N. White: The End - Visions of Apocalypse

Klakkatik-k’ka rolled. A complex sequence of jet puffs sent him joyfully twisting and spinning in the air.

“They dance,” he called, and spun again. “They dance!”

They parted in the docking area. Klakkatik-k’ka swam off first; his flight was being held for him, leaving Clara and Allan to say goodbye. There was an awkwardness between them. Then Clara kissed him.

“Goodbye, Allan.”

“I’ll call,” he said. “As soon as I know what I’m doing… after my meeting with Ruiz.” She smiled and turned, following a blue guidestrip towards the low level intershuttle bays. He watched her go, vaguely hoping she would look back and — what? Wave to him? Run into his arms and swear she’d never leave his side? He shook his head. He was far too old for juvenile fantasies like that. It was a bit of fun, he told himself, leave it at that. But the memory of their lovemaking was strong. Her passion had been intense. Her scent was on his skin, occupying his suit with him. He watched the blue departure airlock till it had fully cycled and opened again. Only when he saw she wasn’t there did he turn and leave.

Ruiz met him at the lock. Smaller than Allan remembered, he bounced, as only a Bonobo in free-fall can bounce, and landed on Allan’s chest, knocking them both spinning end for end. Ruiz picked through Allan’s hair, ritually grooming him.

“Nya!” Ruiz grunted in mock disgust. “Nothing! You never bring me anything!”

Allan laughed. “Can we shake hands now?”

Later, after a seemingly endless round of meetings and status reports from department heads, they retired to Ruiz’s quarters; a three room apartment with a private bathroom and (of all things) a window. Ruiz cooked as they chatted about college days. Allan looked through the window. It was comforting to see Earth cosseted in its mesh of rigging. He understood why the designers had included it and he was glad he had approved the expense. After the meal Ruiz fetched brandies.

“I meant to send you this,” he said. “But with one thing and another….” He motioned Allan to sit before the wall screen. “I’ve had a chance to run a few more sims and a few ‘what if?’ scenarios. Looks like our suiciders weren’t as random or careless as we thought. Take a look…” The screen filled with an animated schematic of the Sail. Red dots flashed, Allan recognised the pattern of the bombs, and the Sail slowly distorted.

“What you’re looking at is vastly speeded up, of course,” said Ruiz. “It would take about three weeks in real time.”

When the animation had apparently finished, the Sail, now a slightly lopsided, elongated shape, a sixth red dot appeared, far nearer the Earth’s surface than the others had been, and the distortion of the Sail suddenly became much more pronounced. It buckled and flexed. The centre moved outward at an alarming speed before slowing. The edges drew in. The shape the Sail settled into was symmetrical and somehow familiar. Allan watched the simulation, as he had watched thousands of such simulations over the years, with mixed understanding. He appreciated the scale, and the rough outline, but had little comprehension of the finer detail, the ‘joyous mathematics’ Clara had called it.

The simulation started to loop. “Ruiz,” he said. “I’m a politician, an administrator. I’m not an engineer. I don’t make the damn wheels. I keep them oiled and turning. What’s your point?”

Ruiz’s moved closer. “Okay, I’ll step you through it.” He gestured, pointing out the red dots on the animation. “These two, here and here, are the suiciders taking out shrouds 84g12 and 84f13. These two,” he gestured again, “are the bombs damaging shrouds 34j88 and 34k77. At least that’s what we’re supposed to think. I think the real targets were, the platform seven winching stabilisers. They got totalled in the blasts, too, but all our attention was on the shrouds.”

“What’s so special about the winching stabilisers? From what you’ve shown me, they have nothing to do with anything that was hit.”

“They don’t,” said Ruiz, “but bear with me. The last bomb — here…” a red dot bloomed at his fingertip, “took out a small parts transfer point, ripped open a supply conduit, and damaged several accommodation modules. Not an obvious structural target like the others. Inconvenient though; I spent three days in a suit because I had nowhere to sleep. Three days without sex; I nearly went crazy! But something bugged me. It didn’t fit the pattern. Turns out the shuttle involved wasn’t scheduled to be there at that time. The launch was bought forward because of weather and its course altered. When the bomb went off, it should have been — there, at the Mainstay Three docking station.” He pointed again and the sixth, low level, red dot appeared. Ruiz stopped the animation. “At this point, with Mainstay Three severed, the Sail starts to distort rapidly. Just the sort of sudden catastrophic situation that the winching stabilisers were designed to cope with.”

“And the stabilisers that should have compensated for this were….”

Ruiz nodded. “…were the Platform Seven stabilisers totalled in blasts three and four.”

Allan didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Mainstay Three was the central structural nerve centre for the whole Sail, with it severed the Sail would be unsteerable. The Project would have been over.

The animation ran its course. There was a moment’s silence. Then, Allan, his eyes taking in the beautiful symmetry of the curved Sail said, “That shape… what they were trying to achieve….”

“It’s a circular paraboloid,” said Ruiz. “A parabola that’s been revolved around its axis. Like a giant communications dish. All the light hitting it would be reflected to a single focus point….”

“Oh, my God!” said Allan.

“The surface of the Earth,” said Ruiz. “By my calculations the temperature at sea level would be like nothing we’ve seen in this part of the galaxy since the Big Bang!”

But Allan wasn’t listening. “Oh my God!” he said again. “Oh my God! Mainstay Three…!”

He scrabbled for the com.

“Ruiz!” His voice was harsh. “Ground everything. I want all ships stopped where they are. And clear the net. I need the bandwidth. I want a face to face with Clara Letoza. Find her! NOW! And get me the security chiefs. We may have to… destroy a ship. Kill people. I hope I’m wrong…”

They got Clara first.

And as soon as he saw her face on the screen he knew that he was wasn’t wrong; she was so calm, so secure, so at peace.

“Hello, Allan,” she said. “I’m glad it’s you.”

“Clara!” He tried to keep his voice level. “Please don’t do this. I’m asking you. Please.”

“I’m sorry. But I have to, Allan. It’s God’s Will. This is the time of The Great Tribulation. And God’s Will shall be done. The Sail is God’s tool. It’s not too late for you, Allan. You are a good man. Come with us.”

“Clara…” his voice faltered. He could think of nothing to say. He could think of no rational argument that would sway her. She had spent all her life working towards this moment, he saw that now. All her life designing the Sail to do this thing. To destroy rather than save. What could he say? What words could he find that could overturn all that? One night weighed against a lifetime of belief? He knew he was lost.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t believe that…”

“Then I’m glad you’re safe at Top Side,” she said. “We waited till I heard from you. I wanted you to know. I’m going now, now that you know — before anyone can stop us.”

“I love you, Clara,” he said. “Don’t do this to me.”