terms of fatalities, in modern history, and the second worst anywhere in the Confederacy.
Tens of thousands died, in an era when that wasn't supposed to happen. But somehow the pending quake, which would be an 8.0, escaped the notice of the monitors and came without warning. The inhabitants knew they were in a danger zone, but even though the temblors shook the area regularly, everyone had been assured that the technology would detect a major event well in advance. There'd be plenty of time to clear out.
It hadn't happened that way. The earthquake had occurred with almost no warning. Worse, it had been near the surface, and it had triggered tsunamis that killed several thousand more in the immediate aftermath. The visual record was horrifying: people screaming and running while buildings collapsed and fires erupted. And finally, the waves.
When it was over, when the medical teams had gone home and the funerals had been completed and the technicians had made their explanations, the stories of individual acts of heroism began to emerge. The names of many who'd risked, and sometimes lost, their lives to help others would forever remain unknown. But not all. And among those who stood out was Eliot Cermak. He brought my kids out. Right through the fire. Threw a blanket over them and got them clear of that place. I thank God he was there.
A young woman described how he'd gotten her out of a burning building. A man who lived adjacent to him watched as he stood directing terrified victims onto higher ground. Ultimately, like Robin, Cermak had vanished.
I called Alex and described what I'd heard and seen.
“Where exactly was he,” he asked me, “when it happened?”
“Caton Ferry.”
“Caton Ferry-”
“It was in the middle of the quake. On the ocean. Just northwest of Kolandra.”
“Okay.” There was a long pause. “You want me to go there?”
“I think it would be a good idea. They have some sort of memorial for Cermak. Let's see what else we can learn.”
Jack McDevitt
Firebird
TEN
I wish all the best for my brother. I ask only that I am able to stay a step ahead of him.
— Josh Levins, Darkness Rules, 1398
Aside from a few preserved sites, the only indication that Caton Ferry had been devastated by an earthquake and a tsunami forty-one years before is Memorial Park, which now occupies a substantial tract of land on the west side of the city, between the town center and the ocean. Everything else has been rebuilt, restored, replaced.
At the time of the disaster, Caton Ferry had a population of about ten thousand. It's considerably more than that now, and like many of the coastal towns, it's become a tourist trap. It's anchored by Big Apple Construction and Kryzinski University, it has the most famous auto racetrack on the continent, and it's also the headquarters of three major churches. So much, the noted atheist Wendel Kavich commented a few days after the quake, for any claims on their influence with God.
I checked into the Seaview Hotel, which borders Memorial Park, and changed into some casuals.
The park consists mostly of closely manicured lawns, with clipped rows of hedges and clutches of shade trees. Two sites enclose wrecked buildings, protected by globes. Data boards at each site show pictures of the structures as they'd looked before the disaster.
They have a theater that, twice daily, runs a documentary on the event, titled Day of the Hero. An L-shaped building houses a souvenir shop, administrative offices, and a museum.
I wandered into the museum. It was filled with pieces of equipment used by firefighters and rescue teams during the quake. The AI that had coordinated the overall effort was on display and would talk with anyone who had a question or comment. I listened for a few minutes.
“How did you feel,” a teenage boy asked, “to be in the middle of all that? Were you scared? Do AIs get scared?”
“I was inspired,” said the AI, speaking with the voice of an older male, “by the heroic efforts of those who came to the rescue. And I am referring not only to the professionals but to the ordinary people who put their lives on the line to save their friends and neighbors. Was I scared? Yes. I knew we were in trouble.”
“Were you scared for yourself?”
“Yes. I was scared for all of us.”
An older man described himself as having barely survived the experience. “I was in a staircase,” he said. “It collapsed, and I broke both legs. The place was on fire, and a young woman showed up and dragged me out.” He grinned and indicated a female companion. “I married her.”
“Excellent choice,” said the AI.
A guy in a Fleet uniform asked about preparedness. “How did it happen,” he said, “that everyone was taken so completely by surprise? Could the politicians have done more?”
“We have the advantage of hindsight,” said the AI. “When you have that, you can always think of more things that might have been done. The real problem was that we thought there could not be an event of that magnitude that would not reveal itself in advance. The science failed.”
Eighteen persons were recognized in the heroes' gallery. All had lost their lives during the earthquake. Their pictures dominated two walls. They were young and old, both sexes, some in uniform and some not. Among them was Eliot Cermak, handsome, gallant, and fearless in his pilot's silver and blue. His name was emblazoned below the photo, and his dates: 1326–1393.
A booklet had been put together for the eighteen, photos and names on the cover, and emblazoned with the motto NO GREATER COURAGE.
I picked one up and paged through it. It contained a brief biography of each person, and dozens of pictures, most of moments from their personal lives before the event. One of the Cermak photos showed him standing next to Robin.
I bought a copy and took it back to the hotel.
Cermak's parents had looked like serious people, the father not entirely comfortable smiling for the photographer, his mother lighting up the page. It was easy enough to see where he got his good looks.
Here he was lined up in front of the Cardwell Elementary School with the other first graders. And at about age twelve in a beach picture with his father. And playing palmball with his older brother, Gregory. They had him at his high-school prom, embracing a gorgeous brunette who was smiling complacently at the picture taker.
Then Cermak at Kryzinski University. And on vacation. Posing with the family at a wedding. There were two pictures from flight school. Another returning from his first solo. He was beaming, and I remembered how that had felt. It is still, so many years later, one of the proudest moments of my life.
And two more pictures of Cermak with the Fleet, where he rose to the rank of lieutenant commander.
And, finally, Cermak standing beside the Breakwater, on one of the docks at Skydeck. And the one with Robin, who was identified as a “world-famous physicist.” Robin looked a trifle pretentious, self-important, while Cermak was simply a guy on top of the world.
The older brother, Gregory, still lived in the area. There was no indication of a profession, so I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that he had settled for the basic security allotment. When I called and told him I was doing research on Eliot, he couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice. “It's a long time ago,” he said.
I wondered whether he was jealous of the attention that Eliot had received. Still jealous, after forty years? “That's why we need to do the research,” I said. “I was wondering if there was more material available about your brother that I could look at? We'd like to get a sense of who he really was. And of the family that could produce somebody like him.”
“What do you mean?”
“The world knows he's a hero, but they've never really gotten a good image of the man.”
“I don't think I have anything that would be of use to you. Nice to talk to you-”
