"c81" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

7:00 A.M., Sunday, January 2, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

"The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and his kingdom was plunged into darkness," an old woman said. She nudged Morgan with a toe. He had apparently rolled too near her feet. Morgan rolled away a foot or so. "He bears the mark of the beast!" she said, too loudly for Morgan's comfort. Morgan rolled over to see her. The old woman was the one Desiree had apparently donated her pillow to. She was pointing to his empty laptop case, which was a Microsoft bag he'd received at a seminar. Morgan groaned. He'd heard the "Bill Gates is the Antichrist" spiel before from Axton. Supposedly the ASCII text codes for "BILL GATES III" added up in some contorted manner to 666. And the letters "MS" in binary ASCII, 1001101 and 1010011, were both contained in the binary representation of 666, 1010011010. "MS" was thus, they said, "the mark of the beast" and was it not indeed true that "no one could buy or sell unless he had the mark"? Seattle was "on the shore of the sea" where the beast would rise from, yadda yadda yadda. "And Lincoln and Kennedy both had vice-presidents named Johnson," Morgan mumbled to the old woman, as he would have to Axton. Pop conspiracy theories like the similarities between presidents and computations of Antichrists baffled Morgan. Did these people have so little confidence in their own lives that they had to invent meanings out of carefully selected coincidences? Of course, there was some truth to Microsoft having its hand in everything, religious feelings aside. Morgan buried his head under his camping pillow. From there he could see the makeshift "newspaper" the hospital staff had created. Since the portable radio had already consumed one set of batteries, the nurses had taken to listening only for a few minutes then writing down bullet-point summaries of the news and local regulations about curfews, passes, road closures, and the like. They pinned this sheet on the bulletin board where all could read. Railroad traffic in the U.S. was reduced to a fifth of normal. The computerized switches that controlled the tracks had suffered massive failures. The trains themselves ran fine, but engineers had to manually operate many of the switches, which required more stopping, starting, far fewer trains on the track, all being kept track of manually. Little was different from the 1890s, including the far lesser volume of traffic safely permitted. Lack of trains to carry coal to power plants would not be a problem, authorities said; the problems would surely be rectified before then; and they would do their best to allay the safety fears of coal miners, and keep the mines open. All American nuclear reactors had been taken off-line in the weeks before as a safety precaution. The loss of twenty percent of the country's electrical power put a strain on the national grid before anything even happened. The anticipated failures of numerous utilities as the digits rolled over blew out the grid like a fork in a wall-socket. Many utilities faced the consequences of having no generators on which they could do a black start, or of not finding the necessary supplies, such as dynamite to start the turbine blades rotating. Utilities that normally purchased power from others found themselves isolated and scrambling to manually operate what generators they could; rolling failures kicked the legs out from their efforts. A third of the world's population, some two billion people, were suddenly without power. Nobody knew for sure, of course. Counting was the least important task. Hundreds of millions lacked water, sewage, natural gas, or telephone service. Fascinating, Morgan thought, how magnitude dehumanized the reporting: From details of each affected city, to lists of cities, to large counts of people, and now mere speculated fractions, mentioned coldly, though perhaps with awe. Most cities were under some form of martial law, whether called such or not. Curfews were nearly universal in any town larger than a postage stamp. Grocery shelves were globally picked clean. Yet people talked quietly of specifics, as if one incident were somehow worse than the rest. Someone nearby was quietly relating that in Salt Lake City, a Sysco Foods trucker had been shot in the head while driving the interstate after he'd apparently refused to stop for a pistol-brandishing maniac. The trucker wasn't watching the road, rammed a school bus full of kids returning from a distant basketball game, jackknifed, crushed two cars, and blocked up the highway for miles. By the time police arrived all the food stuffs had long since been sucked out into pickup beds and trunks. The witnesses the police questioned reported the story third, fourth hand. They griped they'd been too busy helping the injured kids to get any of the food. Today would be better, Morgan thought. Hoped. Prayed. And if not, tomorrow. Things have to get better. This is only temporary. Jeremy will pull through. He has to. He's my son. The slow footsteps of someone searching shuffled by. "Hyland?" the someone demanded in a whisper. "You in here? Morgan Hyland." The someone played a flashlight over faces and bodies. "Over here. Who's that?" "Axton," he said, coming to stand over Morgan. "We need you to change the field width on some of the audit reports. Some of the proportional fonts wrap since '2000' is wider than '1999' or some bullshit." "You came all the way out here for that?" Morgan wanted to strangle the man. Or perhaps this was his own pathetic way of trying to hold his world together. "Don't you remember we discussed that at the meeting last week? Lai said she'd take care of it if it went." "I must've left the meeting by then." Or skipped it entirely, Morgan thought. Probably in favor of golf, or a party. He'd never miss that. "Well, she said she'd take care of it. I'm a little tied up here." Morgan noticed the flashlight seemed to be focused on Desiree's slender legs more than on himself. "Is there someplace we can talk private? Who are all these people?" Axton asked. "Folks from a nursing home," Desiree said, apparently awakened by the conversation. "Their power's out. Can you imagine how bad it must be back in the States where it's cold? Aren't your parents in a home in Nebraska?" Axton hrmphd and turned red, as if he didn't believe in caring for old people and was embarrassed at being related to any. "Well, Hyland, you're who I've found. Don't think I've enough gas left to get to Wang's place. Used it up chasing you down. Good thing you left that gal in your apartment to direct me. Don't think I could have found anyone, otherwise." Poor Axton, Morgan thought. Always looking for the easy way out. Morgan wanted to say he'd deal with it Monday, go away, but he could already see Monday would be no routine work day, even if he didn't plan to be here with the baby. "I'm taking parental leave here, Dieter. I can't help with that right now." Morgan felt his hands shaking, wondering if he had the courage to play this hand out all the way to resigning. A quick vision of Jeremy in the incubator and his hands steadied. Of course he could. "Dieter, what if you sent couriers around with notes," Desiree suggested. "Let Lai handle it, and if she has questions, have someone drive—or bike—out here and Morgan can write a note back. You'll need couriers until the phones are restored anyway." "That's well and good," Axton conceded, "but I'm still short on gas." "Morgan, let him borrow the Citroen. We just filled it up." Axton sighed, his bluff called. "Nevermind, Hyland. I'll get there." He stood for a moment, then slunk away. Morgan and Desiree went to check on the baby. With the aid of the ventilator, he was breathing heavily, though safely. Yet they didn't get to watch the baby or wave or make soothing noises for each other's benefit. Six thugs in jackboots and green camouflage exited the stairwell. Each wore an insignia of two interlocking red circles. They waved everyone back with their AK-47s. "This territory has been annexed by the Nation of the Strong," the leader said through a bullhorn. "I am sub-adjutant McPherson, your floor leader. Everybody move to the waiting area and nobody will be harmed."

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Chapter 8.1

7:00 A.M., Sunday, January 2, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

"The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and his kingdom was plunged into darkness," an old woman said. She nudged Morgan with a toe. He had apparently rolled too near her feet. Morgan rolled away a foot or so. "He bears the mark of the beast!" she said, too loudly for Morgan's comfort. Morgan rolled over to see her. The old woman was the one Desiree had apparently donated her pillow to. She was pointing to his empty laptop case, which was a Microsoft bag he'd received at a seminar. Morgan groaned. He'd heard the "Bill Gates is the Antichrist" spiel before from Axton. Supposedly the ASCII text codes for "BILL GATES III" added up in some contorted manner to 666. And the letters "MS" in binary ASCII, 1001101 and 1010011, were both contained in the binary representation of 666, 1010011010. "MS" was thus, they said, "the mark of the beast" and was it not indeed true that "no one could buy or sell unless he had the mark"? Seattle was "on the shore of the sea" where the beast would rise from, yadda yadda yadda. "And Lincoln and Kennedy both had vice-presidents named Johnson," Morgan mumbled to the old woman, as he would have to Axton. Pop conspiracy theories like the similarities between presidents and computations of Antichrists baffled Morgan. Did these people have so little confidence in their own lives that they had to invent meanings out of carefully selected coincidences? Of course, there was some truth to Microsoft having its hand in everything, religious feelings aside. Morgan buried his head under his camping pillow. From there he could see the makeshift "newspaper" the hospital staff had created. Since the portable radio had already consumed one set of batteries, the nurses had taken to listening only for a few minutes then writing down bullet-point summaries of the news and local regulations about curfews, passes, road closures, and the like. They pinned this sheet on the bulletin board where all could read. Railroad traffic in the U.S. was reduced to a fifth of normal. The computerized switches that controlled the tracks had suffered massive failures. The trains themselves ran fine, but engineers had to manually operate many of the switches, which required more stopping, starting, far fewer trains on the track, all being kept track of manually. Little was different from the 1890s, including the far lesser volume of traffic safely permitted. Lack of trains to carry coal to power plants would not be a problem, authorities said; the problems would surely be rectified before then; and they would do their best to allay the safety fears of coal miners, and keep the mines open. All American nuclear reactors had been taken off-line in the weeks before as a safety precaution. The loss of twenty percent of the country's electrical power put a strain on the national grid before anything even happened. The anticipated failures of numerous utilities as the digits rolled over blew out the grid like a fork in a wall-socket. Many utilities faced the consequences of having no generators on which they could do a black start, or of not finding the necessary supplies, such as dynamite to start the turbine blades rotating. Utilities that normally purchased power from others found themselves isolated and scrambling to manually operate what generators they could; rolling failures kicked the legs out from their efforts. A third of the world's population, some two billion people, were suddenly without power. Nobody knew for sure, of course. Counting was the least important task. Hundreds of millions lacked water, sewage, natural gas, or telephone service. Fascinating, Morgan thought, how magnitude dehumanized the reporting: From details of each affected city, to lists of cities, to large counts of people, and now mere speculated fractions, mentioned coldly, though perhaps with awe. Most cities were under some form of martial law, whether called such or not. Curfews were nearly universal in any town larger than a postage stamp. Grocery shelves were globally picked clean. Yet people talked quietly of specifics, as if one incident were somehow worse than the rest. Someone nearby was quietly relating that in Salt Lake City, a Sysco Foods trucker had been shot in the head while driving the interstate after he'd apparently refused to stop for a pistol-brandishing maniac. The trucker wasn't watching the road, rammed a school bus full of kids returning from a distant basketball game, jackknifed, crushed two cars, and blocked up the highway for miles. By the time police arrived all the food stuffs had long since been sucked out into pickup beds and trunks. The witnesses the police questioned reported the story third, fourth hand. They griped they'd been too busy helping the injured kids to get any of the food. Today would be better, Morgan thought. Hoped. Prayed. And if not, tomorrow. Things have to get better. This is only temporary. Jeremy will pull through. He has to. He's my son. The slow footsteps of someone searching shuffled by. "Hyland?" the someone demanded in a whisper. "You in here? Morgan Hyland." The someone played a flashlight over faces and bodies. "Over here. Who's that?" "Axton," he said, coming to stand over Morgan. "We need you to change the field width on some of the audit reports. Some of the proportional fonts wrap since '2000' is wider than '1999' or some bullshit." "You came all the way out here for that?" Morgan wanted to strangle the man. Or perhaps this was his own pathetic way of trying to hold his world together. "Don't you remember we discussed that at the meeting last week? Lai said she'd take care of it if it went." "I must've left the meeting by then." Or skipped it entirely, Morgan thought. Probably in favor of golf, or a party. He'd never miss that. "Well, she said she'd take care of it. I'm a little tied up here." Morgan noticed the flashlight seemed to be focused on Desiree's slender legs more than on himself. "Is there someplace we can talk private? Who are all these people?" Axton asked. "Folks from a nursing home," Desiree said, apparently awakened by the conversation. "Their power's out. Can you imagine how bad it must be back in the States where it's cold? Aren't your parents in a home in Nebraska?" Axton hrmphd and turned red, as if he didn't believe in caring for old people and was embarrassed at being related to any. "Well, Hyland, you're who I've found. Don't think I've enough gas left to get to Wang's place. Used it up chasing you down. Good thing you left that gal in your apartment to direct me. Don't think I could have found anyone, otherwise." Poor Axton, Morgan thought. Always looking for the easy way out. Morgan wanted to say he'd deal with it Monday, go away, but he could already see Monday would be no routine work day, even if he didn't plan to be here with the baby. "I'm taking parental leave here, Dieter. I can't help with that right now." Morgan felt his hands shaking, wondering if he had the courage to play this hand out all the way to resigning. A quick vision of Jeremy in the incubator and his hands steadied. Of course he could. "Dieter, what if you sent couriers around with notes," Desiree suggested. "Let Lai handle it, and if she has questions, have someone drive—or bike—out here and Morgan can write a note back. You'll need couriers until the phones are restored anyway." "That's well and good," Axton conceded, "but I'm still short on gas." "Morgan, let him borrow the Citroen. We just filled it up." Axton sighed, his bluff called. "Nevermind, Hyland. I'll get there." He stood for a moment, then slunk away. Morgan and Desiree went to check on the baby. With the aid of the ventilator, he was breathing heavily, though safely. Yet they didn't get to watch the baby or wave or make soothing noises for each other's benefit. Six thugs in jackboots and green camouflage exited the stairwell. Each wore an insignia of two interlocking red circles. They waved everyone back with their AK-47s. "This territory has been annexed by the Nation of the Strong," the leader said through a bullhorn. "I am sub-adjutant McPherson, your floor leader. Everybody move to the waiting area and nobody will be harmed."


back | next home