Five thousand people.
Gone.
How do you take news like that? What’s an appropriate reaction for a loss of life so dramatic that the world itself seems to wobble as all those souls take flight on burning wings? The part of me that is a decent, ordinary human being — that aspect I called the “Modern Man”—was appalled, shocked to silence, disconnected from coherent thought. The part of me that was a killer wanted to bellow out in rage and denial because this was an attack on the tribe. The human tribe. The Killer wanted to heal hurt by causing harm. And the Cop, that part of me — the central aspect of who I was — wanted answers.
“No one has taken credit yet,” said Church. “However, I spoke with Harcourt Bolton shortly before we got the news and he has been building a case to connect ISIL with the power outages that occurred earlier this year.” He explained about the black marketer Ohan, about Kill Switch.
“What do we know about it? What kind of weapon is this?” I demanded. “Was it some kind of e-bomb?”
“Unknown, but unlikely,” said Church. “There are no reports of any kind of explosion prior to the crashing of those planes.”
“I don’t understand. The power went out and then back on again? That can’t happen with an EMP.”
“I know. This must be something else. I’ve scrambled teams and they’re en route. I have Jerry Spencer and the whole forensics team on a plane. Same with Frank Sessa, though there is no evidence of any kind of explosives. In short, Captain, it’s too soon for us to know what happened. Something interrupted the power inside a roughly circular area around Bush airport. As far as we can tell, everything inside that zone that uses electricity was shut off. We have reports that this includes cell phones and battery-operated devices.”
“Why Houston, though? What’s there that they wanted to hit? What’s the statement? No, wait,” I said, “if this is ISIL, then that might explain it. Most of the commanders in their forces are ex-Iraqi military. George Bush launched the first Gulf War. His son launched the second. Maybe this is a statement. A revenge killing.”
Church nodded, not liking the idea but agreeing with the logic. “You may be right.”
“This is what happened at the NASCAR thing, isn’t it? And the presidential debate?”
“So it seems.”
“Which means they were, what? Test drives?”
“That would be my guess,” said Church. “But, Captain, it seems to me that you experienced this yourself. In your report you said that your equipment shut down and then restarted down in the cavern.”
I was silent. I’d told him that not an hour ago. So why hadn’t I put two and two together?
Church was on the same tack. He asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Bad,” I said. “But I’m going to divert this plane. Find me a safe runway in Houston and we’ll—”
“No, Captain,” said Church. “I was calling to inform you, not to put you into play.”
“Why not? This is why we have a Special Projects Office.”
“I’m aware of that, but you said that you and your men were exposed to some possible toxins.”
I had every intention of yelling at him and demanding that he put us into play. Instead I had a coughing fit that lasted two minutes. It left me spent and weak and feeling as fragile as spun glass.
“Go home, Captain,” said Church. “Let the medical team check you out. I’ll keep you posted.”
The connection went dead.
INTERLUDE NINE
Oscar Bell poured three fingers of scotch into a chunky tumbler and handed it to Major Corrine Sails.
“Thanks,” said the major, sipping it, nodding, and taking the glass with her as she began walking slowly around the big office. There were cases of books, mostly histories of science, histories of war, histories of governments. No fiction, no autobiographies. Nothing that connected the man with other people. There were no framed photos on the walls, no family pictures on Bell’s desk. No trophies of any kind. Major Sails noted all of it as she sipped her whiskey.
“Have a seat,” said Bell, waving a hand toward a pair of rich leather chairs positioned in a window alcove. Outside a pair of catamarans bounced over the light chop, and farther out to sea a big trawler was heading out to the fishing grounds off Montauk Point.
“Lovely view,” said Sails.
Bell nodded, accepting the comment without any visible sense of pride. She wondered if he ever took genuine pleasure in anything. Probably not. Her colleagues in the Department of Defense had warned her that he was a few degrees colder than a Vulcan. No visible warmth, no detectable personality. Not even precisely unlikeable, because there was nothing to like. Nothing really to react to.
She thought he was probably wretched in bed. A get-it-done approach to sex that was probably all about insuring progeny. No wonder he went through wives the way most people went through changes of clothes. The women were attracted to the billions, but not even the hardiest gold-digger seemed able to stay in it for the long haul. Sails couldn’t blame them. Not that Bell wasn’t attractive in his own way. He was lovely in photos and on TV, and when there was a camera he could turn on the charm and produce a winning smile. Off camera and away from the press he was a robot.
“If they sent you,” he said without preamble, “then somebody who doesn’t have their head up their ass took a look at my proposal.”
Sails nodded. “They did. I, in fact, did.”
Bell studied her for a moment. Sails knew that the man would have had her checked out. Her work with DARPA, some of her nonmilitary published works, and maybe even her paper on the probability of interdimensional physics as a valid and emerging field of legitimate study. He was the kind of man known to be thorough. Not exactly judgmental as demanding to a very high degree. He had, at least as far as his defense projects went, a very open mind. And because Bell was a scientist as well as a contractor he generally personally vetted the people with whom he worked.
“And—?” he asked.
“As I understand it this device — this ‘God Machine’—was designed by your son?”
“Yes.”
“Who is thirteen.”
“Yes.”
“He designed this without assistance from any adult?”
Bell sipped his scotch. “Yes.”
“That is remarkable.”
“No kidding.”
They studied each other for a moment. “Mr. Bell,” she said, “I have a few very important questions.”
“I figured you might.”
Sails crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. Bell did not even flick a glance at her legs. Nothing. The man really was a robot.
“I guess we need to start with the obvious,” she said. “Why is it called a ‘God’ Machine?”
“Ask my son.”
“I can’t. You won’t let anyone near him.”
Bell shrugged. “Figure of speech. Look, cards on the table. Prospero is a very troubled boy. You’ve probably read his psych evals and they’re all over the place. Highest IQ ever scored. So high, in fact, it calls the validity of the test into question. Kid’s legitimately off the charts. That said, he’s also deeply disturbed. His shrink says he’s not actually on the spectrum because there are too many ways in which he doesn’t fit the profile for Asperger’s or autism. He doesn’t fit into any slot. I can say without contradiction that he’s one of a kind.”