Termination Shock [calibre 4.99.4]

COMBUSTION CHAMBER

Coke,” T.R. said, drawing his finger along the wall of the combustion chamber. It came away black. For the wall, indeed all the interior surfaces of the place, were as black as black could be. And not shiny black. This had a coarse, matte texture that swallowed all light.

“I was going to guess carbon,” Saskia said. When she’d last seen the place, everything had been gleaming new polished steel.

“Same diff,” T.R. said. “Coke is just one of those weird old English words. An old-timer word. When you take coal and bake it, drive off all the random volatile shit left over from the dead dinosaurs, eventually you end up with basically pure carbon. A very high-quality fuel.”

“What’s it doing all over the walls of your combustion chamber?”

“When a hydrocarbon fuel burns, some of the carbon gets deposited as a residue,” T.R. said. “Builds up over time. My daddy used to take his Cadillac out on a long stretch of highway and put the pedal to the metal for a spell. Claimed he was blowing the carbon out of the cylinders. A routine maintenance procedure. Not sure if it really did anything but hoo-ee! It was a thrill to us kids in the back seat. Mom hated it. Anyway, an engineer would say this thing is getting coked up.”

Saskia didn’t want to get “coked up,” so she spread an emergency blanket on the floor of the combustion chamber. This was bowl-shaped, no part of it really vertical or horizontal, and so when she sat on the blanket she had to pick a position somewhere between sitting up and lying down. The bottom of the bowl was occupied by a little heap of supplies, including the battery-powered flashlight that was their sole illumination. Somewhere in there was a box of emergency candles and some matches, for when the battery ran out.

Above they heard footsteps—two pairs of them, she judged—and then the profound thump of the Minus Four hatch being closed. A few moments after that, two crisp taps reverberated through the piston that served as their ceiling and the pump chamber’s floor. A signal that both Conor and Jules had taken refuge up there.

“I wonder what Jules saw that made him drop the bottle,” Saskia said.

“If only I could remember my Morse code from Boy Scouts, we could find out,” T.R. said. He sat down on the opposite side of the bowl and looked across at Saskia. The beam of the light went straight up and basically disappeared, swallowed by the coke. T.R.’s face was a barely discernible oval on the other side of it.

“At this point,” he said, “you gotta be asking yourself why the hell you came back to the Flying S Ranch.”

Saskia eased herself down the slope of the bowl until she was squatting on her haunches next to the pile of supplies. She groped around and found the box of candles, then opened the lid. Next to it was a box of safety matches. She sparked one off and let it flare, then got a candle going.

“Thank you for conducting that free stress test of our gas management system,” T.R. said. “If there’d been methane or hydrogen in here—”

“I know why I came back,” Saskia said. She lit a second candle from the first one, then melted some wax to make a puddle on the floor and stuck a candle into it.

“And why’s that?” T.R. asked, staring into the flame. Saskia was looking at it too; like all fire it drew the eye and hypnotized. Which in a way was how the world had got into this mess in the first place. She handed him the second candle.

“Someone I met wanted to send you a message. Presumably the Mossad.”

“Oh? What’s the ol’ Mossad wanting to share with me?”

So much had happened that Saskia could barely remember it. While she was thinking about it she lit another candle and planted it on the floor. “It sounded to me as though they had picked up some chatter to the effect that China was planning something.”

T.R. chuckled.

“Something in response specifically to your geoengineering activities,” Saskia continued.

“They were right,” T.R. said.

“That’s why I asked Willem to pay you a visit.”

“Much obliged.”

“I have no idea whether India was also on their radar. But it was a very general sort of warning, so who knows?” She lit another candle.

“What would you say was the overall gist of this warning, then?” T.R. asked, watching—a bit nervously—as Saskia lit yet another candle.

“Tunnel vision,” Saskia said. She couldn’t resist tilting her head back to gaze straight up toward the coked ceiling. She knew it was up there, but no amount of candlelight was going to make it visible. “Perhaps mine shaft would have been more apt than tunnel.”