Rejoice, a Knife to the Heart Page 7

  “From me?” He looked up as Emily entered the dining room, drying her hands on her t-shirt. When things got strange, Emily did house-work. When she was ticked off about something, she did house-work. When she was bored, she did—

  “Well, you write hard SF, Ron. At least that’s what Sam tells me.” He hesitated, and then added, “Everything that’s going on right now. Worldwide, I mean.”

  “Trust me,” Ron said, “you couldn’t write this. It’s impossible.”

  “I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

  He rubbed at his eyes, shrugged in answer to Emily’s silent query. She moved on, heading for the stairs, seeking another room to conquer. “Hamish. The forcefields—they were manageable. Inconvenient, but still, can be worked around. But this shutting down all violence, slamming the door in the face of our natural aggression … that’s too big, if you see what I mean.”

  “No, I’m not sure I do.”

  Ron’s gaze returned to the television. Someone was reporting from the ruins of Beirut. Behind the journalist, a mob filled the street. Hands reached skyward, fingers spread wide. “It’s civilization, Hamish, and it’s going to go down. Do you see? Shut down our avenues of competitiveness and aggression, the pathways inside us that define what we are, as a species, socially and culturally … with no outlet … well, you’re a doctor. Think about it.”

  “I think it’s connected.”

  “Connect—oh. Oh.” Suddenly, Ronald Carpenter found a need to sit down.

  “She’s alive. I know that,” Hamish said. “There have been a few text-messages. Ron, can you come over?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Ron had known Samantha August for over a decade. They’d met at a convention in Ottawa. Canadian SF writers comprised a small group, all things considered. Some hefty talents in that bunch. Sawyer, Spider Robinson, Watts, Gibson, Samantha August. No point in counting Atwood since she’d refused the membership card and secret handshake. Ronald Carpenter was a relative newcomer—only two novels out so far, with a third one on the way.

  Sam had been an intimidating presence at first. A sharp mind, a caustic wit, a smoky look of gravitas in her eyes. But she’d greeted him warmly, complimented him on his debut military hard-SF series. Now they shared the same New York agent, and had met often at a café to talk writing and publishing.

  Her disappearance had been a shock. He had watched the video recordings of the abduction. He had deconstructed the clearest feeds and taken screen-shots in order to more closely examine the underbelly of the craft that had come out of the clouds.

  The whole thing had seemed too obvious. Digital editing could pull off anything these days. He hadn’t known what to think. He still didn’t. Sam had a twisted sense of humor to be sure, but he couldn’t imagine her being involved in a stunt like that.

  Then, as the days passed, other events had overtaken the immediacy of the mystery surrounding Sam’s disappearance. Things that gave him some ideas about what was happening. And yet, oddly, he had never connected any of it with Sam’s abduction. In retrospect, he cursed himself for an idiot.

  He parked in the driveway to Sam’s house. Hamish had been waiting by the door and now he opened it and invited Ron inside after a quick handshake.

  Hamish had been suffering in his wife’s absence. Take-out and delivery cartons crowded the island in the kitchen as Hamish led Ron through to the roofed-in deck. The man himself was unshaven, wearing clothes he might have used to work in the garden, and slippers on his feet.

  “I’ve been moving patients,” Hamish said as he sat and gestured for Ron to do the same. On the small deck-table between them was a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses. Hamish poured healthy shots into both glasses. “It’s been hard to concentrate. I wasn’t doing my patients any good.”

  “You said there’s been text messages,” said Ron as he collected up the glass. “Definitely from Sam?”

  “Yes.” The older man sat up in his chair and fumbled in his cardigan pocket, withdrawing a small notepad. “Things only the two of us know. All that. It’s her. She’s alive.” He opened the notepad and peered at the first page.

  “That’s great, Hamish. I’m so relieved. Those UFO videos—well, it’s one thing to write about this kind of stuff, it’s another to …” his words fell away as he realized he had nothing more to say.

  Hamish pulled out his reading glasses and continued studying the notepad. “I left out the personal stuff.” He paused and looked up at Ron over his glasses. “She’s up there, Ronald. In a craft. Just her and some kind of Artificial Intelligence.”

  Ron’s mouth was dry. His hand shook as he took a sip of the single malt. “There were reports of other abductions …”

  “Inventions,” said Hamish. “Hoaxes. She’s alone. They picked her.”

  “Picked her? Why?”

  “Seems they place a high value on artists.”

  Ron scowled. “What do they want, autographs?”

  “I think,” ventured Hamish, “to speak on their behalf.”

  “So what are they waiting for? Have you been paying attention to what’s been going on, Hamish? To what’s happening out there, shutting down all aggression? This is omniscience, omnipotence. Might as well be God as aliens, with one crucial exception.”

  Hamish frowned. “And that exception is?”

  “God’s into Free Will. These guys … not so much.”

  The doctor looked away, and then he settled back again into his chair, slowly closing up the small notepad. “The situation,” he said. “It’s impossible. For her. I try thinking about it, but it’s too much.”

  “You’re not alone in that,” said Ron. “What’s happened seems to have paralyzed us. Except for the fundamentalists and all that wailing about the end of the world. Judgement Day.” He took a mouthful of the whisky and let out a heady sigh. “But it’s the governments. They’re locked up. Helpless. Meanwhile, refugee camps are overflowing. There’s reports of imminent starvation, people getting sick—that’s bound to happen. And now, all these spontaneous mobs filling the streets.” He leaned forward. “Can you text her back, Hamish? If she’s going to speak for them, it’d better be damned soon.”

  “No,” said Hamish. “I can’t. At least, I don’t think so. I try, but she’s not responded directly to what I write. It’s mostly … well, personal stuff.”

  “Is she being held against her will?”

  “She says not. She says this is all on some kind of schedule. She says they’ve done this before, on other worlds. There is more to come.”

  “They must have made official contact by now,” Ron said. “And all those statements from all the governments are just a smokescreen.”

  “I don’t think she’s talked to any government,” Hamish said.

  Ron considered, trying to make sense of all this. He studied Hamish for a long moment, and then said, “Should I do something with this information? Is that what you’re asking me to do? Because if it is, I doubt anyone would listen. Besides, the net’s gone insane. Even some of the big servers are getting overloaded.”

  “I think she needs help,” said Hamish.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some … groundwork laid.” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Rational people are drawing proper conclusions—I mean, rather, people are discussing the near certainty that an alien presence is now interfering with us.”

  Ronald nodded, and then snorted. “So much for the Prime Directive.” Seeing Hamish’s expression, he explained. “Star Trek, the noninterference protocol the Federation worked under, not that it stopped Kirk from … never mind, not important. But, you’re right. It’s being discussed.”

  Hamish waited.

  “Groundwork …” Ron mused. “That would be problematic, Hamish. We’re all waiting for the news networks to start calling on every SF writer who won’t wilt in front of a camera. Picking their brains, inviting speculation. It’s coming, once the hysteria dies down. But I think
what you’re suggesting is some kind of consistent statement. I don’t think you’ll get it.”

  “If you let them know, Ronald, about Sam.”

  “Okay, she’s well-respected. And then there’s her vlog, but sometimes that’s just a giant target painted on her back. Sam never pulled any punches.” He leaned forward. “Ah, that might be it.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Their selecting her, as opposed to anyone else. She’s recognizable, even to people outside the nerdo-sphere. Like Stephen King, or Martin. All right, maybe not that big, but still, pretty big.”

  Hamish’s gaze was level. “I can’t imagine either King or Martin as ideal spokespeople for an alien First Contact.”

  After a moment, Ron snorted. “Yeah, point taken. So, they picked her. Could’ve been some other SF writer, but it wasn’t. Because she’s got the high profile, they chose her. And like I said, she’s well-respected in the field. Still, getting all the other writers on board? Probably not, at least not yet. The problem is, we don’t know enough. About their intentions beyond what’s already happened. In other words, we don’t know enough to decide it’d be anything but, well, treason, if we co-operated with this interference—and whatever’s still to come. If we tried to ease people into this.”

  Hamish settled a level regard on Ron. “Treason? Let me ask you this, then. It’s coming anyway. It’s arrived, in fact, and no one down here has any idea of what’s still to come. It’s inevitable, and whether you ‘ease people into this’ or not, makes no difference at all, since it is clear that these … aliens, they’re not much interested in asking us about what we might want, or need.” Having said his piece, the doctor sat back once again. He frowned down at his notepad and opened it up, flipping pages. Retrieving his reading glasses he said, “Here, then … she wrote: ‘There are no men in black negotiating with this ET. Nobody on Earth has any control, and that’s where the real trouble is going to come from. The power-brokers will panic.’” He looked up. “This is what I’ve been thinking about, Ronald. I’m not unaware of global events. I saw how savagely the authorities came down on those Occupy protestors a few years back. They perceived that movement—quite rightly—as a fundamental threat to their power structure. They couldn’t co-opt it, so they crushed it. And we’ve all seen what’s happened in the States with the last two elections.”

  Ron studied Hamish for a long moment and then sighed heavily. “She’s right, Hamish. Never mind the aliens posing a danger. The power-brokers must be shitting bricks right now. No control of the situation, no governments to be bought, no strings to be pulled, no courts to subvert.”

  “And yet,” said Hamish, “all violence has been stopped.”

  “And it’s a pretty broad definition of ‘violence,’” Ron added. “Fracking operations have shut down, same for the Tar Sands. And all those other assaults on the environment, the illegal logging and poaching and mining and all the rest.”

  “So, what will those in power do now, Ronald?”

  “I’m not sure. What with the stock market spiraling down—”

  “No,” Hamish cut in. He held up the notepad. “Here. ‘Beware the propaganda machine. The One Percent own the media. They control the information. Watch for the attacks.’”

  “Hmm, whipping the public into a frenzy of fear—that’s already happening, even without Big Media’s help.”

  “It needs to be countered,” Hamish said. “A voice of reason—”

  Ronald’s laugh was bitter. “My thinking hasn’t changed. We don’t have enough to go on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All right, Hamish, let’s walk it through. Sam gets abducted, in public and in front of dozens of witnesses. And you’re right, it was a huge red flag waving in our faces. Was that UFO tracked on radar? I’ve seen no official statement to that effect. How about you?”

  “No,” Hamish replied. “Nothing like that. The police … it’s just an open file, that’s all.”

  “With no one asking the uncomfortable questions. At least, not publicly. I expect our military has been rattled, though. Okay, then. Abduction, but no other communication that we know of—”

  “According to Sam, none.”

  Ron considered for a time, the whisky glass in his hands and his eyes on the amber liquid as he rolled it in a slow circles. Finally, he nodded and looked back up. “Okay. So. Abduction. Then their next move is to make whole swaths of land and sea suddenly outof-bounds for humans, and the selection criteria seem to be about preservation and restoration of threatened ecosystems. Kicking people out seems almost incidental.” He paused. “But maybe not. Maybe the two are connected.”

  “Of course they are,” Hamish said, with a trace of anger. “Who has been threatening those ecosystems? Us.”

  “We got our hands slapped.”

  “More to the point,” Hamish persisted, “the responsibility for preserving and protecting those ecosystems has been taken away from us.” His blue eyes fixed upon Ronald. “We must assume, I think, that we’ve been … monitored. For quite some time. And that the aliens have elected to act based on evidence gathered—”

  “And conclusions drawn,” Ron finished, nodding, as a faint shiver of something awoke inside him. Excitement? “That opening move, those forcefields, they’re announcing a lack of faith. In us. And,” he added quickly, “they prioritize the planet over humanity.”

  Hamish jabbed a finger at Ronald, as if to pin the notion down, and then he began scribbling in his notepad. “Exactly, Ronald. And then?”

  “And then … they take away our guns. Our knives, our fists.”

  “Our nuclear arsenal, tanks, fighter jets, cruise missiles, drones, all useless.”

  “Presumably,” Ronald pointed out. “No one’s made any such announcement. But then, they wouldn’t, would they?”

  “What happens,” Hamish asked as he continued writing, “when borders can’t be enforced? What happens when you can’t stop people from, from just moving. From there to here?”

  “The segregation of settlements in Jerusalem is in shambles,” Ron said. “No one can hold anyone back. By the same token, no one can even hurt each other—there were lots of arguments, shouting back and forth. Lots of cursing and waving fists. But it all fell away, since it incited nothing, went nowhere. All just a waste of breath. Even when a mob tries to rush a line of soldiers, they can’t get at each other.”

  “There is a complexity to these rules,” Hamish said.

  “Yes, there is, isn’t there? Right, the option of violence has been removed. All over the world, all those warring ideologies … now asking themselves, what do we do now? How do we win a battle we’re not allowed to fight?”

  “There is one exception to the rule against violence,” Hamish said.

  Ronald’s eyebrows lifted. “There is?”

  Hamish removed his glasses again. “Suicide.”

  “What? I mean, really? Are you sure?”

  “I’m a doctor, remember? I made some calls. I’ve since confirmed it—what caught my eye was that suicide bomber in Lahore, just yesterday. He was in a crowded mosque, but the explosion annihilated only him—even sound did not penetrate the forcefield that wrapped itself around the man. There was a flash, and then just scraps and bits of meat, bone and hair. So, violence, but self-directed.”

  “I missed that report,” said Ronald.

  “I called some people I know in the Emergency Response Services. Suicides have continued. It seems that violence against oneself is permitted.”

  “But not all suicide attempts are true attempts, are they?”

  Hamish shrugged, his expression bleak. “There have been no successful interventions by any first-responder in the past seventy-two hours—not here, not in Vancouver or Calgary. That was as far as I could inquire, for now.”

  “What about accidental overdoses?”

  “Too early to tell. The data points are ambiguous. There was one medical intervention with a patient who immediately reg
retted their overdose—that wasn’t prevented or interfered with. At Vancouver General last night.”

  Ron rubbed at his face. The whisky was making itself felt—he’d forgotten to eat lunch. “Let’s try to think through the progression. Abduction, forcefields, no violence. We’ve been … emasculated. If they landed now and just took things over, worldwide, all we’d have left is passive resistance. A blanket refusal to co-operate.”

  “One must hope,” Hamish said, “that the pacifist edict also applies to the aliens as well.”

  “I’m not sure it does, though. Those forcefields pushed people out. Maybe nobody was physically injured by that, but they sure suffered emotionally.”

  “Carrot and stick,” Hamish said, his frown deepening.

  “The non-violence thing is a pretty bitter carrot.”

  “Tough love.”

  Ron grunted. “So, the ‘stick’ of the forcefields, the dubious carrot of non-violence. Logically, we’re due for another ‘stick’.”

  “Ronald, one could reverse those labels quite easily. The carrot is the preserved environment and all its diversity saved from extinction; the stick is the end of human aggression toward anything but oneself. But that, too, is not an absolute. Slaughterhouses continue processing domestic livestock, after all. But wholesale harvesting from the sea has been stopped. Crops are still being harvested, and we know how destructive that can be, especially when that harvesting is mechanical. Rather, better to consider our aggressive instincts to have been selectively curtailed. It is not an absolute.”

  “Curious, that. But you have a point. You could read the carrot and stick metaphor both ways. Which puts us at an impasse regarding what might come next.”

  Hamish shrugged. “If a stick, what? What more can be done to us?”

  “Occupation. Landings. Troops—no, what am I saying. They don’t need troops. Unless they’re prepared to force us into something, or, conversely, coming down in transports—aw, shit, Hamish. See what bad SF does to us? That makes no sense either.” He threw up his hands. “I have no idea.”