Richard Stephenson - Collapse

That title is an oxymoron in my opinion. Releasing a novel is not an independent endeavor. When I started writing this, I can say that I was independent in the sense that I had no clue what I was doing. I soon learned that I needed help — a lot of help.

I owe my wife for the past five months. Many long evenings I sat in from of my iMac lost in the dystopian world you are about to enter. She was patient with me and gave me her full support. For that I owe her a great deal. She read each chapter enthusiastically and always looked forward to reading chapters that featured the character I based on her, Elizabeth Reed. She was also a voracious proofreader. She pointed out many mistakes that I should have caught. Her support and praise mean the world to me.

I had a handful of proofreaders; however, two in particular put in a great deal of work and input for me to consider. They also provided the inspiration for two main characters, President Malcolm Powers and his Chief of Staff, Stacy Reid. I owe Carl and Stacy more than they will ever know.

I am about the least artistic person I know. I can’t sing or dance to save my life, and I definitely can’t draw or paint worth a flip. Stick figures are pretty much the best I can come up with. The magnificent cover that graces the front of this novel was created by Laura LaRoche. I still get chills when I look at it.

One person helped me shape this story into what you are about to read — Susan Hughes. I learned early on that my grasp of the rules of grammar was far from what I pictured it to be. Susan volunteered her services and polished this work into a professional looking manuscript. She also pointed out a lot of “fluff” as we came to call it and convinced me to slash it. Without her honest input, this book would be much slower paced. Without Susan, this book would have turned out much different.

In the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Howard Beck awoke in his massive bedroom in his palatial home. Howard never hesitated when he woke; he didn’t stare at the ceiling and talk himself into starting his day. Once his eyes were open, his feet hit the floor and it was time to begin the day. Howard hated wasting his time and hated even more when others wasted it. Howard had every second of every day planned to perfection. It wasn’t a difficult task; Howard repeated the same routine every day with little deviation. The routine that followed his exit from bed had been the same for most of his five decades. Toilet, shower, breakfast, in that order. When Howard flushed the toilet, the shower came on by itself and achieved the exact temperature he had programmed. After the shower, Howard stepped out, and like every morning, the shower slowly trickled to a stop. He put on his robe and traveled through his cathedral sized home to the kitchen. Every time he entered a room, the lights would come on; when he left, they would fade back down. Once he was in the kitchen, the lights turned on and the curtains retracted to show a stunning view of the Rocky Mountains. Howard grabbed his cup from beneath the coffee pot and sat alone at the breakfast table.

“Good morning, Hal.” Howard spoke aloud, waiting for his computer to respond.

“Good morning, sir,” the world’s first truly Artificial Intelligence sprang to life and spoke in a male, British voice.

“What do you have for me this morning?”

“No relevant messages received during the night. Your first vid-conference is at 9 o’clock with Director Mills. When I contacted him last night to confirm the meeting, he indicated to me that he would be reporting on the recovery progress at the Atlanta factory.”

“Did he sound positive about it or like he wasn’t looking forward to it?”

“Based on his vocal patterns and word choices, I would say his report will be positive.”

“Or complete bullshit,” Howard muttered.

“I am sorry, sir, I have little success understanding deception. If you would like, in the future I can…”

“Never mind, Hal. What’s going on in the world?” Howard seldom ventured from the fortress he had designed.

“Residents along the Texas-Louisiana state line are preparing for Hurricane Maxine to make landfall in the next thirty-two to thirty-four hours. Based on my analysis, I estimate a sixty-one percent chance that it will make landfall four point two miles east of the tip of Galveston Island.”

“You don’t say,” Howard muttered, not paying attention.

“Wildfires continue to spread across much of California. Officials have reason to believe that arsonists are using the wildfires as cover to set even more fires. Officials also suspect the arsonists are making the existing wildfires stronger.”

“Uh-huh. Next story, please.” Old news tended to bore Howard. He made it a habit to ignore speculation and sensational news reporting until it became more grounded in fact.

Hal continued, “Recovery efforts along the Florida coastline continue to show little progress a month after the disaster. Critics from both sides of the aisle continue to raise questions about why much of Florida is in a media blackout. The governor of Florida said in a press conference that Hurricane Luther carried a toxic chemical spill up the coast, rendering much of the region unsafe. Governor Prince also indicated that over three-quarters of the roads in her state were impassable. The governor also indicated that an unnamed aircraft carrier was off the coast of Merritt Island, some sixty miles from Orlando. The Department of the Navy would not comment on search and rescue missions along the Florida coast.”

Hearing the same news day after day with only a few minor details added irritated Howard. “Hal, give me something interesting that I can’t find on the Internet.”

“Of course, sir.” The most sophisticated computer in the world, the first to shatter the Turing Test into irrelevancy, paused for less than half a second before continuing.

“President Powers, facing the defining moment in his administration, stands on the precipice of toppling the Great Empire of…”

Howard laughed, something he rarely did, and interrupted his friend. “What? Are you kidding me? Did you really and truly,” Howard laughed again, “just use the word ‘precipice’ and actually speculate about something as unpredictable as an actual war?”

“I did indeed, sir.”

“I must say, Old Man, you never cease to impress me.”

“Thank you, sir. I do try.”

“Mind telling me how you figured out that the president was at a ‘precipice’ in the war?”

“I would be happy to, sir.”

“Wait, how long will it take?”

“Forty-two and a half minutes, sir.”

“Can you just give me the condensed version?”

“Forty-two and a half minutes is the condensed version, sir.”

“Never mind, Hal. I spoke with the president last night, and I’m positive I know what you’re about to say. Tonight when I go to bed, I would be happy to listen to you for forty-two and half minutes and tell you if you got it right.”