Killing Time

'In South Africa,' I said, and all of a sudden I was back in limbo: for the remains they were talking about, when they'd been found, had ignited an international firestorm, as even the most skeptical scientists could find no way to dispute the assertion that they were at least five million years old. In other words, the supposed existence of any 'missing link' between man and ape, along with the entire theory of evolution, had seemingly been discredited, inasmuch as humans very much like us had apparently existed alongside more primitive types of man. What the Fifth Gospel had done to religion, the aptly dubbed Homo inexpectatus did to science; in less than three years two of the most powerful faiths in the world had been thrown into disarray.

'This is unbelievable,' I muttered. What I did not say, though I felt it strangely and strongly, was that there was something intriguing about it all, as well.

'And you've only heard stories,'' Eli said. 'Wait until you see the—' He stopped when he again caught sight of the clock. 'Whoops, look at the time. Sorry, Gideon, but we should really try to get a couple of hours' rest.'

Jonah nodded. 'Believe me, you're going to need it. Things in Afghanistan may get hot in more ways than one.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' I asked, a little perturbed.

'Nothing,' Eli answered evasively, gathering up the bombs and restacking them on the rack. 'You'll see. Come on, we can talk more while we're walking — about the other jobs, if you like.'

'Other jobs?' I echoed, further astounded; but they were already hustling me outside the room and then on through the corridors and up to my quarters.

I discovered as we went that the 'other jobs' they'd mentioned were much smaller undertakings, really just amusements to keep the group's collective hand in, as the Kupermans' Florida escapade had been. But this didn't mitigate the central conclusion to which such revelations inescapably led: that Malcolm's earlier claim about it being nearly impossible to guess at or believe the extent to which contemporary conventional wisdom and popular debate had been choreographed by his group was entirely justified. Like those individuals who had been manipulated by 'recovered memory' therapists during the late twentieth century, human society had begun to view itself, as a result of these people's hoaxes, in an entirely new experiential context. Our utter reliance on information technology had caused us all — even those who, like me, vainly fancied ourselves to be skeptical by nature — to accept the shocking new 'facts' that those systems were delivering and to argue their details rather than their provenances; and in doing so, we validated all of Malcolm's profound indictments.

Weary though I was, these realizations made it difficult to drift off straight away when I finally did slip into the small but plush bed in my quarters. However, once I achieved sleep it was a deep and disorienting one, a treatment that turned out to be very nearly worse than the ailment of exhaustion — for I was awakened far too soon by the ship's pulsing alarm.

Apparently we had arrived in Afghanistan.

CHAPTER 18

I managed to ignore the vessel's Klaxon for several minutes, but then it was joined by the sound of firm knocking on my compartment door. I dragged myself to my feet and soon found myself looking into Julien Fouche's broad, bearded features. He was wearing his body armor and had a sidearm strapped to his waist.

'It's time, Doctor,' he said, handing me my own coveralls and boots, as well as the same stun pistol that Jonah had shown me in the arsenal. 'The Americans will launch their raid soon, and apparently our Muslim friends are not entirely cooperating. The situation is delicate — Malcolm feels your assistance on the ground will be of great value.'

'Mine?' I said, trying to get into the coveralls. 'But why?' 'Their leader is a particularly neurotic and unpredictable fellow who seems genuinely prepared to make a martyr of himself, which would be perfectly acceptable to all of us, if only he had not convinced his wives and children to remain with him by offering assurances of favored places in Paradise. Malcolm seems to think that you may be able to persuade him to change his mind.' Watching me struggle half-wittedly with the coveralls, Fouche began to help me into them impatiently. 'Tonnerre, Gideon, one would think you had never dressed yourself!'

I made a more concerted effort to focus, and as I did, a question occurred to me: 'Say, Julien, there's one thing I don't understand. It was the Chinese, not the Afghans, who killed President Forrester, right? And that's why we're here. But what made the Chinese do it?'

'Your Madame President had something resembling scruples,' Fouche answered, 'though they were well hidden. When shown pictures of the final massacre of the Falun Gong cult in 2018, she told her cabinet that she intended to bring Beijing's trade status up for congressional review.'

'Her cabinet? So how'd the Chinese security forces find out?'

'Gideon,' Fouche scolded, hustling me down the corridor, 'are you really so naive? Since the turn of the century the Chinese have made a point of having at least one American cabinet minister in their pockets — further proof, of course, that increased trade with the outside world has done nothing to change the way the Chinese do real business. No amount of money, however, would have prevented a crisis if the truth about the assassination had become known. And war between America and China would have been—'

'Catastrophic,' I said with a nod. 'So that's why Malcolm doctored the footage.'

Fouche smiled. 'Righteous mischief is irresistible to him.'

We arrived amidships, and Fouche reached up next to one of the golden-framed paintings that hung on the corridor wall to touch a concealed control panel. 'The others have gone on ahead to clear a path, and Larissa will cover us all from the turret.' Suddenly a section of the deck below me began to rise, revealing a hatchway that contained a retractable flight of steps extending down to a few feet above the ground. Echoing up through the hatchway, I could hear voices shouting and the sounds of helicopter and diesel automotive engines.

But what I noticed most was the fantastic heat that was radiating up from the ground: it was far in excess of anything I'd expected or could explain.

'Yes,' Fouche said, catching my consternation. 'The apparatus has engaged. We have less than an hour.'

'Until what?' I queried nervously as he started down the steps.

'Until any human foolish enough to remain in this area burns up like so much paper,' Fouche answered, jumping to the ground and then waving me down. 'Come! Time presses!'

The landscape surrounding the ship was not unlike that of many other countries in the 'analog archipelago,' that patchwork of countries that had fallen so far behind in the digital technology race that they'd given up the struggle. But the chaos that was enveloping this stretch of the valley of the Amu Darya was alarming even for one of the most backward of nations. Emerging from large tunnel entrances supported by enormous timbers and fortified with sandbags was a host of people, some dressed in military fatigues and some in traditional Islamic garb, all rushing toward a great collection of buses, helicopters, and jeeps. Many of the women bore small children who were, for the most part, screaming, and small wonder: the noise and the heat, combined with the looming silhouette of Tressalian's ship, would have been enough to terrify much older and more comprehending souls. Me, for instance.

Looking ahead and through the dust whipped up by the chopper blades, I could see Slayton, Tarbell, and the Kupermans fanned out with weapons drawn. They were moving toward one tunnel entrance in particular, using their own stun guns to incapacitate the occasional confused man who, apparently mistaking our team for members of the approaching American task force, stepped forward to try to stop us. As Fouche and I followed the others to the tunnel, I called out:

'Julien! Just what «this 'apparatus,' anyway?'

'A euphemistic label, eh?' Fouche answered with a laugh. 'It is a weapon that your country's air force began to research in the late twentieth century — but they were never able to build a successful prototype. Colonel Slayton brought us the plans, Malcolm and Larissa refined them, and observe — a small glimpse of Hell!'

'But what does it do?' I asked, realizing that although the sun had only just come over the eastern horizon, the temperature was climbing fantastically from one minute to the next.

'Destruction of the ozone layer over a confined area!' Fouche shouted back. 'The Americans were never able to keep the hole stable or to close it when they wished!'