Rejoice, a Knife to the Heart Page 19

  “So the system sucks.”

  “The system is what we made it, Sam. Everything dependent on cost and availability. Even as we’re all stuck inside it, we continue to sanctify it, and we break the hidden rules at our peril.”

  “But you don’t lose sleep over it.”

  His brows lifted. “Don’t I?”

  Samantha didn’t say anything for a few moments, and then she sighed. “Hamish, I didn’t know.”

  “You weren’t meant to.”

  “Men!”

  His answering smile was wry, the one she loved so much. “Women! Conscience can’t be relieved by talking about it.”

  “Tell that to the Catholic Church!”

  “Oh no, darling,” he was shaking his head, “I seek neither forgiveness nor absolution. Instead, day by day, I work to redress the imbalance. Besides, I care for my patients. Every one of them. And those families I sit with, telling them the bad news … I’m not indifferent to their grief, because I feel it, too. That loss hurts. And more than once, after they’ve all shuffled out, I’ve sat behind my desk and cried. That, Sam, is my penance. It’s not much. It’s private, probably selfish, but it’s what I’ve got.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  His smile returned. “Think fiction, darling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your required dark night of the soul.”

  “Hah hah. Only this isn’t fiction and I’m not a protagonist. This is me, Hamish, a batty crone with an acid tongue. Or so I’ve been described, more than once.”

  “From you shall wisdom come forth.”

  “That’s a fake quote if I ever heard one.”

  He shrugged.

  “I still don’t know what to do.”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Are you asking what I’d do in your place?”

  Her gaze narrowed on him. “You know I hate the subtext of that.”

  He answered with an expression of mock innocence. “Would that be the subtext referring to asking a man for advice?”

  “Good thing I love you for the bastard you sometimes are.”

  “Ouch. Grammar, darling.”

  “Fine, I withdraw all requests in that area. Besides, you’re right. Whatever you’d do in my place is your business.”

  “And what you do now is yours.”

  “It just goes to show how unsteady I am right now, to fall into that kind of thinking. I know, habits of preconditioning in a patriarchy and all that.”

  “Uncertain is the way ahead.”

  “Thanks, Yoda. Can I quote you on that?”

  Their gazes locked, and after a long moment, he held up a hand, palm toward her, as if to reach through the television screen. Samantha’s eyes welled up. She reached back toward him.

  Her dark night lay ahead, and she knew—by the look in his eyes—that he would sit with her through it, and nothing more needed saying.

  STAGE THREE: THE ELEGANCE OF ENNUI

  (Rejection)

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “There was a time in our deep past when materialism and spiritualism were one. One day we’ll return to that, and the idea of a bleak, empty, mechanistic universe will seem both quaint and woefully naïve.”

  SAMANTHA AUGUST

  Irony was not a strong point in the American psyche. These days, it was generally met with outright hostility or the recoil of the honestly wounded. As a Nigerian, it had taken Simon Gist a few years living in America to move away from the very British legacy of exquisite irony as a way of life, and to understand that the most powerfully ironic elements in his new home were, one and all, unintentional.

  The American Dream was one such concept. Born of genuine truth and an article of faith, a cornerstone, in fact, of the great American experiment, it had in fact become ironic, probably as early as the mid-Sixties. A dream in the true meaning of the word: never to be reached, never to be realized by the majority of Americans, whether native-born or newly arrived.

  He had set about stripping away that bitter irony, because he refused to reject his belief in that dream. Books had been written about his meteoric rise into the realm of wealth and fame, serving up as articles of faith that dreams need not die. But more often than not, such unauthorized exposés missed the point. Somewhere along the line, not yet tainted with irony, the American Dream had lost its moral compass. Wealth became the goal, the means to it irrelevant. A grab-all fueled by cold ambition and avarice. And what was celebrated was hollow and lifeless.

  Simon sought to resurrect the ethics that gave birth to the American Dream. The desire to make the world a better place, a freer place, not held onto selfishly but for the good of all. To take a firm grip on the heavy rope of humanity and drag it forward into civilization, making that civilization a place for emancipation, equality and enlightenment.

  He’d begun to believe he was achieving such a thing, despite the tide’s resistance—that up-swell of embittered dream-killers who clawed and tugged and yearned to drag him down into the mediocre swill, who hunted for weakness and followed every scent of blood offered up in the dark currents.

  The machine of capitalism was, in his mind, the only one that worked, and so he used it—better than most—to make his dreams real, striving to elevate first the country, and then the world, into that sublime city on the hill.

  Now, as he stood on the floor on Warehouse Seven, with his Chief Engineer at his side and his personal aide, Mary Lamp, on the other, he began to have doubts.

  The mostly featureless unit before them was box-like, barring one side where a recognizable gear mechanism hummed with virtually no vibration, the gears a shimmering blur of efficiency. It stood on a metal trestle that normally would have been bolted to the floor against an engine’s combustive hammering, but for this new creation there was no need for bolts. The trestle was utterly motionless.

  They stood barely three feet away. Apart from the air convulsing around the whirring gear, there was no other indication of the prototype’s vast power. No heat, no smell barring that of lubricant and metal. Yet this single unit had the output capacity to run the entire plant.

  It was, in short, incredible.

  Yet he stood unmoving and unmoved, his mind mired in confusion.

  The aliens’ gift was moral perfection. Clean, cheap to construct, emission-free, seemingly without the need for fuel. Its presence shattered the world. It would cleanse the air, silence the low roar on every freeway. It would slow the derricks to a desultory throb. It would close gas stations, send cashiers and attendants to the unemployment line, shut down all the fuel industries, the makers of coolants, spark plugs, water pumps, radiators, engine blocks, pistons. It obliterated the clout and power of OPEC, wiped clean the political and economic expedience of countless conflicts over energy sources (not that they hadn’t already been shut down). An end to oil spills and contaminated ground-water, black tarry beaches lined with dead and dying birds, bloated fish a rotting carpet on the waves. An end to filthy, carcinogen-laden air, to the free radicals and organic volatiles being spewed out from exhaust pipes every moment of every day across the entire world.

  How one gift could take so much down left Simon feeling numb, punch-drunk.

  There would be resistance. Just like those idiots who altered the exhaust systems of their pickups to belch out black smoke in defiance of Climate Change, there would be cults of combustion, hold-outs insisting on their gas and diesel vehicles. Convoys of Hummers on the highway, American flags waving from their antennae. People might even expect the price of a barrel of oil to drop through the floor, allowing a return to the gas-guzzling muscle cars of yesteryear. But the price of oil wouldn’t collapse at all. Oil was still needed, to make plastics, lubricants, pesticides, though Simon suspected that subsequent gifts from the aliens would do away with those in time. No, the oil industry would persist, gasping, staggering, for a while yet, and the price of their product—now hoarded with a
vengeance—would sky-rocket in a self-destructive flare to light the sky before darkness finally closed in on an industry that had been fueling progress for over a century.

  He could see this future, laid out, a drunken stumble, a wavering of hands seeking purchase.

  And, buried beneath it all, a sonorous bell announcing the death-toll of capitalism. Because its tenets were no longer true, no longer self-evident or deemed inviolate.

  He stood before a product that could not be patented. If what Jack Butler had told him was true, the engine could be built in a garage. Or it could be scaled up, replacing nuclear power plants, hydroelectric dams, coal-burning plants. It could be used to replace solar panels, wind and wave generators, nickel-cadmium batteries, pacemakers. Cheap with the potential to be ubiquitous, it was the definition of capitalism’s poison apple. No profit could accrue from this creation. What it offered it offered for free.

  True freedom was the enemy of capitalism. Because scarcity meant restriction. Scarcity was the bedrock. And now they were witness to the beginning of the end of scarcity. Here, in America as much as the rest of the world, freedom was now the enemy. How to reconcile such a thing? How could America, that self-proclaimed bastion of liberty, come to terms with itself? When real freedom arrived to sweep away the false freedom it had lived with since the nation’s birth?

  He had no answer, but he suspected that that reconciliation would prove messy. The American psyche was about to be cut to the core. The rest of the world to greater or lesser degrees would suffer the same, a tumbling of dominos seemingly without end.

  And yet, if he squinted, he could still see that house on the hill. Civilization’s shining beacon of hope. They just needed to find a new path to take them there.

  Jack Butler rested his hands on his hips, cleared his throat and said, “Well?”

  Simon Gist nodded. “Okay. Roll them out.”

  “For the Kepler?”

  “For everything.”

  Jack’s thick brows lifted. “The Infinity-3?”

  “Everything.”

  After a moment, Mary Lamp said, “NASA wants to get someone up there as soon as possible. They’re looking for a rocket.”

  “Forget the rocket. We’ll take them up using the Emission and Fuel Free Engine. Make the call, let them know.”

  She nodded as if she’d already known what he’d say.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Jack said.

  “Something,” Simon murmured. “Yes, that.”

  The machine hummed, a steady, relentless sound. He felt its pressure, like a wall remorselessly pushing forward. Be crushed or move with it, stay a step ahead, always a step ahead. He longed for the optimism and excitement that had begun this whole thing, the burgeoning fires of possibility. These things had not vanished, but they seemed out of reach right now.

  “We’ll have to massively scale up,” Jack said, “for the Infinity.” He rubbed at the short bristle on his head. “Still can’t tell you exactly how it works, though. EM fields for sure, but also some kind of quantum shit going on.” He shrugged. “We can in-house all the components now, so that should speed things up. We won’t beat the Chinese, though. They’re sticking with conventional fuel rockets for their lift.” He paused to clear his throat again. “There are application folders in the file, for propulsion in vacuum and high-end output regulators, but we haven’t cracked those open yet. Our low orbit plans only needed thrusters, after all.” He glanced at his boss. “You’re sure about this with NASA? It’s a publicity stunt and it’s probably going to end with a flop. Some astronaut floating around up there with nothing to do and no one to talk to except the boys on the ground.”

  “I know, but that’s not the point. Not for us, anyway. We use this as a proving ground. Take a peek into those application folders, see how complicated it’s going to be. A highly maneuverable, full space-flight capable Orbiter could push us past everyone else. Back in the lead.”

  “You want that?”

  Simon nodded. “It’s something to strive for.”

  Jack frowned, exchanged a look with Mary, who then spoke, “Simon, what’s this about?”

  He sighed. “Money was the means, not the goal. You all knew that. Making it gave us what we needed to keep pushing. To make the world a better, cleaner place. To get us off this damned planet. I know we had to shelve our Mars Project. But that was because we weren’t ready.”

  “No serious investors, either,” Jack said, grimacing.

  “We weren’t ready,” Simon insisted. “We would have found the investors. The point is: profit was never the bottom line. Never my bottom line. Means to an end, that’s all.”

  “So what’s changed?” Jack asked. He gestured. “This baby will cut costs on—on everything. For the Infinity-3, our payload potential has just gone through the roof. No fuel tanks, no fuel—that’s eighty-three percent of total weight. The EFFE won’t have to mass more than a metric tonne to give the necessary thrust to escape orbit, and that’s with a packed cargo bay. The only thing we need to proof are the power-distribution nodes, and that’s basic mechanics and simple programming. We can do a lift at a fraction of the cost we’ve been aiming for.” He threw up his hands in evident frustration, clearly still not comprehending Simon’s angst.

  “The Chinese think they are heading for a technological windfall,” Simon said, wondering himself what it was he was trying to explain. “Those bases on the Moon. Now, maybe the Greys’ stuff is not fully compatible, or it’s a nightmare to reverse-engineer. But I’m beginning to suspect it’s all a red herring.”

  “Why?” Jack demanded.

  “Because our new friends up there leave the Greys in the dust when it comes to technology. And I don’t think they’re done with their gifts to us.” He shook his head. “These are momentum killers. Do we just sit back and wait for the next mind-blowing package to show up on our computers?”

  His Chief Engineer said nothing, but Simon could see the man’s finely honed mind suddenly at work.

  Mary Lamp slumped slightly beside him. “Fuck,” she said.

  After a long moment, Simon sighed and then said, “Okay. We do it like this. We convert the fuel tanks to a habitat module. It stays on the ship. No separation procedure. Sure, we can prove our concept by giving NASA a ride, but we prove it with a new aim in mind. We’re taking the fucker to Mars. Well, Phobos first. Then Mars.” He looked to his companions. “And I’m on that crew.”

  Mary’s brows arched. “First human to set foot on Mars, Simon?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  “Back up a step,” Jack said. “We’re rolling out EFFE’s for the Kepler car too, right?”

  Suddenly, Simon’s mind was racing. He could see a way through, if only ET would let him get there. “Sure, but it can’t be a priority any more. Our ground-vehicle can’t offer people anything different from what they’re going to get from Big Auto in a year or two. That said, we can use the battery technology as back-up aboard the Infinity—oh, we need to modify the project’s name to reflect the new direction, I think. Any suggestions?”

  “No direct reference to Mars,” said Mary. “Not if we want to get a jump on everyone else.” She eyed Simon. “You mean to win this race, don’t you?”

  “If I can. If ET doesn’t drop a fully-functional FTL flying saucer on the front lawn of every house before we even get off the ground, that is.”

  “Infinity A-1,” said Jack. “Ares One. But no one’s gonna ask what the ‘A’ stands for in something as generic and obvious as A-1. We pitch it as a prototype spaceflight-capable lifter and lander. A Baby Step project. A logical progression but also ambitious enough to suit our reputation.”

  “Go with that, then,” said Simon. “Set up the parameters, Jack. Pick your people. In the meantime, we run the blind that is the Kepler, knock out EFFE’s and look for related applications.” He smiled. “Just like everyone else.”

  “There’s a Grey station on Phobos,” said Mary, who then shrugged
at their surprised expressions. “I surf a lot. The Russians confirmed that two of their probes headed for Phobos were deliberately knocked out a few years back. Stands to reason …”

  “If it’s abandoned we’ll take it over,” said Simon.

  “Christ,” said Jack, “how big of a crew are you looking for?”

  “That depends on how long it takes us to fly to Mars, and you won’t know that until you crack open those files and we get some idea of thrust, velocity, mass and all the rest. Ideally, I think we can fit eight.”

  “Eight? Holy crap. You’re talking a tight squeeze even with the expanded habitat.”

  “I know. So get us there as fast as possible.”

  Mary began taking notes. “I’ll mock up the pitch to our investors. Spaceflight-capable lifter and lander. The Infinity A-1.” She paused and looked up. “We could lose them all after this, you know.”

  “To be honest,” Simon said, turning away, “I don’t see money mattering for much longer.”

  The vast financial empire of James and Jonathan Adonis was in free-fall, and Lois Stanton found herself in the peculiar position of being an orchestra leader conducting a symphony with the entire orchestra sinking beneath the waves. The horns were blowing bubbles. The violins were a chorus of drowning cats. Yet she delivered her every gesture with flair, her baton (a simple ballpoint pen) a dancing metronome of disaster. She was, she realized, having the time of her life.

  They sat before her in the high-rise boardroom overlooking the gray city, backs to the deepening sky as the day went down. The two men who had deliberately chosen the surname ‘Adonis’ to mark their intended ascension into godhood (‘Dunsall’ resisted elevation) now had the bearing of mortal pretenders, clawing and scrabbling at the foot of Olympus. Dust and sweat now defined the limits of their realm and the rising tide of their advancing years had finally crashed over them. They looked old, getting older by the minute, sallow into decrepit, too many hammer-blows to their world—the world with them positioned at its center. If their children hadn’t turned out to be such wastrels, they’d be jostling each other right now for position come the inevitable inheritance.