Authors: Niko Perren
Glass Sky (26 page)
UNBIO CO2 SUMMARY
August 7, 2050. Confidential.
As of the July UN Climate Summit, UNBio has a new mandate to protect the effectiveness of the L1 shield by reducing anthropogenic CO2 emissions below absorption levels. To support this mandate, UNBio has provided industrial and agricultural targets to member nations.
***
Ruth, carrying two tall glasses of iced coffee, threaded her way through fashionable University of Colorado students. Beananza was the type of coffee shop that the big chains had been trying to emulate for a hundred years, with eclectic art on the walls and tattooed hipsters behind the counter: the kind of people that you wanted in your circle, just to prove how edgy you were. Ruth – in too-tight knee-pants – fit right in. Tania felt as if she’d stepped 20 years into the future and forgotten to update her wardrobe.
“Catch.” Ruth pushed the cup across a mosaic of colorful tiles. “This coffee is superb. And it comes from Saskatchewan instead of a cloud forest.”
“Saskatchewan coffee?” asked Tania. “Really?”
“Well, it’s not really coffee, if that’s what you mean,” said Ruth. “They genetically engineered poplar trees to produce coffee beans. If Canada wasn’t so uncool, it would be all the rage already.”
Tania sniffed, then sipped tentatively. “Mmmmm.” Rich, bitter, and sweet all at once, with just a hint of something wintry. Poplar? Maybe. She had no idea what poplar tasted like, but if she were to imagine a flavor…
They chatted for a while. Friend stuff. But Ruth was clearly itching to say something. “I’ve got news about Ethiopia,” she finally announced.
“I thought you’d given up on that,” said Tania. The mysterious land-survey papers she’d found in the truck were the last thing on her mind. Just one of life’s mysteries: like the barista’s love of forehead piercings, or how her omni vanished, only to show up in plain sight on the kitchen table 30 minutes later. She tried to match Ruth’s obvious enthusiasm. “What did you find?”
“A Cayman Islands company called Terillium Holdings transferred 150 million dollars through the Ethiopian Central Bank three months ago. They’re a hedge fund, so international finance rules require them to report large transfers. And get this, they listed the reason as land purchases.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Tania. “Lots of land changes hands.”
“Not in Ethiopia it doesn’t,” said Ruth. “As far as we could find, this is the largest Ethiopian land purchase since the reporting rules changed ten years ago. And it gets even better. Terillium Holdings also bought desert land in Uzbekistan and Peru.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Tania. “Why would anyone be hoarding desert?”
“My guess?” said Ruth. “Because you can buy a lot of it very cheaply.”
“And who’s funding Terillium?”
“We haven’t figured that out yet,” said Ruth. “But I’m sure curious.”
Tania snuck a glance at her omni. The National Weather Service was still predicting that Hurricane Martha would miss Florida. The second narrow escape of the summer. There were also a dozen new Pax Gaia emails. Free for a little while longer. “Who’s this ‘we’?” Tania asked. “How did you learn all this spy stuff?”
“I have a lover in New York who is a senior partner in an investment firm. She follows money to see what her competitors are buying, and why.”
“She?” Tania snagged sugar from a kid with enough metal in his face to set off a security scanner. “You’ve got a girlfriend? I always assumed you were straight.”
Ruth smiled sheepishly. “Well, I do date guys sometimes. But I’m more into girls.”
Four months of shared history replayed themselves through a new filter. “God, I’m so clueless sometimes,” laughed Tania. “I’ve got zero game.”
“I should have told you earlier,” said Ruth. “But you threw me out on my first visit. And then I worried that you’d think that I was hitting on you, so I didn’t tell you the next time. And the longer I waited…”
“That’s why you never mentioned details about your lovers,” said Tania. “Your parents live in Salt Lake City. Your brother works for a bank. You had a boyfriend in college for three years. But nothing current.”
“I told you there was nobody serious,” protested Ruth. “It’s true. I have girlfriends in the cities I visit regularly. Meaghan’s one of them. It’s fun.”
“So that camping trip – you were trying to add me to your harem!”
“No, I wasn’t,” said Ruth indignantly.
“You spooned me and tried to zip our sleeping bags together.”
Ruth turned as red as her hair. “OK. Maybe. A little. You’ve got nice… anyway… it’s clear you’re not into women. Though I could keep you and a future boyfriend company.”
“You’re hitting on me again!” exclaimed Tania.
“I’m starting my vow of silence now,” said Ruth.
Just then a green-haired girl with a metal ring through her cheek burst through the front doors. “Steve, Julia,” she yelled, directing her attention to friends in the back. “Hurricane Martha changed course. It’s going to make landfall after all. In Miami!”
The girl’s announcement electrified the coffee shop. Miami? How awful! And unlike the lunar accident ten days ago, this disaster would have live video coverage. Beananza was one of those rare places that hadn’t plastered televisions on every surface. Patrons flooded towards the exits.
“Your place or mine?” asked Tania.
***
Tania had never been to Ruth’s, but it was closer. She lived on the top floor of a historic brick house near UC Boulder. It was shaded by a pair of ancient pines and surrounded by a yard filled with native plants. They locked their bikes in the shed, then climbed a double flight of rickety wooden steps to a back balcony.
“The apartment belongs to Green Army,” said Ruth. “Our core team lives on the road a lot. So instead of sleeping in hotels, we share a few permanent homes with lockers for our personal stuff. You wouldn’t believe how many T-shirts and toothbrushes I own.”
She omnied open the door and dashed inside, snatching up clothes in a belated attempt to tidy. Age-rippled windows lit a worn wood floor that might have been original. The hallway had an old-fashioned mix of angles and architectural details that had never gone out of style, and the earth-toned walls held enough art to look homey.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Ruth picked more clothing off the living room floor, and vanished around the corner. A bra lay on the ground below the humongous wall TV. Must be some wild nights here.
“That’s some TV, Ruth.”
“Not my idea,” Ruth called from the other room. “TV’s a waste of time.” She rounded the corner with a bag of carrots and flopped next to Tania. “It’s also dangerous. Snack?”
“Dangerous?” asked Tania, taking a carrot.
“Advertising is mind viruses that get installed in your brain,” said Ruth. “Believe me, I know. Everyone thinks it doesn’t work on them. But $800 billion a year of corporate money says it does.” She waved on the set. “News. Rewind fifteen minutes. Play without ads.”
FLOOR-TO-CEILING glass walled the entire penthouse of Jim Barker’s Miami Bible Tower – his pulpit in the sky – providing a bird’s eye view of the menacing wall of cloud beyond the stage. Not that anyone in the crowd seemed bothered; they watched with rapt attention as Jim Barker strutted in front of a row of illuminated crosses.
Peter Jones brushed manicured fingers through his hair. “Do I look okay?”
Tran nodded, a wary eye on the rain-lashed window. “How come we always get the shit assignments?”
“We’ve gotta take chances if we want to make it in this business,” said Peter. “It’s this, or a social media desk.”
Several parishioners turned to glare. “Shhh…”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tran lifted the camera cluster to his shoulders and dropped his EyeSistant into place. Maybe Peter has a point. The news studio doesn’t give highend immersion cameras to junior crews. He switched his mental focus to the EyeSistant’s thought-bond. Live feed. Left eye. The broadcast from New York appeared in the corner of his vision: a helicopter view of endless cars, immobile, almost invisible in the deluge.
“More than three feet of rain has fallen in the last two hours,” the voiceover whispered in his ear bud, “washing out bridges and trapping tens of thousands on the highway. Government officials are urging everyone to stay in the city and get to higher ground. Evacuation is no longer an option. Low lying areas are not safe. Find a skyscraper and hide in a stairwell until the storm is over. Stay away from windows.”
The Bible Tower’s glass walls thundered in agreement, causing Tran to take an involuntary step away. Jim Barker’s assistant hurried over. “Reverend Barker’s show is going to commercials in thirty. The break’s two minutes. You’ll have the middle sixty seconds for your spot, like we agreed.”
“Thank you again,” said Peter. “New York, we’re ready in thirty.”
Jim Barker finished his sermon as the New York anchor stretched her dialog to smooth the transition. “While the National Weather Service was surprised by Hurricane Martha’s sudden change in direction, there’s one person who claims he saw this coming. We take you now to Peter Jones, who is reporting live from the Miami Bible Tower.”
“We’re on,” yelled Barker’s assistant.
The congregation fell quiet, as they’d rehearsed in the last commercial break. Jim Barker stepped away from the crosses, white moustache luminous in the storm-induced gloom, and linked hands with his wife and five daughters. He bowed his head in prayer so that only the top of his slicked-back hair was visible.
“This is Peter Jones in Miami,” said Peter in a hushed voice. “Jim Barker is no stranger to controversy. He preaches a fundamentalist doctrine that argues that the shield is Satan’s attempt to prevent the rapture.” Tran followed Peter with the camera cluster as Peter started towards the stage through the rows of worshippers. “He has gathered followers at the top of his Miami Bible Tower, to witness what he is calling ‘God’s Vengeance.’”
Jim Barker’s eyes snapped open and he stared directly at Tran’s cameras. He stepped out of the line, which closed behind him, his family continuing to pray while he spoke.
“The holy scriptures surely state that we will end in sulfur!” Barker roared. “Yet President Juarez has ignored these warnings. She has teamed with Tania Black’s forces at UNBio to build Satan’s Shield and protect the sinners. Long I have prayed to the Lord to give us a sign. To show us the strength of his love. And today he has obliged us.” Barker’s voice darkened, matching the towering column of black rising out of the ocean behind him. “Today, God’s cleansing of America begins! And only the righteous shall be spared! Thank you, Lord! Thank you!”
At the second thank you, Tran cut the feed, and the broadcast switched back to New York. “Fantastic!” the producer whispered over the private link. “He’s completely mad. God is going to reach his fist right through those windows and take him to heaven. Can you get us more? I can rotate you back in sixty.”
Peter grinned. “A double rotation! I told you, Tran!”
I don’t know about this. Tran backed through the congregation towards the windows. He aimed the cameras at the ground ten stories below. Holy fuck. Waves thundered over the seawall, roaring across the street below and pounding the Bible Tower’s lower levels. Cars bobbed in the froth like children’s toys.
“We’re top of the ratings,” said the producer. “Our competitors are all cowering in stairwells. Peter, we’ll prompt you through the earpiece.” The storm attacked the glass like some malevolent spirit gone mad. The congregation joined hands and broke into a joyous hymn.
This is crazy. “We need to go,” Tran said. “Now!”
“No, not yet!” Peter stepped to the window. He checked his hair.
Hurry. Hurry.
“Peter, you’re on again in five,” said the anchor. “Four, three…”
“This is Peter Jones, back from Miami. Hurricane Martha is almost upon us. Doppler radar is showing winds gusting up to 220 miles per hour off shore. Authorities are also warning of a,” he pushed his earpiece, straining to hear above the shrieking howl, “… is this right? Authorities are warning of a 25-foot storm surge… 25 feet?” Peter suddenly looked flustered.
The anchor jumped in. “Peter, can you explain what a storm surge is?”
“Ah, yes. A storm surge is when a hurricane piles water up against the coast. It’s a temporary rise in sea level. Anything under the surge height is fully submerged. But since waves ride on top of the surge, the actual flood levels will be higher still.” He risked a glance outside. “My God. It’s begun…”
Bang! Something crashed into the window, sending Peter scuttling back. Bright red streaks smeared the glass, washed away in an instant by the pounding rain. The singing faltered. Hurricane glass could withstand a 200 mile per hour wind. But more than wind moved in the air now.
Crash! A web of spidery lines turned the window opaque.
“Fuck this.” Tran turned, sprinting for the stairwell’s safety, fighting through startled parishioners. “Keep the camera rolling,” a voice yelled in his ear. “We’re killing the ratings!”
Breaking glass. A roar, like an airplane engine. Wind tore at his clothing. Screams. Tran ripped off the unwieldy camera cluster, abandoning it on the floor. He fought the wind’s grasp and somehow managed to get into the stairwell. A woman screamed behind him, the leading edge of the panic, eyes wide with disbelief. Tran tried to yank her to safety, but the wind tore her out of his hands. She slammed head first against a pillar with a sickening crunch, splashing crimson gore against the gilded wood. Arms and legs pinwheeling, she vanished in a cloud of bibles and broken crosses.
“Peter!” Tran screamed. “Peter, where are you?” Fragments of safety glass whistled past, shattering against the concrete stairwell, peppering him with red gashes. Tran slammed the door. In the flickering yellow of the emergency lights he could see a half-dozen huddled survivors staring back at him. Together, they cowered in the gloom, listening as the storm stripped the building down to a concrete shell.