Carbide Tipped Pens Part 12

"No, Paul, wait. It's not what you think. I was freelancing, but it had nothing to with the Martian Underground, or with your work."

"What, then?"

"I had a contract with the Pliocene Park Foundation. I was supposed to sample Niviarsiat Lake, or the glaciers upstream ideally, for ancient DNA."

Paul turned around.

"The Pliocene Park project? I've heard of it. Doesn't it involve buying land for a nature preserve that will re-create the environment of the Pliocene?"

"More than that. It will be stocked not only with surviving species of the Pliocene, but with ones we've been able to resurrect from past extinction. In Siberia, the melting permafrost has released carca.s.ses from the last interglacial. Reviving mammoths was only a start. The Russians are working on mastodons and steG.o.dons and chalicotheres. But one of the best places for finding relics is underneath the Greenland ice sheet. There may be fossils once we access the underlying rocks. And there are certainly DNA remains in the lowest strata of the ice, some of which should date back to the Pliocene. Mostly plants, we expect, but also some northern animals."

"So, you were working for a zoo. I guess we can all sleep easier."

"There's more to it than that. Global warming is a time machine back to the Pliocene. The whole project is about reminding people of that."

Paul sighed. "Your generation is still trying, isn't it?"

"And yours has given up."

"Perhaps because we saw how far you got. The sins of our fathers pa.s.sed down to us, but we don't have to repeat the errors of our fathers."

"At least, we tried to slow down the warming. Our generation threw everything at the problem. Finally cut back on total emissions even as the population kept rising to ten billion. But the seas got warmer and no longer absorbed as much carbon dioxide. So, we seeded the ocean deserts with iron dust and made them bloom with phytoplankton. Carbon dioxide uptake increased, but ocean acidification too. The coral reefs died and fisheries declined. People starved and turned to coastal fish and shrimp farms. Without the mangroves they cut down and the sandbars drowned by rising seas, hurricanes swept in and tidal surges wiped out many of the farms ... More people starved. In the end, we went back to farming where the rains still came, even if forests had to be cleared, even if synthetic fertilizers were needed, and even if transportation costs ballooned as such farms got too far from the mouths to feed. But pulping the forests returned carbon to the atmosphere and transportation still burned up too much carbon, although far less than in the days of gas-guzzlers."

Paul had let him speak, thinking of the world beyond the small tent, beyond the deserted valley in southern Greenland. Drowned cities, burning forests, s.h.i.+fting sand dunes in Iowa, and the poor dying of thirst in India. What could a guy from Northern Ontario do about it all? He'd stopped loving the snow when he'd realized it was an illusion. It only covered up the same landscape as before. In the end, it changed nothing. "And, in the end," Paul said quietly, "every route took you back to your starting point, leaving us to live in a warming world or die."

"So, what did you do?"

"We faced reality. My generation intends to live. On this world or another."

Paul stalked out, leaving his mentor speechless. He stood in darkness for a moment, listening for any sound other than his quickened breathing. If there was a bomb, it could be set off by a signal sent from a satellite pa.s.sing overhead. The man in the plane wouldn't come back. There would be no warning.

He went back inside the tent and took out from his bag another earbud as well as the medikit. He displayed the exolegs, which looked like pieces of bulky black hose connected to shapeless shoes.

"The earbud, you know to use. If you haven't used exolegs before, pay attention to our doctor's instructions. The main thing is not to try to pull them on. Even with the painkiller, you'd feel the bones grinding together. If you do it right, they will split lengthwise so that you can wrap the covering around your leg. The smart material will exert the right amount of pressure to set and immobilize the bones. Afterward, if you lead with your good leg, the artificial muscles will also walk your legs for you. The exoskeleton will take up most of the pounding, but you'll feel it when the painkiller wears off. It will hurt like h.e.l.l."

He grinned evilly, thinking of his own battered flesh, then pointed in the general direction he'd come from.

"Head south, up the valley flank. The summit repeater will act as your beacon. But stop when you've reached an alt.i.tude one hundred meters above sea level. There's a terrace Francine can land the chopper on to take us out. If you don't run across it, stay put, and I'll find you later. Or Francine will find you in the morning."

"Paul, wait, please. Come with me. You don't need to go."

"I still think it might not be a bomb. And if it's a bomb, there might be clues as to its maker."

"If it's a bomb, there's a good chance that it will blow tonight."

"It's still early. I'm betting that they'll wait till midnight, whoever they are."

This time, when he stepped outside, he kept going. Clouds hid most of the stars, so he turned on a flashlight. Gravel crunched under his boots and he thought of his old dream of walking on Mars. n.o.body could work for the Martian Underground and not think of the possibilities.

Colonizing Mars was another long shot, like the orbital sunscreen intended to cool Earth. The methanogenic bacteria found in cold, lightless, microscopic pockets at the base of ancient Earth glaciers might serve to hasten the terraformation of Mars. They might even prove to be of Martian origin. On Earth, they were part of a slow-paced, long-lived subglacial ecosystem still dining off leftover bioma.s.s from earlier thaws.

Sown across the Martian surface, they would belch, under the right conditions, enough methane to start creating a future haven for humanity. Within the Martian Underground, fans of the idea sometimes called themselves the Young Farts of Mars, if only to make it clear they wouldn't be happy with just going to Mars, like previous generations. Francine's voice suddenly blared into his ear.

"Paul Weingart, what are you doing?"

"What a guy from Northern Ontario can do. No more no less."

"We heard everything. We think it's a bomb and that you should get the h.e.l.l out of the way. Both of you."

"I won't be long. Just keep track of Professor Hall for me."

"Paul, please, wait!"

"Too late. Now, please give me some quiet, I need to concentrate."

He had reached the foot of the dam. The flashlight's beam played over the icy slope. He hadn't been boasting. He had a good memory for weird surfaces, trained perhaps by his work in the lab, and it only took him a quarter of an hour to find the spot where the man had left the package.

He swore when he discovered that the rope had slipped, falling into the creva.s.se. However, the beam picked up the yellow nylon rope only a meter or so below the lip of the creva.s.se. Paul threw himself flat on the ice, extended his arm, and grabbed the end of the rope.

And swore again when he realized he could do nothing with it. The load at the far end of the rope was too heavy. With one arm fully outstretched and the other braced at an angle against an ice boulder to keep himself from slipping forward, he lacked the leverage needed to pull up the package.

He pondered his next move for a moment, fully aware of the ticking minutes that brought midnight closer. He finally took his other hand away from its hold and gently teased one of his snowshoes out of his pack. The friction between the main ma.s.s of his body and the snow-dusted ice was all that was keeping him in place. He lowered the snowshoe within reach of his right hand, using it to thread the rope between the frame and the decking before tying a quick la.s.so knot. He pulled back his free hand and groped for a hold.

Paul thought of Francine before trying to rise. She'd sounded worried about him. Was she still listening in? Trying to guess what was happening to him from his breathing?

Exhaling sharply, he pulled himself back from the brink in one go. He stayed in a crouch for a moment, his heart pounding, and then pulled out the snowshoe as slowly as possible. He was afraid that the knot might slip when placed under tension, but all he did was pick up the slack in the rope.

Once he had the rope well in hand, he wasted no time in lifting the package out of the creva.s.se. A grunt escaped his lips. The package was heavy.

"All's well," he announced. "I've got the..."

He hesitated. Shone the light on the objects from the creva.s.se. Noted the absence of any dials, gauges, or markings. Started walking suddenly with a faster stride.

"I think it's a bomb, after all."

"Leave it then," the director said.

"Not yet."

He backtracked all the way to the Old Man's tent. He checked it was empty and left the explosives inside. The farther he got from the tent, the harder it was to breathe. What if they blew now? He would feel really silly.

Yet, the bomb hadn't blown when he reached the side of the valley and began climbing immediately. Soon, he spotted the trail left by Old Man Hall, the trampled snow almost silvery in the light. He made quick work of following in the professor's footsteps and soon discerned the man's silhouette ahead of him. Just as he was on the verge of hailing him, the bomb blew.

The noise was surprisingly loud and the flash illuminated the entire nightscape, the dam dazzlingly white, the evergreen saplings thrown in sharp relief, and every rock of the valley floor clearly outlined. A few seconds later, gravel pattered down like a hard rain.

Paul wheezed helplessly for a moment, his ears ringing. He couldn't remember breathing since leaving the creva.s.se, but relief now unclenched some of the muscles he had tensed. The flash had shown him the terrace was within sight. Old Man Hall had found the edge of the flatter ground and was just waiting for him. He was an experienced hiker, after all.

The explosion had also caused the professor to turn around and locate the younger man. Once Paul caught up to him, the first thing out of the professor's mouth was a warning.

"They'll come and see why the dam didn't collapse. Whoever did this isn't going to be happy with us."

"I know. But we'll be gone. And your camp has been blown to bits. We'll be hard to track."

"But completely exposed until we get back."

"Look up."

The Old Man blinked and glanced at the clouds overhead, the light clipped to his head sweeping up. Whitish stars were falling from the sky and crowding into the beam. Snowflakes.

"It's snowing."

"As expected. The snow will hide our tracks, cover what's left of your tent, and make it more difficult for others to follow the helicopter."

"What helicopter?"

Paul raised his hand and waved at the shape emerging out of the flurries. He'd cheated. His younger ears had picked up the sound of the approaching aircraft before his mentor.

The professor's shoulders slumped as the man relaxed. He'd held up surprisingly well, given his age. This reminded Paul of the question he'd wanted to ask.

"Hey, prof, there's one thing I always wanted to know. Did you really work on the DNA profiling of O. J. Simpson?"

Hall stared at him and then smiled slowly.

"I'll tell you in the helicopter if you tell me why you were so sure that it was going to snow."

Paul nodded. He'd given him a few clues, but Old Man Hall was still a sharp one. "You know what many of us are looking for. Sure, the Martian Underground puts up the funding for bacteria that can survive on Mars, whether they're simple extremophiles or highly durable methanogens. But that won't help us on Earth. Except that, as you said, global warming is taking us back to the Pliocene."

"You've found something from the Pliocene!"

"Ironic, isn't it, that you came hunting here for Pliocene relics just as I was able to announce that I'd isolated a new strain of ice-forming bacteria in a sample from deep below the ice sheet."

"Rain-makers?"

"Exactly. We've always thought that bacteria from a warmer age might be more effective in our warming world than current strains. Pliocene microorganisms adapted to a warmer climate over millions of years, not the ten thousand years or so since the last freeze-up. The strain I found is related to modern-day varieties that promote ice nucleation in clouds."

"And now you've released it in the wild?"

The professor looked up again, his mouth closed firmly to resist the temptation of sticking out his tongue and tasting bacteria from another geological age.

"Whose fault is that?" Paul asked. "Don't worry, there's some left for further study, but I cultured enough to leave a flask with Francine. We agreed that she could use a drone to seed any likely cloud ma.s.s if it seemed necessary."

"That wasn't very ethical," the Old Man said, eyes downcast.

"But it may save our lives until we can report the sabotage to authorities."

The professor nodded, any further comment cut off by the roar of the helicopter landing at the far end of the terrace. Paul knew that he would work out soon the other implications of the discovery. The new bacteria heralded a wave of other discoveries that might help with humanity's adaptation to a warmer world. Might even help to control warming, if that wasn't too much to hope for.

Old Man Hall headed for the craft, walking stiffly. Paul followed, but he didn't make it all the way. The helicopter's pilot had jumped out in the snow and she ran to meet him. It was Francine.

She threw her arms around him, hugged him, and kissed him. When they stopped to breathe again, he smiled and asked, "Francine Pomerleau, what are you doing?"

"The only thing possible under the circ.u.mstances. You've forced me to ask a question that I don't know the answer to. What would I do without my guy from Northern Ontario?"

SKIN DEEP.

Leah Petersen & Gabrielle Harbowy

"It sounds like science fiction..."

How often have you heard or read a news story about a new scientific breakthrough that started with those words? "It sounds like science fiction, but it's true!"

Airplanes were once the domain of science fiction. Television. Antibiotics. Organ transplants. Computers. s.p.a.ce flight.

In "Skin Deep," Leah Petersen and Gabrielle Harbowy envision a near future in which allergic reactions can be treated by tattoos on the patient's skin that activate the patient's immune system to produce specific antigens that will quell the allergic response.

Fine.

Make no mistake about it; some allergic reactions can be fatal. But properly (or improperly) engineered, the immune system's reaction can be just as dangerous.

In the reasonably near future, you will learn that biotechnology has produced such protections against potentially fatal allergy attacks. Again, fine.

But there will also be the possibility that this wonderful new breakthrough could be used for nefarious purposes.

The courthouse was crowded, but Indira Chang maneuvered through the swelling ma.s.s of people as if she were six foot seven, bulky, and sour-faced like her co-counsel, rather than her own mousy five foot one. She couldn't afford to linger. Too often there was that one person who ignored the "no strong perfumes" notice.

The slow-moving crowd suddenly came to a stop, filling the arch leading into the hallway from wall to wall.

"d.a.m.n!" Indira's nails tapped impatiently against her carrycase.