A weather presenter with CBS Oklahoma for the past two years, Megan Bronson felt totally out of her depth. Standing on a nice cozy set, waving at a chroma key green screen and telling viewers they were in for a fabulous day – or not – was her cup of tea. Experiencing the raw savagery of the elements for herself, however, certainly wasn’t.
It didn’t start out that way of course. When their station chief, Roy Blake, had suggested Megan and Eduardo Rafael – the on-call cameraman – take a pool truck and patrol along Route 36, east of Geronimo to report on the approaching menace firsthand, she’d jumped at the chance. It was nice to escape the confines of the studio every now and then and grab a breath of fresh air. But this was more than a breath, and the air wasn’t supposed to be filled with trees, huge clods of earth, street signs and whole chunks of someone’s house.
Thankfully, Eduardo was driving a seven liter, Ford L-Super Duty 2000, an eight ton brute of a machine, adapted for extreme conditions. Even so, the storm was unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and Megan’s heart had been beating like a kettledrum ever since she caught her first glimpse of its immense power.
Still, things had gone smoothly until fifteen minutes previously, when they’d gotten caught up in a mini-cavalcade of fellow journalists, all out on the hunt for the same thing: a scoop. And as was usual under such circumstances, everyone had ended up trying to outtalk their counterparts over the loop provided by each wagons onboard m-pad consoles.
Bedlam had ensued, until veteran CNN correspondent, Stephen McDougal, had taken charge and started discussing how they might all profit by working together. A splendid idea, and one that had worked quite well up until ten seconds ago when six mystery objects had appeared in the sky near Geronimo, seemingly immune to the cyclonic gales making Megan appreciate there really was no place like home.
The impromptu convoy screeched to a halt. Staring through her window, Megan could see the craft were uniformly shaped like an inverted T and their matte black hulls were unadorned by any form of embellishment, apart from a large gray emblem along the underbelly which looked for all the world like an abstract representation of a winged angel.
“Guardians. It has to be,” rasped Stephen McDougal over the link, “who else is gonna turn up in something like that?”
As everyone jumped from their vehicles, cameras trained, two of the vessels swooped toward the outskirts of the town itself at amazing speed. Dappled beams washed across each of the buildings there in turn, like searchlights hunting down escaped prisoners. Every so often those beams would linger, and a radiant pulse would be seen moving from the ground upward, causing much speculation amongst the news crews as to what they were.
Eduardo gave her a thumbs-up to indicate they were now broadcasting, and Megan went into her routine, shouting to ensure people would be able to hear her above the din. “Hi folks, I’m Megan Bronson from CBS Oklahoma, and you are joining us live on the outs –?”
“Just picking up stragglers,” a voice announced out of the blue.
Jumping, everybody turned to see a striking Arabic looking woman dressed in Guardian robes standing where no one had been only an instant before. Gusts caught in her cloak, causing it to flap wildly in every direction, and exposing the two silver bands encompassing her left sleeve, insignia that served as a stark contrast to the darkness of her regalia, skin, and luxuriant raven blue hair.
“Sorry, what?” murmured one of the reporters nearest to her.
The Guardian indicated the squadron hovering above them. “We’re just taking precautions in case we don’t stop the tornado in time. Those lights you see are transportation beams. When they locate someone, we scoop them up out of harm’s way.”
That same reporter – a guy Megan didn’t know – frowned, studying the ships with a longing akin to hunger. His expression soon spread to all the other hawks in attendance, who realized they had something new to get their talons into.
The predatory mood was shattered as a shadow loomed over them from behind, forcing everyone to duck.
The Guardian laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. If you get in the way, you’ll find yourselves inside the brig of one of those things faster than you can think of a misquote or a lie.”
Her winning smile was somewhat clouded by the bear-trap cast to her glowing eyes. She fixed each one of them with a pointed transitory glance. Nodding in satisfaction, she continued, “I am Grand Master Anatt Yasin, Silver Commander on scene for the Guardians. Please do your best not endanger yourselves...or others. And if you have a question, just feel free to ask. Okay?”
Megan took an instant liking to the straight-talking woman who appeared so confident under what must have been stressful circumstances. She wasn’t the only one. Chortling out loud, Stephen McDougal stepped forward and in a scheming tone, whispered, “Seeing as you like getting right to the point, may I ask a direct question?”
The Grand Master paused for a moment and stared into the depths of his soul. Then she spun to face everyone else in the circle. As the Guardian’s gaze locked on her, Megan felt a prickling, icicle sensation trickle down her spine.
Comprehension dawned.
“You’ve just read our minds!” Stephen gasped. He remained undaunted. “Well? If my cameraman and I stayed out of the way and televised the incident from inside, would that be in order? There’ll be plenty of accounts from down here, so ours will show something from a different perspective. Obviously, we won’t record anything confidential.”
“Oh, I know you won’t, Stephen,” Grand Master Yasin replied. She pointed at the closest of the ships. “Yes, the Captain of the Falcon has given his permission for you to board his frigate. You will be escorted to an observation room and allowed to report on things from a very unique vantage point. Don’t mess this up and you may find it the beginning of a fruitful and beautiful relationship.”
Stephen was about to reply when a familiar shaft of light descended from the indicated vessel overhead. Flicking from person to person, it quickly narrowed in on Stephen and his colleague, whereupon it intensified abruptly. The outlines of two human forms faded from view, being replaced by a pair of glowing orbs that pulsed brightly for a second before running back along the beam.
As the ray cut off, the bulk of the great craft moved away to rejoin its three companions, waiting patiently on the outskirts of Geronimo, seemingly unaffected by the downbursts, wind shears and lightning strikes assailing them on all sides.
The Falcon moved swiftly and made no sound Megan could discern, and once in formation, the quartet headed straight into the rotating column of hate still churning Lawton’s way.
Only then did it dawn on her what had just happened. The sneaky rat! He’s gone and got himself one heck of an exclusive. How am I ever going to beat that?
She could see she wasn’t the only one annoyed at being out-maneuvered by their colleague, much to the amusement of Grand Master Yasin, who couldn’t help rubbing it in: “Well, if you’d had the balls to ask, you could have been up there right now getting some pretty unique shots. My, my, are they going to see some sights. Probably make all the front pages, too.”
She walked off, shaking her head in mock sympathy and waving toward a group of eight of her associates, laden down with equipment, who had just materialized from goodness knows where.
Fixing on them, Megan fumed; I suppose they’ll have to do. One way or another, mine’s the story everyone will want to read about.
*
Guardian Observation Station 2 (GOS-2)
To Naomi, life aboard a space station could be rather claustrophobic, as it always seemed to emphasize the fact that you were never free of the work environment. Her lunch over, coffee in hand, she entered GOS-2’s Panorama Suite and made her way toward the armored scanning module that would be her nest for the remaining three hours of duty.
As was her custom when taking a break mid-shift, Naomi had left a tiny segment of her superlative awareness attuned to the ever watchful capabilities of the station’s 10,000 MW Z-Band, Tracking High Orbital Resolution – THOR – multisensory array. A habit she was glad to practice, for it gave her an edge other farscanners lacked.
No sooner had she drained her cup and donned her helmet, than one of the hyperenergized surveillance nodes chimed as it registered a possible problem.
Her full focus came to bear. Intrigued by what she saw, she fired-up the Search Enhancing Psi-optics – SEPs – to lock onto and verify a buildup of heat and radiation at the U.S Waste Isolation Plant in New Mexico. Why haven’t their security measures prevented things from progressing this far?
Adopting a routine she had followed thousands of times before, Naomi created a fresh log by mentally registering this latest incident and placing her thumb over the DNA reader. Thus sealed, she was now responsible for the Immediate Action Plan to follow.
A few seconds later, the standby alert activated and Naomi couldn’t help but give a little smile. Ha! I beat you again.
Augmenting her astral senses, Naomi zoomed down onto the Carlsbad area of New Mexico, and refined her acuity over the target site itself. For good measure, she brought up a written synopsis of what went on there:
THE WASTE ISOLATION PLANT AT CARLSBAD, NEW MEXICO IS THE THIRD LARGEST RADIOACTIVE WASTE REPOSITORY IN THE WORLD, AND WAS OPENED IN 1999 AS A WASTE REPOSITORY FOR ALL U.S. NUCLEAR DEFENSE ORDINANCE EMITTING ALPHA RADIATION WITH A HALF LIFE OF OVER TWENTY YEARS. MATERIALS ARE KEPT TWO-THOUSAND, ONE-HUNDRED AND FIFTY FEET BELOW GROUND WITHIN A THREE-THOUSAND FOOT THICK SALT FORMATION THAT HAS ENJOYED STABLE PLATE TECTONICS FOR OVER THIRTY-FIVE MILLION YEARS—A NONNEGOTIABLE NECESSITY FOR ANY VIABLE SITE.
WITHIN THOSE UNDERGROUND ROOMS ARE LARGE CONTAINERS IN WHICH MATERIALS ARE STORED USING A LIMITED AMOUNT OF COOLANT LIQUID AND CIRCULATED AIR. THEY MUST BE KEPT VENTED AND CHILLED TO PREVENT THE ENERGY RELEASED BY RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS DISSOCIATING THE WATER INTO HYDROGEN AND OXYGEN, AND THEREBY CREATING A POTENTIALLY EXPLOSIVE ELEMENT.
Naomi was relieved to see the plant’s sophisticated rapid reaction systems were active and had already alerted emergency responders within the facility itself. HAZCHEM units from nearby Carlsbad were also being dispatched, but didn’t appear to appreciate the urgency of the situation. Do they think it’s just a drill?
A heat bloom turned part of the thermal overview orange.
Odd? The safety procedures at places like this are usually topnotch and protected by all sorts of backups. Calothermic consumption should never have reached such proportions before registering.
Inside her brain, Naomi’s muse was throwing a fit and silently screaming at her that something wasn’t right. I’d better collect evidence, just in case…
Reaching out telepathically, Naomi employed a hardwire piggy-back routine to mesh her cognitive functions to a cerebral reader. So linked, GOS-2’s automated network would now be able to record what she thought, saw, and heard.
Assessing the Isolation Plant’s current status for a second time gave her even greater cause to worry. So much so, that she was onto the station chief of GOS-6 within seconds.
The mental voice and spectral presence of Grand Master Christopher Owen cut into her mind like the crack of a whip.
What’s up, Guardian Cruz?
Though he served an adjacent sector, Chris Owen had done his homework and knew all the Panorama Operators well. And like every other commander, he’d learned that if something was bugging Naomi Cruz, you listened.
Digesting the facts displayed in the ether before him, Owen swiftly supported her concerns: Good call. We need to dig into this a little more.
His image dimmed and Naomi looked on as he constructed a briefing web of concise psychic data for the Alpha Response Teams aboard GOS-6, and a similar package for the groundside Delta units not already tied up with the mid-State storm.
Twelve seconds later, Owen was back: Okay, Naomi. Run this by me in your own words so I can tell the boys and girls who will be assigned to this mess what to expect.
Naomi layered another filter over her subconscious so she could continue her observations and chat without being distracted from either task.
Boss, Carlsbad has state of the art protection. All of it incorporating tripled redundancies that are more than capable of recognizing and responding to virtually any scenario you could think of, short of a nuclear strike.
So what’s got you bugged?
In a nutshell? I think what’s happening is deliberate.
The Grand Master’s tone hardened: How so?
Well, if systems here had simply failed, as the picture so blatantly depicts, backups would kick in and secondary safety protocols would have leaped to take over. Even something as minor as a ‘hiccup’ would have been tagged with a direct follow-up order for staff to take a look, or at least run a diagnostic, yes?
Go on.
Well, I’ve just skimmed the logs, electronically and using enhanced Psi-Scan, and it appears there was a power outage about three hours ago. During that period, redundant generators showed green lights across the board, and crosschecks reveal standby solar batteries were fully charged. Now, the tiered safeties in this place are shielded within a reactive hunter-seeker algorithm…think of it as a caveman’s version of our Avenger AI program. While we wouldn’t think it amounts to much, it is nevertheless extremely sophisticated by the world’s standards. Here’s the thing, none of those support systems activated, though all their instruments say the exact opposite. What’s more, subsequent crosschecks by the plant’s own main computer indicate the backups responded normally.
Owen got straight to the point: So you’re thinking sabotage?
Naomi considered a range of possibilities with the evidence to hand. After checking her results thoroughly, she replied: I do. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate accidents happen and glitches occur. But I don’t like the way so many of them seemed to have coincided…?
As she summarized her findings, Naomi watched the Grand Master prepare a separate briefing web for Guardian Command and redirect two of the station’s ultra-sensitive scanning nodes onto the plant itself. A third was set to interrogate the U.S. Department of Defense’s computers for listings of all scheduled military maneuvers – for that day and for the rest of the month – throughout continental USA and abroad.
She wasn’t offended in the least, for she knew Owen would still be paying attention.
Naomi continued: Now what I don’t like is that the Main Frame indicates the primary line and redundancies were operating within standard parameters, when that was obviously not the case. For a single circuit to display false information is one thing. For the emergency backups to do the same is another, especially when you factor-in those same gremlins hit the independent security grid at the exact same moment.
So you’re saying the power outage hid something else?
Exactly! Coolant and venting to the radioactive canisters work from a totally isolated venue for a good reason. Yet the power cut set off a cascade failure that somehow managed to corrupt everything. That couldn’t have happened by accident. And it’s even spookier that every single readout kept stating the situation was normal until particle emissions became so high the doors started melting.
And you’re sure it’s not some weird side effect from this storm across the way?
No boss, not a chance.
But why? He pondered aloud: Although we’ve only just announced ourselves, people know we’re alert to such dangers and will respond.
A gong, struck by a large muscle-bound man announcing a major motion picture sounded in Naomi’s mind: Or that’s what they’re counting on!
Instinct took over. Without hesitating, Naomi activated the standby alert, notifying her own station’s Bravo Team – B-2 – to prepare. As the klaxon sounded, Naomi completed a fast scan of Texas and Oklahoma, which revealed A-2 were still groundside along with other Alpha units from stations 1 and 3 and the America Sector’s primary Delta Squad, dealing with the multitude of hurdles presented by the tornado’s relentless rampage.
Whatever the cause of the disruption at Carlsbad, it had allowed too much energy to build up in the containers, creating a hazard beyond the capabilities of the plant’s emergency teams to handle safely. The Guardians would have to respond, but in doing so, they would severely deplete their remaining orbital assets, forcing them to rely on headquarters for backup.
Naomi’s muse churned inside her: Boss, the more I think about this, the more unsettled I’m becoming. Would you please issue a priority one flash message to all Guardian overseers? We need to beef up our defensive measures until we know for sure what’s happening…And while you’re about it, could you revise your current search at the Defense Department? I need to know of exercises and convoys – or anything like that – presently underway or due to start soon, especially if they involve the movement of hazardous or unstable materials. Think sensitive, think classified and my gut tells me you’ll be on the right track. I have a terrible feeling Carlsbad is only a prelude to something even more insidious; something designed to measure our limitations.
Impressed though he clearly was, the chief still had his wits about him: I’ll certainly get onto that, Naomi, but you must understand. It’ll be a massive search, even under the stipulations you’ve suggested. Can you at least narrow the field for me?
Easily…Naomi’s synapses blazed as she compartmentalized each facet of the puzzle in her mind: The priority will be events originating in and around our sector. Work out in widening arcs from there.
She had another idea: And get some of our tech-heads to give the plant’s electronic systems a thorough going-over. There’s bound to be residual footprints and evidence of mischief in there somewhere. The sooner we can start to screw things down, the sooner we can get on top of this mess.
Roger that. I’ll…wait a second? Owen was distracted by a broadcast from B-2 leader, Guardian Master Natalia Tavares, who needed additional personnel to assist in evacuating the scattering of townships close to the plant. She also requested a decontamination unit to sanitize those areas already irradiated.
Realizing they lacked sufficient manpower, Naomi suggested to Owen he send an appeal to the Canadian and South American sectors for assistance, with similar calls to follow at Observation Stations 4 and 5.
That done, she settled back and started wracking her brains for anything she might have overlooked.
A few minutes later, Naomi’s ancillary terminal began cataloging all scheduled military, civilian and contractor tests, displaying them in prioritized groups, and concentrating as Naomi had requested upon those affecting their region first.
Of these, she went straight to those listed as “Top Secret.”
There!
Three items in particular interested her: classified long-range missile tests; satellite platform exercises; and war games involving a new stealth submarine.
Pursuing their mission guidelines, Naomi started running multiple scenarios in her head, to assess which might pose the greatest threat.
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The commander was growing impatient: What have we got so far?
Naomi targeted each option with her scanners, requesting backup probes – both electronic and extrasensory – from their sister stations, before formulating her reply.
The missile tests are underway, evidently with the latest Ground Penetrating Binary Warhead Delivery system, the B91-11. From what I can see, it looks like they’re designed to pierce armored installations and convey a low yield short-term lethal blast comprised of a gravity – radiation combination. Dependent on their setting, they can totally destroy underground bunkers or leave them intact for use.
These things have shielded guidance and arming chips, so the military must have kept to their schedule and used the storm as a good excuse to see if the B91s can do what they’re supposed to.
Next, we come to the laser satellite platforms we’ve seen going up all over the place. Before the project advances any further, the Pentagon wants their Multiple Target Recognition Systems put through its paces…?
Ah, I see now. Neither the armaments nor focusing mirrors have been fitted as yet, so this is merely a passive exercise, nothing aggressive is registering.
That leaves the war games . . . aha, there we go. The Navy is currently trialing the stealth technology on their latest Damocles Class attack sub with the Brits. They’re playing from the Gulf of Mexico and out into the Atlantic. Again, no weapons, they’re more concerned with seeing how silent the new Aqua Drive is and how close they can get to specified targets before detection.
Grand Master Owen cut straight to the chase: So, in your opinion, should we be looking at any of these as an option or widen the hunt?
Naomi scrutinized the information in front of her again, this time extending the search criteria to a three-thousand mile radius to include both the Northern and Southern American continent: If I had to make a choice now, I think we should concentrate on the missiles. The test is already underway, and we still haven’t received confirmation of their flight plans or range. Her fingers flew across the panel: Hmmm, they seem to be spreading over a vast area. Let’s see what they’re up to.
The station’s SEPs sensors locked onto the four rocket pods now skimming along the edge of earth’s atmosphere high above the mid Atlantic. As Naomi tracked their progress, each pod shed its outer skin, revealing a cluster of three independent tactical nuclear missiles within. Like unfolding stamen they curled free, sleek and graceful, inertia helping them gain distance from one another. Then their thrusters engaged, taking them out of atmosphere.
The Land Busters arced away in expanding fans. Hoping they were already subject to a designated course, Naomi began computing trajectories, whilst simultaneously bringing up a directory of military telephone numbers. Finding what she needed, she placed a call to the mission control centre, listed at Knoxville, Tennessee.
The line connected and a shrill buzz echoed from her screen’s speakers.
After a dozen rings, she called out: Sir; we don’t appear to be making any progress. May I suggest we get someone in there in person to make a point?
I’m already on it, Owen replied: Actually, we’re being assisted by an Inquisitor squad from Washington. They are just about to teleport to target and see what’s going on…and you might like to know they’re also sending a detail to New Mexico.
Naomi fine-tuned the emitters and was rewarded for her efforts by a glut of radiological alarms: Well, please tell them to get a move on. Those B91s have live warheads and it looks as if they’re commencing their re-entry runs. At current speeds, I estimate five, maybe six minutes before it’s too late…Let’s make that four to err on the safe side.
Thirty seconds ticked slowly by as they watched the swarm in flight. Naomi found she was holding her breath and had to consciously make an effort to keep her respiration slow and steady.
Without warning, the engines to each missile stuttered, as if about to stall. When they re-engaged an instant later, the B91s burst away from each other along new paths at over twice the speed of sound.
Jeez-us! Naomi exerted her far-senses and initiated a fresh set of calculations in an attempt to assess the newly projected landfall coordinates.
The mental hail of Master Inquisitor Darien Carmichael caught their attention: Heads up, you two, this will confirm your suspicions about the test center if nothing else!
A scene was projected into their minds of a stand-alone underground control room accessed by a three-tiered security airlock. The chamber itself was littered with unconscious bodies slumped in their chairs or on the floor. None showed obvious signs of injury.
The Inquisitors had already begun their sweep, and Naomi couldn’t help thinking to herself that they would probably find the mixed bag of scientists and high-ranking officials and officers had been incapacitated by some form of aerosol to prevent them from meddling in what was about to take place. I was right, this is connected. If we could get a closer look at one of those Land Busters, I bet we find evidence of tampering.
Owen sensed her mood. Naomi?
She replied: I suggest we take those missiles down…fast!
What about fallout?
If we destroy them or targeted the engines of a select few, it shouldn’t be a problem. Wait a moment…
Naomi tweaked the Master Inquisitor’s farsensory nerve to gain his attention: Darien, am I right in assuming normal arming procedures apply here, in that the signal to go hot won’t be sent until the package closes on target?
Hang on… Carmichael fell silent as he queried the B91’s schematics on a nearby work station: Yes – yes, I can confirm your assumption. If you want to blow them out of the sky at this stage, it should be safe to do so.
Excellent. Naomi toyed with the onset of a plan: In that case, it might be better to vaporize any missiles heading toward populated areas, and try to capture one or two others for examination. In that scenario, the only real danger would be damage to the plutonium’s casing on impact. But as we’ll be on hand for almost instantaneous recovery anyway, the risk of contamination is negligible. If we’re going to do something, I suggest we do it now.
As she finished speaking, Naomi realized Grand Master Owen was engaged in an intense astral conversation with the head of active operations, the Lord Evaluator, Anil Suresh. Though she wasn’t privy to its content, she soon became aware of its outcome, for Chris Owen’s physical presence suddenly manifested behind her on the main deck.
Leaning across her shoulder, he entered his personal command codes into Naomi’s console, granting her executive control of GOS-2’s impressive weapons array, and an auto-link through to the armaments of the other five orbital stations as well.
“Your call, Naomi,” Owen whispered. “Why don’t you show us – and the world – what you can do with that special mind of yours?”
*
Back at the scene of the approaching tornado, the Guardian frigates rapidly shrank in size as they receded into the distance. Two disappeared, accelerating into the whirling dust cloud as if it was nothing but a trifling inconvenience sent to test them. The air sparked wherever larger chunks of debris impacted their shields, making it appear as if each vessel was under attack from archers firing thousands upon thousands of flaming arrows.
Studying their progress through the viewfinder of his instrument panel, Guardian Ben Williams marveled at the technology keeping his colleagues safe under such extreme conditions and couldn’t resist running through the science involved in his head.
Ben was the mastermind behind the experiment they were about to undertake, and so new to his position that, even after a year as a fully fledged Guardian, he was still very shy and somewhat reserved. He was also totally in awe of his commander – Grand Master Anatt Yasin – who was known to speak her mind and whose tongue could take the skin off a rhino at twenty paces.
Not only was Ben a PhD in combined astrophysics, quantum mechanics, and advanced mathematics, but the blue and gold bar on his lapel revealed that his telepathic and elemental abilities – especially those responsible for producing vortices and energy fields in the quantum and upsilon ranges – were his specialty. A specialty his mentors hoped would mature in several years beyond the master class range.
“Is everything ready?” Grand Master Yasin strode toward him through stubbly wheat stalks, her eyes ablaze with an inner fire.
“Almost,” he replied, “I’m waiting on the captains to confirm their generators are fully charged and then we’ll be off. I’m looking forward to seeing how the ships barriers negate the effects of the microwaves and quasi-singularities we’ll have to create. If I’m right, they’ll be able to retain an acceptable level of functionality while we drain the supercell’s energy out from under its feet.”
As he spoke, Ben displayed the steps to his plan in overlapping stages, taking care to highlight those points under discussion.
“Are you sure this is safe, Ben?” Commander Yasin asked. “I know you’re the whiz kid when it comes to things like this, but opening singularities here, inter-atmosphere must be dangerous. We’re talking about black holes, no matter how small they may be. Wouldn’t it be safer to use a displacement well?”
Managing to smile without feeling like a complete idiot, Ben explained. “That won’t work here, Ma’am. Simply put, a displacement well would still be governed by certain physical rules, principles that might end up fueling the strength of the storm. As you’re probably aware, twisters like the one we have here today are fed by opposing high-speed winds, or meso-cyclones of differing temperatures.”
Yasin nodded her understanding, so Ben continued. “Well, if we were to attempt what you suggested with a monster of this size, the speed of the process could engender an even more potent tempest, one even we might struggle to contain. Buuut, if we use microwaves instead, and intersperse the irradiated field with clustered quasi-singularities, we’ll literally shred the tornado’s heart to pieces.” He shrugged and smiled, “After all, it’ll be hard for it to keep going if the singularities disrupt the laws of physics sufficiently to prevent a transition zone from forming.”
“In that there’ll be insufficient traction to power its inner dynamo?” Yasin responded, showing a sound grasp of the mechanics behind the procedure, much to her subordinate’s delight.
“That’s one way to describe it, yes.”
“What will the residual vacuum be like?”
Ben pursed his lips. “Manageable, if we proceed as planned. And as we’ll be gradually altering the course of the front away from populated areas, any risks will diminish the further we get. Mind you, we still need to keep an eye out for gamma rays.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because of the antimatter particles they release. This storm is the most powerful one on record. If we get an outbreak of gamma bursts at the wrong time and in the wrong place, even sun factor million wouldn’t be enough to protect us.”
“And the likelihood of that happening is…?” She stressed.
“The chances of that are billions to one,” he admitted. “It would have to happen at the exact instant and in the exact location of a quasi-singularity pulse.”
The Grand master slapped him soundly on the back. “Then that’s good enough for me. Fortunately, I’m endowed with the most extraordinary set of testicles any woman on God’s good earth has ever been blessed with. They, together with my shockingly strong backbone, say it’s safe enough! So, the sooner we get on with this, the sooner I can get back to my knitting.”
Everyone laughed at the cartoon she projected into their minds: an image in which they saw her warming her toes in front of a roaring fire. Hair in a bun, and wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a tartan dressing gown, she rocked backward and forward in a comfy chair, intent upon the stitch pattern of the bright pink cardigan slowly taking shape between her rapidly clacking needles.
Her attempt at humor failed to cheer the young scientist. “I just wish we could hurry up and implement the advanced education system we’ve devised for them. Once they grasp the principles for harmonic repulsor and mitigator waves, and learn to manufacture their own force fields, the odd bit of weather like this will be a lot less hassle…for everyone.”
Yasin nodded in agreement, and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Very true, Ben. If you like, I could put in a call to the Overlord and ask him – on your behalf – if he’d care to step in? Whatever it is he’s doing can’t be all that important and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being interrupted to come and save the day.”
Ben shook his head, glumly, and slumped, completely missing the further jest.
Undeterred, Yasin gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Okay then, it’s up to you to play duty hero. Go and do your stuff. Everyone looks like they’re in position, so let’s see how your little exercise goes, eh?”
The small group of Guardians turned at the commander’s comments, automatically using their extra sensory perceptions to give themselves a clearer view of the two closest vessels. Thanks to astral dexterity, they could also see the frigates on the far side of the tornado had just reached their designated positions. Holding steady, six hundred yards above the ground, all four craft gently rotated inward until they were facing each other.
Ben counted down, and a sparkling topaz luminescence rippled away – left and right – from the bow of each ship. Merging, those lights formed a square-shaped prism that grew in intensity and commenced falling as a shimmering blue mist, a veil that deepened in color until a self-contained box had formed.
Excellent, the curtain’s integrity is exactly as it should be, Ben thought to himself. Initiating a mechanically fashioned protective bubble around his location, he scrutinized the new construct with both instruments and his ultrasenses for a full minute before affirming. “Threshold initiated and fully phased, harmonizing with shield generator…”
He turned to find Grand Master Yasin studying him, and added, “This thing would restrain a ten Megaton atomic blast; we’re good to go.”
“Well, go on then,” she chided, “it’s your baby.”
Taking a deep breath, Ben hailed the waiting frigates: Captains, please focus on the heart of the tornado . . . Now!
A crimson laser beam lanced out from each corner of the containment field. Converging at the exact center of the maelstrom, they formed a glowing hub that locked the ships in position – to the core of the storm and with each other – providing a framework upon which their foreboding could retain its strength as they drifted in unison with divergent airstreams.
Can you assess the exact position and density of the variable downdrafts? Ben inquired.
Four mental confirmations came back, and again a corresponding volley of rays flashed out. As wide and as brilliant as arc lights, these ones were pristine and white, and waved to and fro across an invisible pressure variance within the torrential mass. Once the precise position of every confluence had been determined, each vessel assumed governance of its own quadrant.
The captains signaled their readiness for the next stage.
Okay, to begin with I want the Falcon and the Argent to target their microwave emitters on their own side of the collar. We need to turn this beast left of its current course. We’re aiming for the area between Cache and Lawton, which is the least populated spot around here. Once we see it beginning to work, the Trident is to move in and back up the Falcon, and the Rapier can likewise support the Argent. Doing so should grant us an extra bit of momentum and help avoid Geronimo as much as possible. Affirm?
Affirmed.
Got that.
Roger.
Wilco.
Right, I’ll lead you in. Five – four – three – two – one – go!
The Falcon and the Argent commenced their firing sequences. It didn’t take long for the eastern edge of the tornado’s funnel to become speckled by tongues of amber flame. Even so, nothing happened for a good three minutes until Ben discerned the huge bore had begun to shy to the west.
It’s working. Realizing his equations were proving true, Ben breathed a huge sigh of relief: Trident and Rapier, please add your strength on my mark. Three – two – one – Mark!
The wash of amber sparks intensified along the starboard flank and brightened to gold. Now only fourteen miles away, the tempest threatened the outskirts of Geronimo itself, but at last, had started deviating sharply left.
“We’ve got it!” Ben yelled at the top of his voice.
Then he fell silent, for despite the intervening buffers and range to contact, the ground beneath his feet trembled as if a leviathan was stirring in the pits of hell.
How long do we have until that thing threatens either Lawton or cache? Grand Master Yasin asked, projecting an aura of calm that served as an anchor to her less experienced officers.
Ben did not rush his analysis. Though under immense pressure, he replied with confidence: Our target is travelling at close to one hundred and twenty miles an hour along the ground. Absolutely incredible! Thankfully, we’ve managed to divert its path to a point mid way between Cache and Lawton, giving us roughly six minutes to act. It’s now just over thirteen miles away, and . . . .
A flash of purple lightning interrupted his train of thought.
He frowned, suddenly wary, and made haste to warn the frigates: Captains, we’re starting to get some particularly intense gamma readings. It might be time to adjust your scanners and target those down bursts affecting your own quadrants only. We need to cook this thing up…pronto.
The cloud of golden embers flared, expanding to encompass almost half the volume of the restraining collar. But the storm wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Thunderbolts – prolonged, percussive and heavy – etched the firmament in photonegative fury.
Anxiety mounting, Ben tried his best to hide his fear and rally his colleagues: That’s it guys, core temperature is beginning to rise. Run this pattern for five more seconds and start peppering the damned thing with your singularity emitters. Concentrate on the area around the base of the column. That should be enough to…eh?
Stifled cries of alarm from behind, alerted Ben to the presence of several news crews, from the look of them, the same ones he had seen in conversation with Grand Master Yasin upon his arrival on site.
Up until now, they had remained quiet and unobtrusive, but the unexpected appearance of myriad tiny explosions in midair – the result of a million tiny black holes self-destructing on the point of formation – had unnerved them. Ben could understand why, as the rapid cycle of creative-destructive forces were generating intense gravity fluctuations, making it virtually impossible to stand upright outside his bubble.
The correspondents from ABC and Fox made a dash for their trucks, ignoring the warning from Commander Yasin that they would never drive fast enough to get away. Throwing their equipment inside, both teams had gunned their engines before the doors were even closed.
They hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards before both vehicles were plucked off the ground by a transportation beam issuing from an independent patrolling Guardian corvette, much to the amusement of Grand Master Yasin, who looked pointedly at the only remaining newscasters, those from CBS. “Care to join them?” she shouted.
With eyes as wide as saucers, the young woman reporter clutched at her microphone as if it was her only lifeline. The cameraman fared little better, hugging his camera to his neck like a two thousand pixel rabbit’s foot, and the only thing capable of warding off the evil before him.
It was obvious they were both petrified. Nevertheless, it seemed to Ben they were determined to stick it out, something that earned a nod of respect from his commander, for she extended her own personal shields to encase them.
As it turned out, that saved their lives.
*
Seeing the journalists were a little more settled, Grand Master Anatt Yasin surveyed their wider surrounds using astral projection. The operation was entering a crucial phase, and Ben’s stratagem didn’t need any further interruptions.
Unfortunately, she found exactly that: a smattering of light aircraft and a single helicopter buzzing the skies just north of Geronimo.
Homing in on them with her farsight, Anatt identified several independent paparazzi jokers out to make their fortunes by risking life and limb in the hope of getting the most sensational shots of their careers.
By now, the storm was a scant eight miles out. Anatt was about to instruct the captains of the rescue corvettes to scoop the idiots up for their own safety, when she perceived two distinct and prolonged purple flashes out of the corner of her eye. Those flashes were quickly overshadowed by further strobelike salutes, each one laced with strange yellow streamers that seemed to linger, long after the initial report had faded.
Ben? Notifying orbital assets and Headquarters to the danger, Anatt subconsciously bolstered her own defensive measures and instructed the ship captains and Guardians around her to do the same.
Ben? She repeated, louder this time.
The young scientist seemed lost in concentration, his mind broadcasting those details he was in the act of physically checking. Anatt could see he didn’t like what the figures told him: What’s wrong –?
Two more blazing scars scored their way across Anatt’s vision, these ones arcing between the orbits of a closely-knit pair of microscopic black holes. A bassoon thrum began to predominate. As it mounted in power, the tone deepened, causing the ether to quake and the energetic ribbons to writhe frenziedly.
On her right, Ben dropped to the floor, screaming: ANTIMATTER! SHIELDS NOW!
A sizzling sound filled the air and an almighty concussion rocked the earth as a prolonged fanfare of hybrid lightning – supercharged and accelerated to almost the speed of light by the proximity of those singularities – arced over the top of the containment field and slammed down on their position.
The Class One mechanical bubble Ben had erected around the worksite lasted a heroic four times beyond capacity before overloading. Fortunately, each Guardian in attendance had remembered to raise their own mentally generated wards in the moments before calamity struck. Even so, Anatt could see their efforts would be insufficient to save their lives.
Instinct took over.
As a Guardian with over thirty years command experience, Grand Master Yasin had prepared a Reflexive Lifesaver – ReL for short – a long time ago. Now stored deep within her psyche as an emergency program, it was something that would only ever be activated if the need arose.
In her case, Anatt had selected a three-tiered Succubus Shield. An abstruse conjugation designed to mitigate overwhelming potential, the Succubus worked by absorbing excess energy before disintegrating, draining the overall potency of the initial strike with each successive collapse.
Initiating the ReL, Anatt tried to compensate for her team’s shortfall by extending the Succubus far beyond its normal parameters. She succeeded, enveloping her fellow Guardians and the CBS bystanders in the instant before the hideous bolt crashed into them.
The outer layer held steady for a full heartbeat before it fragmented. In the blink of an eye the median band followed, crumbling like brittle rust under a hammer’s blow.
That exposed several of the Guardian scientists closest to her who did not possess her resilience. Four were incinerated where they stood, exploding from the inside out in the fraction of eternity it took for the charge to ravage their fragile flesh in its quest to earth.
Almost instantly, the commander’s inner shield gave way.
She hardly had time to think, let alone teleport, dodge or even flinch.
Reacting with inhuman speed, Anatt spun a neural insulate around her brain, at the same time drawing her staff in an attempt to dissipate as much of the flashover as it could.
She wasn’t fast enough and was smashed more than twenty inches into the ground. Tragically, time seemed to slow down as if eager to help her experience the full horror of her demise in the nanosecond it took for more than one million watts – registering a staggering twenty thousand degrees centigrade – to course along her spine.
Hair and clothes flared to ash; dermal layers calcified and shriveled; organs ruptured, eradicating muscle and sinews alike, residual heat desiccating what remained into a charred smoldering husk.
Conscious to the very end, Anatt’s dwindling farsight allowed her to witness the moment her plasma staff was blasted from her ruined hands. Somehow, she’d managed to deploy the blades, and as her weapon twirled away through the air; she was reminded of a cheerleading processions she’d once seen several years previously while vacationing in Japan. It had been a wondrous carnival, for everything had been bedecked in gaily colored lanterns, and participants had used neon strip-lights as part of their display.
So bright and so very beautiful…She reminisced fondly.
Then everything turned black.
*
With the supersonic boom still reverberating into the distance, Megan Bronson climbed slowly to her feet, leaning heavily on Eduardo for support.
After all the seemingly impossible things they had done recently, it was daunting to realize so many Guardians had been killed, and that of the four that remained, all were lying unconscious in the stubble.
All except for one, that is. For the young scientist who had been overseeing the experiment – Ben – stirred and tried to lift himself from the grass. A burn, weeping and pink, ran from the middle of his forehead, across one eye and down his cheek.
“What the hell was that?” Eduardo yelled, his voice barely audible above the blustering outcry of the tornado.
Megan screamed, pointing to a crater, in the middle of which a ruined heap of charred tissue, smoked. “Eduardo, is that who I think it is?”
Eduardo clutched his stomach as if he might vomit. Falling back to one knee, he steadied himself and leveled the camera at her. “What do you think? Just do your job, Megan, this is what we’re here for, now report it.”
“I know, I know . . . .” Raising the microphone, she found it unusually heavy. It also felt like something was tugging her backward from the inside out.
Is it because we’re no longer protected by the Guardian shields?
Bewildered, she spun about, and spotted an expanding area of nothingness four hundred yards away, surrounded by a swirling sickly green halo. At this distance it looked to possess the same circumference as a dime, but as she watched, it swelled to the size of a quarter; then a dollar coin.
It’s still within the confines of the curtain generated by the Guardians’ ships, but if it keeps growing like that, it won’t be for long. “What is that?” she mumbled aloud.
“Run to the ships while you can,” a voice cried, hoarsely.
Turning, she saw Ben staggering toward them, fighting the pull of the terror emerging in their midst.
He called again. “I said run, a black hole is forming! The storm is so strong it created an antimatter nucleus at the exact point of the lightning strike. Now it’s feeding. In a few moments the singularity will be fully anchored and there’ll be nothing I can do to help.
“Go! I can’t teleport, my T-ring’s damaged, and the ships are too far away.”
As they fled for their lives, Megan couldn’t help but think that it was a pity she would never live to see the headlines this incident would create.
At least I was part of it, she thought.