions?”

There was a long, stunned silence. Then, to her own surprise, Holle found herself raising a hand. “Colonel—why ‘Project Nimrod’?”

His eyes narrowed. “Fair question. I guess you don’t major on Bible studies here. Genesis 10, verses 8 to 10: ‘And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth . . . And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad . . .’ This is only generations after the Flood of Noah, and there is Nimrod, already King of Babel. I guess you know what happened in Babel, right? Chapter 11, verse 4. ‘And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven.’ ”

Wilson Argent put his hand up. “But, Colonel—are you comparing Ark One to Babel? God punished them when they built the tower.”

“So He did. But why? Genesis 11:6. ‘Now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.’ God feared us. And that’s why we’re calling ourselves after Nimrod.”

“Wow,” Wilson said. “You’re challenging God? Sir.”

“Why the hell not? It was the President’s idea.” He glanced over at the staff members lined up before a whiteboard. He pointed at Harry Smith, who flinched. “You! Write it up on that board. Yes, now. ‘Nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.’ ”

Harry found a stylus and wrote up the words, which were translated into a bold font by the board’s character-recognition software.

Alonzo put his hands on his hips. “And as for you pampered little assholes, I want to make it clear to you right from the git-go that things are going to be different around here. Daddy’s money got you in here. It won’t keep you here—not unless you prove you’re more valuable than the competition. And here’s the start of that competition.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come forward, you two.”

The two youngsters behind him stepped up, looking uncertain. One wore air force blue, the other a kind of police uniform. They snapped to attention, straight and tall.

Alonzo glared at the students. “You kids in this pansy palace don’t know the half of what’s going on out there in the real world. Well, these two are no older than many of you, but they’ve been out there. Mel Belbruno here is what I used to be, an air force brat. But he’s been in a cadet corps since he was ten, and has gotten himself experience with what’s left of NASA. He’s a real life space cadet, and he’s precisely the kind of student that ought to be working on this mission.

“And this here is Matt Weiss. Matt’s in a police cadet corps with Denver PD. You want to know where Matt cut his teeth? Out on the front line, on the coastline of what’s left of America, a coast that recedes every day. Matt has been out there helping senior DPD officers choose whose children get to land and whose don’t, and implementing those choices. Which of you has experience to compare with that?”

Kelly Kenzie put her hand up. “Colonel Alonzo, I don’t deny the validity of what you say. But there’s no room here, on the course. We’ve all been training specifically for this mission for years. If these two are to join—”

“Good point, blondie. I’ll have to make room,” he said with a cold brutality. His gaze swept along the row.

Holle saw people cringe back as if from a laser beam. She told herself to stand tall.

Alonzo stared at Kelly, who’d asked him the question. And then he pointed at Don Meisel, who stood beside her. “You. Redhead. Pack your bags. As of now you’re filling Matt’s place with DPD.”

Don was shaking. “Me? You don’t know anything about me. You don’t even know my name! And I didn’t say anything—”

“Exactly. Kid next to you had the guts to speak out.” When Don didn’t move, he spoke with an ominous calm. “You still here?”

Don turned and walked. He pushed past Holle, his face red, eyes burning with humiliation and anger.

“And in the morning,” Alonzo said, “I’ll pick the second ejectee. Now go to work.” He turned on his heel and walked out.

All Holle felt was a cold horror. Since the day she’d joined the group, Don Meisel had been one of the obvious leaders. She’d even imagined he might make captain. And now he was gone, just like that. If Don Meisel could lose his place so arbitrarily, then who might go tomorrow?