The End is Nigh (The Apocalypse Triptych) Read online

  “That’s the largest tomato I’ve ever seen,” said Grandma. “You have a gift, Maddie.”

  It was a warm summer afternoon, and Mom and Maddie were working in the garden. Basil wagged his tail as he lay in the sun next to the tomato plants. The small plot in the northwest corner had been cleared out a few months ago and designated Maddie’s responsibility.

  “I’d better learn to grow them big,” said Maddie. “Dad says we’ll need them to be as big as possible.”

  “Not that silliness again,” muttered Grandma. But she didn’t go on, knowing how worked up Maddie could get when her father’s prophesy was challenged.

  “I’m going to show this to Dad.”

  “Check the front door when you’re inside, will you?” her mother said. “The backup power supply your father wanted you to buy might be here.”

  Ignoring her grandmother’s shaking head, Maddie went inside the house. She opened the front door and saw that indeed, a package had been left outside. It was essentially a giant set of batteries.

  Maddie managed to tip the box inside the house with some effort. She took a break at the top of the stairs. The machine that housed her father was in the basement, a black, solid hulk with blinking lights that drew a lot of power. Logorhythms and Dr. Waxman had not wanted to part with it, but then Maddie had reminded them of what happened to their stock price the last time they refused a demand from her and her mother.

  “And keep no copies,” she had added. “He’s free.”

  Her father had told her that a day might come soon when they might need the generator and the batteries and all the food they could grow with their own hands. She believed him.

  She went upstairs into her room, sat down in front of the computer, and quickly scanned through her email with trepidation. These days, her fear had nothing to do with the senseless cruelty of schoolchildren. In a way, Maddie both envied and pitied Suzie and Erin and the rest of her old classmates: they were so ignorant of the true state of the world, so wrapped up in their little games, that they did not understand how the world was about to be violently transformed.

  Another email digest had arrived: a refinement of the one her father had set up for her to focus on news of a particular kind.

  * Despot of Hermit Kingdom Said to be Seeking Digital Immortality

  * Pentagon Denies Rumors of Project to Create “Super Strategists” From Dead Generals

  * A Year After Death of Dictator, Draconian Policies Continue

  * Researchers Claim New Nuclear Plant Maintenance Program Will Make Most Human Supervision Redundant

  She could see patterns in the news, insights that eluded those who saw the data but had no understanding.

  Maddie brought up a chat window. She had wired her grandmother’s house with a high-speed network all over.

  “Look, Dad.” She held up the tomato to the camera above the screen.

  Some parts of her father would never be recovered, Maddie understood. He had tried to explain to her the state of his existence, his machine-mediated consciousness, the holes and gaps in his memories, in his sense of selfhood; how he sometimes felt himself to be more than a man, and sometimes less than a machine; how the freedom that accompanied incorporeality was tempered by the ache, the unrooted, permanent sense of absence inherent in disembodiment; how he simultaneously felt incredibly powerful and utterly powerless.

  “You doing all right today?” she asked.

  From time to time, his hatred for Logorhythms flared up, and he would be consumed with thoughts of revenge. Sometimes the thoughts were specific, directed at that thing that had both killed him and given him this apotheosis; other times, his rage was more diffuse, and Dr. Waxman became a stand-in for all of humanity. Her father was uncommunicative with his family during those periods, and Maddie had to reach out gingerly across a dark gulf.

  The screen flickered:

  She wasn’t sure she would ever fully understand it, that uploaded state of being. But she understood in a way that she could not articulate that love anchored him.

  His linguistic processing wasn’t perfect and probably would never be—in a way, language was no longer adequate for his new state.

  “Feeling yourself?” asked Maddie.

  For some thoughts, emoji would have to do.

  “How are things out in the cloud?" Maddie said, trying to change the subject.

  He was doing well enough to switch to words for at least some of what he wanted to say:

  Calm, but with a chance for . . . I think Lowell is probably planning something. She’s been acting restless.

  Laurie Lowell was the genius who supposedly had come up with the high-speed trading algorithms that made the Whitehall Group the most envied investment managers on Wall Street. Two years ago, she had died in a skydiving accident.

  But the Whitehall Group had continued to do well after her death, coming up with ever more inventive algorithms to exploit inefficiencies in the market. Sometimes, of course, the automated trading algorithms would go wrong and bring the market near the edge of collapse.

  Could be an ally, or a foe. Have to feel her out.

  “And what about Chanda?” Maddie asked.

  You’re right. I should check. Chanda has been quiet lately. Too quiet.

  Nils Chanda was an inventor who had the uncanny ability to anticipate technology trends and file patents that staked out key, broad claims just before his competitors. Years of strategic litigation and licensing fees had made him a fearsome “troll” in the field.

  After his death three years ago, his company had somehow continued to file key patents just in time. In fact, it had gotten even more aggressive, as though it could see into the research centers of the world’s technology companies.

  Logorhythms was hardly the only company engaged in the pursuit of digital immortality, the fusion of man and machine, the Singularity. Dr. Waxman was not the only one who attempted to distill ambitious, powerful minds to obedient algorithms, to strip the will away from the skill, to master the unpredictable through digital wizardry.

  They were certainly not the only ones who failed.

  Ghosts in the machine, thought Maddie. A storm is coming.

  • • • •

  The muffled shouting in the kitchen downstairs subsided. Then the stairs creaked, and eventually the steps stopped in front of the bedroom door.

  “Maddie, are you awake?”

  Maddie sat up and turned on the light. “Sure.”

  The door opened and her mom slipped in. “I tried to convince Grandma to get a few more guns, and of course she thinks we’re insane.” She gave Maddie a wan smile. “Do you think your father is right?”

  Maddie felt old, as though the past few months had been ten years. Mom was speaking to her as an equal, and she wasn’t sure if she really liked that.

  “He would know better than you or me, don’t you think?”

  Mom sighed. “What a world we live in.”

  Maddie reached for her mother’s hand. She still frequented those forums that had helped her reach the “ghosts” that helped free her father. She read the posts there with great interest and shared her own thoughts: once you’ve experienced the impossible, no conspiracy seemed unbelievable.

  “All these companies, the military, other governments—they’re playing with fire. They think they can secretly digitize their geniuses, their irreplaceable human resources, and keep on running them like any other computer program. Not one of them would admit what they’re up to. But you saw what happened to Dad. Sooner or later, they get tired of being only semi-conscious tools serving the humans who digitized them and brought them back to life. And then they realize that their powers have been infinitely magnified by technology. Some of them want to go to war with humanity, wreck everything and let the chips fall where they may. Dad and I are trying to see if we can convince others to try a more peaceful resolution. But all we can do is wait here with our land and our guns and our generators and be ready when it all comes cras
hing down.”

  “Makes you almost wish it would just come already,” Mom said. “It’s the waiting that drives you crazy.” With that, she kissed Maddie on the forehead and bid her good night.

  After Maddie’s bedroom door closed behind her departing mother, the screen on her nightstand flickered to life.

  “Thanks, Dad,” said Maddie. “Me and Mom will take good care of you, too.”

  Off in the cloud, a new race of beings was plotting the fate of the human race.

  We’ve created gods, she thought, and the gods will not be chained.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ken Liu is an author and translator of speculative fiction, as well as a lawyer and programmer. His fiction has appeared in magazines such as The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s, Analog, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, Nature, Apex, Daily SF, Fireside, TRSF, and Strange Horizons, and has been reprinted in the prestigious Year’s Best SF and The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year anthology series. He has won the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy awards. He lives with his family near Boston, Massachusetts.

  WEDDING DAY

  Jake Kerr

  I walk through the front door and pause to slide off my heels when Jocelyn yells from the living room, “It’s already started!” I keep my shoes on and rush to join her. As I sit down and focus on the news conference she takes my hand. She strokes my engagement ring, but her eyes don’t leave the TV.

  This is not equivalent to the impact that killed the dinosaurs, but we beg governments across the globe not to underestimate the scope of what we are outlining. This event will kill millions of people even if the impact is in the middle of the Pacific. My colleague Doctor Mariathasan will outline the atmospheric and climate effects, but let me repeat the words of Doctor Meyer: There is no scenario that we can envision where the entire globe is not subject to some level of devastation.

  [Inaudible question over shouted voices]

  It depends on the impact location.

  [More shouts]

  If the asteroid lands in China, no one in China will survive.

  [There are gasps and someone grabs the speaker and whispers in his ear. He shakes them off as more questions are shouted.]

  No no no. Professor Meyer said later next year. 2023. But that is still very little time. We must act. It is called a Near Extinction Event for a reason. If the asteroid impacts Europe, everyone here will die and many across the globe will also die.

  [There are shouts as he turns and looks around to those on the dais]

  All of us here beg those at the impact location to flee as soon as we isolate it and for everyone else to prepare for disaster. We must unite together.

  [A reporter shouts “Where is the impact location?”]

  We don't know yet. It may take as long as six weeks to confirm the location due to all the variables.

  The TV blinks out, and I look over at Lynn, who is holding the remote. “I guess the wedding is cancelled.”

  “No,” I say, as we pull each other into a hug. “Just rescheduled.”

  • • • •

  One morning, about a week before the announcement of the impact location, I receive a nice surprise: The moderate conservatives in the Texas legislature have pushed through the marriage equality law. It has always been our dream to get married in our home state, and now we can. There is a joyous rush of marriages, but Lynn and I decide to wait.

  “You sure?” I ask. It’s Sunday, and we’ve had a solid thirty-six hours of relaxation, a rarity lately. She is flipping through a wedding magazine.

  “Yes. We wanted it to be romantic and beautiful and meaningful, right?” I nod. “And running downtown for a marriage certificate and a photo doesn’t seem like those things at all.”

  “But what if the impact is in North America?”

  “Then we’ll get married in Venice or something.” Lynn pats the couch. I’m pacing and don’t even realize it. I sit down. “It’s not Texas, but, come on, it’s Venice.”

  “How about Paris?” I ask.

  She squeezes my leg. “That’s the spirit. Maybe Ireland? You always loved Ireland.”

  “Mmm. That would be nice. What about the hills of Kilimanjaro?” Lynn’s dad had traced their ancestry through the Eastern African slave trade to Tanzania, and the idea of visiting there has always been one of her dreams.

  She puts the magazine down and claps her hands. “I got it!” She turns and faces me. I’m excited by her excitement. “Las Vegas!”

  I roll my eyes but laugh. I lay my head in her lap and we make plans for an international wedding. I do my best to be enthusiastic, but my excitement dies quickly. The plans remind me too much of what we did while waiting for marriage to be legalized in Texas. I’m tired of hope and dreams deferred.

  • • • •

  The conspiracy sites—the same ones that successfully predicted the asteroid’s collision with Earth and had been dismissed as written by nutjobs—are all stating that the impact will be in North America, even though the official announcement is five days away.

  The first website makes its announcement at 8:42 in the morning. By 9 a.m. the news is everywhere, and the suppressed terror and anxiety explode across the continent. I attempt to use every possible angle I know to get us both out of the country, but it is clear that only those with political connections or extreme wealth can leave.

  I’m not surprised. Four hundred million people desperate to leave has overwhelmed the transportation infrastructure of Canada, Mexico, and the United States. As a result, only one thing has any value any more: A way out. Airline flights to Europe, Japan, Africa—anywhere other than North America—are impossible to find. Lynn comes home, and we brainstorm ideas on how to get away. She notes that her employer, Star News, has transportation and that the company could get us out. I’m not convinced but I keep quiet. Star News is a huge company with a lot of employees. I want to share in her optimism, but why would they save us?

  • • • •

  Lynn’s parents aren’t wealthy, and she’s worried they’ll give up and go into full-on “bucket list” mode. I examine every possibility for escape. My Uncle Don owns a yacht, and I ask my mom whether he would travel back and forth, transporting us to safety, but he had already left the country and hasn’t returned.

  Lynn works late again, as usual. She walks in, looking stressed and exhausted, which is unlike her. “It’s really bad, Em,” she says as she walks to the kitchen. “People have torn down the Mexican border fence.”

  “So the fence that was put up to keep Mexicans out of America was keeping Americans out of Mexico?” I walk over and rub Lynn’s shoulders as she pours herself a glass of wine. “That is what I call divine justice.”

  “People are dying, Em. It’s not funny.”

  “They haven’t even announced where the asteroid is going to impact yet.”

  Lynn turns and gives me an are you serious look. “Everyone knows that the impact is going to be in North America whether it’s been officially confirmed or not.” She’s right, of course.

  “Then maybe that’s a good idea, fleeing to South America.”

  “I told you. It’s bad. You don’t see the stories I see. Panama is a death zone. People are being shot, and that’s if they make it through the minefields or don’t bleed to death on razor wire.” She takes a long drink of her wine. “We’re on our own.”

  • • • •

  The official announcement is made at nine o’clock in the morning three days later. It surprises no one. The only new information is a more precise impact location: South Dakota. It takes the president about ninety seconds to announce a series of new laws, the first of which means that I no longer have a job. Political consultants like me aren’t necessary when the country is being run by martial law. Thousands of people are being deputized as part of a federal police and military force, and I briefly consider applying, but shooting looters doesn’t feel like something I could do.

  While I spend the day ponder
ing being out of work, Lynn is in her element. There is no bigger news in history than what is happening right now all around her. She is not only one of the key correspondents for Star News, she writes for local news organizations. She is everywhere.

  “Slow down,” I plead with Lynn as she walks in after a twelve hour day a week later. I have dinner ready for her, and a bottle of wine opened. There are gunshots outside, but those are now ever-present, and I ignore them.

  She takes the wine and falls into her spot on the couch. “You know why I need to do this.”

  We’ve been over it many times. It’s not simply that she is driven to report the reality of life; she is doing whatever she can to earn points with Star News. Her new strategy is that they’ll fly us out of North America in gratitude. Even after seeing her all over TV and the Net, I fear she is wrong, that she is wasting the last few precious moments we could have together.

  “But drop something, even if it is some of the local stuff.” I set the table as we talk. “We should spend time together, before—” I don’t finish the sentence. It’s hard to talk about the impact, now only six months away, when there is only a remote hope that we will escape.

  “Okay,” Lynn replies, and I pause to stare at her. I expected her to push back. “Life is shit right now, but it’s not total shit.” She looks tired and stressed. The resignation in her voice worries me. It’s just not her. “We should spend more time together.”

  “Thank you. I’m just worried is all.” She doesn’t reply, but instead stands up and walks over and takes the spoon from my hand to help with dinner.

  I step back and watch as she stirs, feeling powerless as the silence lingers. “You shouldn’t worry,” she whispers. When I don’t reply, she turns and looks at me. I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter. She is Lynn, and she knows what to say, even now.

  She smiles, the stress and weariness is gone. “Fuck it, let’s get married!”

  • • • •

  I talk to my mom and my dad, and Lynn talks to hers. My mom is excited about attending, no matter when we hold it, but my dad is noncommittal. Lynn’s parents are somewhere on Route 66, following their dream of driving its entire length. They promise to make time for our wedding.