Greg Bear: The Forge of God

“Yes,” Arthur said. Clara nodded.

“Most of my early communications with you will not be through speech, but through what you might call telepathy, as you have already been directed by the network. Later, when there is more time, this intrusive method will be largely abandoned. For now, when you go among your companions, I will speak through you, but you will have the discretion of phrasing and timing. We have very little time.”

“Has it begun?” Clara asked.

“It has begun,” the object said.

“And we’re leaving soon?”

“The last passengers and specimens for this vessel are being loaded now.”

Arthur received impressions of crates of chromium spiders being loaded from small boats through the surface entrance of the ark. The spiders contained the fruits of weeks of searching and sampling: genetic material from thousands of plants and animals along the West Coast.

“What can we call you?” Arthur asked.

“You will make up your own names for me. Now you must return to your group and introduce them to their quarters, which are spaced along this hallway. You must also ask for at least four volunteers to witness the crime that is now being committed.”

“We’re to witness the destruction of the Earth?” Clara asked.

“Yes. It is the Law. If you will excuse me, I have other introductions to make.”

They backed out of the shadowy room and watched as the hatchway slid shut.

“Very efficient,” Arthur said.

“The Law.’” Clara smiled thinly. “Right now, I’m more scared than I ever was on the boat. I don’t even know all the people’s names yet.”

“Let’s get started,” Arthur said. They traversed the curved hallway. The hatch at the opposite end opened and they saw a cluster of anxious faces. The smell of fear drifted out.

Irwin Schwartz stepped into the White House situation room and nearly bumped into the First Lady. She backed away with a nervous nod, her hands trembling, and he entered. Everyone’s nerves had been frazzled since the evacuation the night before and the rapid return of the President to the Capital. No one had slept for more than an hour or two since.

The President stood with Otto Lehrman before the high-resolution data screens mounted on the wood paneling covering the concrete walls. The screens were on and showed maps of different portions of the Northern Hemisphere, Mercator projection, with red spots marking vanished cities. “Come on in, Irwin,” Crockerman said. “We have some new material from the Puzzle Palace.” He seemed almost cheerful.

Irwin turned to the First Lady. “Are you here to stay?” he asked bluntly. He respected the woman, but did not like her much.

“The President specially requested my presence,” she said. “He feels we should be united.”

“Obviously, you agree with him.”

“I agree with him,” she said.

Never in United States history had a First Lady deserted her husband when he was under fire; Mrs. Crockerman knew this, and it must have taken some courage to return. Still, Schwartz had himself given long hours of thought to resigning from the administration; he could not judge her too harshly.

He held out his hand. She accepted and they shook firmly. “Welcome back aboard,” he said.

“We have photos about twenty minutes old from a Diamond Apple,” Lehrman said. “Technicians are putting them on the screens any minute.” Diamond Apples were reconnaissance satellites launched in the early 1990s. The National Reconnaissance Office was very zealous with Diamond Apple pictures. Usually, they would have been reserved for the eyes of the President and Secretary of Defense only; that Schwartz was seeing them indicated something extraordinary was in store.

“Here they are,” Lehrman said as the screens blanked.

Crockerman apparently had been told what to expect. Lines of glowing white rimmed in red and blue-green laced across a midnight-black background. “You know,” Crockerman said softly, standing back from the screens, “I was right after all. Goddammit, Irwin, I was right, and I was wrong at the same time. How do you figure that?”

Schwartz stared at the glowing lines, not making any sense of them until a grid and labels came up with the display. This was the North Atlantic; the lines were trenches, midocean ridges and faults.

“The white,” Lehrman said, “is heat residue from thermonuclear explosions. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, maybe tens of thousands — all along the Earth’s deep-ocean seams and wrinkles.”

The First Lady half sobbed, half caught her breath. Crockerman stared at the displays with a sad grin.

“Now the western Pacific,” Lehrman said. More white lines. “By the way, Hawaii has been heavily assaulted by tsunamis. The West Coast of North America is about twenty, thirty minutes away from major waves; I’d guess it’s already been hit by waves from these areas.” He pointed to stacks of white lines near Alaska and California. “The damage could be extensive. The energy released by all the explosions is enormous; weather patterns around the world will change. The Earth’s heat budget…” He shook his head. “But I doubt we’ll be given much time to worry about it.”

“It’s a softening up?” Schwartz asked.

Lehrman shrugged. “Who can understand the design, or what this means? We’re not dead yet, so it’s a preliminary; that’s all anybody knows. Seismic stations all over are reporting heavy anomalistic fault behavior.”

“I don’t think the bullets have collided yet,” Crockerman said. “Irwin’s hit the nail on the head. It’s a softening up.”

Lehrman sat down at the large diamond-shaped table and held out his hands: your guess is as good as mine.

“I think we have maybe an hour, maybe less,” the President said. “There’s nothing we can do. Nothing we could have ever done.”

Schwartz studied the Diamond Apple displays with a slight squint. They still conveyed no convincing reality. They were attractive abstractions. What did Hawaii look like now? What would San Francisco look like in a few minutes? Or New York?

“I’m sorry not everybody is here,” Crockerman said. “I’d like to thank them.”

“We’re not evacuating…again?” Schwartz asked automatically.

Lehrman gave him a sharp, ironic look. “We don’t have a lunar settlement, Irwin. The President, when he was a senator, was instrumental in getting those funds cut in 1990.”

“My mistake,” Crockerman said, his tone almost bantering. At that moment, had Schwartz had a pistol, he would have killed the man; his anger was a helpless, undirected passion that could just as easily leave him in tears as draw him into violence. The displays conveyed no reality; Crockerman, however, conveyed it all.

“We really are children,” Schwartz said after the flush had gone out of his face and his hands had stopped trembling. “We never had a chance.”

Crockerman looked around as the floor shook beneath their feet. “I’m almost anxious for the end,” he said. “I hurt so bad inside.”

The shaking became more violent.

The First Lady held the doorframe and then leaned on the table. Schwartz reached out to help her to a chair. Secret Service agents entered the room, struggling to stay on their feet, catching hold of the table edge. After Schwartz had seated the First Lady, he sat down again himself and gripped the wooden arms of the chair. The shaking was not dying away; it was getting worse.

“How long will it take, do you think?” Crockerman asked nobody in particular.

“Mr. President, we should get you out of the building and onto the grounds,” said the agent who had made the most progress into the situation room; His voice quavered. He was terrified. “Everybody else, too.”