Quantum Storms - Aaron Seven Read online

  Luci fell onto her knees and began to cry. It was not just a sob or a wail, it was primal, as deep as the soul of a child allows. It was a pure and powerful cry of immeasurable and absolute innocence. It was a terrible resonance framed by the most dreadful knowledge of love forever lost, the absolute emptiness of a tiny life alone, misplaced and drifting, bereft of the most essential energy of being.

  9

  Seven was awakened from a sound sleep by a warm touch on his arm. He opened his eyes to see the face of Serea standing beside his bed, smiling down at him. He blinked once deeply, and then focused his eyes on her face as she stood beside him.

  "…let yourself in again, I see," he said neutrally.

  "If you object, I'll knock from now on," she offered.

  "Don't you dare," he responded. "A life without unannounced surprises like you would be sorely disappointing."

  Suddenly Seven grasped her arm and pulled her into his bed and kissed her deeply, lacing his fingers through her warm hair.

  She returned his kiss, but only for a moment, then pulled away and rose from the bed.

  "Come on, Aaron Seven, out of bed with you. You can't sleep all day, and the boss has called a meeting in half an hour."

  "So this is how the company sends meeting notices!" he said, lying back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "I think I'll stick around and see what they serve up for company brunch."

  "Up, mister, up!" Serea persisted, gripping the sheet that covered him and flinging it aside.

  Seven rose to his feet. "You’d think a visitor could sleep in around here, particularly after a very long and hot August night."

  "You’re not a visitor. You’re a permanent staff member and you’re expected to put in an honest days work, particularly since the world is indeed going to hell as we speak. And, if I read my email correctly, the boss is on the critical edge of a full-blown rampage, which is your fault for crunching his schedule. Just last week he was saying that 18 months was an impossible and unreasonable timeframe to get everything accomplished and now you’ve given him less than six."

  Seven walked over to his wide window and threw back the curtains to enjoy the view. The life support system had adjusted the light to that of ‘daylight’ intensity. He was again awed by the spectacle of the huge cavern and its engineering miracle.

  "You'd better get some clothes on before you stand at the window like that," Serea said laughing.

  "I don't sleep in jammies any more," Seven replied. "Stopped that nonsense when I matured - like about age 12."

  She tossed him a towel which he caught in his left hand. "Well, your neighbors might not want to be exposed to that awe inspiring biographical fact," she quipped, looking away.

  "They'd have to have binoculars to see in here from any conceivable angle," Seven said, seemingly oblivious to his naked form, looking out the window from all angles. He slowly wrapped the towel around his waist, then walked over to Serea and engulfed her in a strong embrace as his mouth captured hers again with another passionate kiss. She did not resist but instead clung tightly to him. Her hands slowly slid against the warm flesh of his muscular arms, across his back and down to the top of the towel.

  "We're going to be late for our meeting," he whispered hotly into her ear.

  She gently pushed him away. "Never. You’re never late, remember?"

  Seven backed away and looked at her fully. He was completely astonished at her flawless beauty, again, over and over. His eyes raced over her form, across her shoulders, hair, face and warm, passionate eyes. “Some things do take priority in life,” he answered seriously.

  "Dr. Seven – shower, shower. Remember, you were headed toward the shower," she prompted with a commanding, even tone.

  He sighed deeply and looked into her eyes. "Are you sure we can't be just a little late?"

  "Shower," she responded, pointing toward the bath. “Aaron Seven is never late, remember?”

  In ten minutes, Seven had completely transformed his body and mind from a carefree enthusiast of all-things-Serea to his typical, polished and intense professional bearing. Dressed in a fresh set of coveralls, they headed toward the elevator to Dr. Desmond's conference room.

  In the elevator, Serea tapped a code onto a keypad, then turned and looked at him intensely although saying nothing as the door slid closed.

  "What?" he finally quizzed, disrupting the silence and her stare. "It’s the stupid coveralls, isn't it?"

  "I knew I picked well," she replied.

  "How so?" he asked innocently. "Do they come in other colors?"

  "I was beginning to wonder whether you were going to be able to shift gears."

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "You know, from the worlds finest, but very distracted, lover to the hero we all so desperately need."

  "I thought your father already occupied that role," he replied truthfully.

  "Would that be lover or hero?" she replied without a pause.

  "I see your point," Seven stated. "After all, he did manage to pull you out of a test tube in some dark laboratory."

  With that last comment, the elevator door opened directly inside the large and already full conference room. "Five minutes early," Seven said to Serea with a slight wink, looking at his watch. "See, I told you we had more time."

  Dr. Desmond's eyes flashed across the space to the opened door and they immediately revealed the strain he was under. He paced quickly over to the pair as they stepped into the room.

  "Aaron, thank-you for your work on the model," the professor said almost breathlessly. “It appears to be in order. I passed it over to our model review panel who spent the entire night on it, and have just called. They have officially certified it as accurate and on target. It was a true work of genius. It has changed everything."

  "And would that panel be the same one that approved Karen Dartmouth's work?" Seven snapped sarcastically, immediately regretting his caustic quip.

  Desmond just returned a tired, expressionless sigh. "Must you be so consistently petulant?”

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Desmond, I meant no offense," he responded quickly, and sincerely.

  Desmond then smiled and touched his arm. "Nor did I…nor did I." He looked to his daughter. "I asked Serea to take care of your familiarization with our facilities and show you to your room last evening. Did she give you a proper introduction?"

  "Oh yes, quite," Seven replied looking to Serea whose expression remained calm as her face flushed.

  "Already you have more than earned your keep and that of your orphans," Desmond added. "Without your incredible, nearly instant evaluation yesterday, no one could have survived the coming maelstrom. All of humanity again owes you an incalculable debt."

  "Orphans?" Serea asked with a bewildered expression.

  "We must begin now," Desmond said, turning and walking toward his seat at the head of the table.

  "Orphans?" Serea repeated with an expression of genuine puzzlement.

  "Later," he replied, touching the tip of her nose with his finger. With a glance, he saw the Commander watching them intently from the far side of the room. Seven dared a barely perceptible wink at him, then looked back at Serea and said, "Do you really think the Commander will tolerate your romancing on company time?"

  "I'd suggest that you take your seat before everyone else figures it out as well," she replied, nodding to a place beside her father marked with his name plate.

  "Quiet, please. Please, quiet," Desmond said in a loud voice as he sat in his chair. "I will dispense with such pleasantries as introductions. We do not have the time. We will, however, welcome the President's Chief Science Advisor and Chief of Staff by secure videoconference," he said as two images sprang up on wall monitors. "Dr. Aaron Seven's analysis of the character of the quantum solar neutrino flux and associated high energy particle generation has proven accurate, as was his initial estimate of the critical date."

  "May I credit the talented programming assistance of Karl Leighter?" Seven interrup
ted, looking down the table to the young programmer who smiled back, flashing a thumbs up.

  "Yes, of course, it was a team effort," Desmond acknowledged.

  "What is the new date, Professor, and what assurances can we give the President and the National Security Council that you’re correct this time?" the Chief of Staff asked impatiently. "We need a damn accurate date and we need it now. All this screwing around is going to cost us the edge. I don't think I have to tell you what the President’s going to say if you guys change the date again."

  "It's not that simple," Seven interrupted. "This is the single most complex scientific discovery in history and we’re right on the fine edge of being able to understand it at all."

  "Who’s speaking?" the Chief of Staff demanded.

  "Seven, Aaron Seven."

  "Ah, the overnight legend himself, Aaron Seven – quantum wiz-kid. So, you just waltz into the picture and in less than one hour toss your monkey wrench into things and throw the entire world into total disarray. You had better damn well be right, Dr. Seven, or I can personally promise you more jail time."

  Seven swallowed hard as the muscle in his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. He felt his blood pressure spike as his eyes were drawn to Serea who instantly winked and smiled. At once he calmed and replied, "Quantum stellar physics is not like politics, politicians or lawyers. There are no predictable answers, no power plays, no deals and no reinvention. The science of all this is taking place in individual spaces smaller than the width of an atomic nucleus, but add them all up and they comprise a volume as large as the interior of the sun, which is over one million times the volume of the earth. In quantum space, physics, as we know it, breaks down, as does predictability and prediction. In this quantum world, Chief, there is no mass, no solid particle, no space and no time, there is only probability - a cosmic crap shoot, if you will. And therein lies the rub. Our models are models of probability, nothing more. You may continue to threaten me if you wish, you may jail me, torture me or execute me, but the physics will not change and your plight will not improve."

  The Chief of Staff looked momentarily embarrassed, then recovered and said, "I meant no offense, Dr. Seven, and of course I apologize if offense was taken. You keep on doing what you do and we’ll continue to interface with your superiors as necessary."

  Seven smiled and shook his head almost imperceptibly, confirming to himself that they were dealing with another bureaucratic nitwit.

  The Chief of Staff then asked, "Dr. Desmond, has the new model changed what we might expect from this storm?"

  Desmond looked back at Seven. "I'm going to ask Dr. Seven to answer that," he said, smiling.

  Seven did not hesitate but rose from his seat, his level of energy intensifying beyond what he could easily contain.

  "Nothing has changed from the original predictions, only that it’s coming much sooner than first projected. The quantum storm will begin slowly as a flux of neutrinos, as we are already recording. It will maintain its current level of neutrino production with a slow build-up for five months then enter its non-linear phase. When that happens, the neutrino flux will be associated with and enter into a chain of other subatomic reactions that ‘feed upon one another,’ for lack of a better term. When that phase begins, other thermonuclear events will be triggered, and a flux of high energy particles will begin streaming from the sun including neutrons, protons, gamma, x-radiation and others. This production will be non-linear. In other words, if our models are correct, and I believe they are, the level of radiation will destroy the earth's ozone layer in less than 48 hours, and within one week of its onset, the surface of the earth will be rendered completely sterile.

  "Dr. Karen Dartmouth projected that this flux will kill every living organism from the surface to a level of 80 feet beneath the earth, 50 feet beneath solid rock or concrete, 10 feet beneath steel plate, five feet of lead, or to a level of 100 feet beneath the surface of the oceans. I’ve reviewed her calculations and find them to be entirely correct."

  Silence engulfed the room. Even those who previously knew the data appeared to be stunned.

  "And how long will this storm last, Dr. Seven?" The Chief of Staff asked, his voice no longer unyielding.

  "There’s no way to predict that," Seven responded. "Since neutrino production is largely an unknown process, we can only observe existing neutrino production, rates and quantum interactions. Without knowing the source or mechanism, we won’t be able to project the storm's duration."

  "Has anything like this ever happened in the past so that we may infer from it?" the Chief of Staff asked.

  "No, it’s never happened before," Seven answered quickly.

  "How do you know that?"

  "There would have been a geologic or sedimentary record of such an event," Seven replied evenly.

  "Can you make some kind of an educated guess?" the Chief of Staff pressed. "Surely you must have some gut feeling for this kind of thing on a quantum level."

  "I can tell you it may last ten seconds or ten thousand years with equal certainty."

  Silence.

  "What are our chances?"

  Seven considered the question for a long moment. "The probability that the human race will survive such an event is not clear or certain. It’s a certainty that all world powers and governments as we know them will vanish. It’s a certainty that the earth’s ecosystem will be totally destroyed, that a vast, vast majority of all life on earth will be extinguished, including human life. The atmosphere will degrade and the available oxygen will become depleted without the replenishment mechanism of photosynthesis. The predominant gas will become carbon dioxide. If this is the case, and the storm lasts long enough, we can probably expect our atmosphere to trap heat and become like Venus. If that occurs, not a single living cell will survive, no matter how well hidden or how deep they are.

  "But I also want to believe that whether the storm lasts ten years or ten thousand, we humans are advanced enough to make it through, even if only a few survive. And, of course, there’s always the hope that the storm will subside and there’re enough niches beneath the danger zone that will ensure that life itself goes on, even if only primitive bacteria and a few insects. To answer your question, sir, I would conclude that our chances are poor to doubtful, but not altogether zero."

  "Can we do anything, anything at all, to stop it?" the Chief of Staff asked, not trying to hide his desperation. “Can we explode all our atomic weapons on the sun and somehow disrupt the cycle? Why, we could not only save ourselves, but simultaneously rid ourselves of the curse of nuclear warfare forever in one single act."

  "That, sir, would be less effective than a mouse urinating on a forest fire. There’s nothing we can do except go deep and pray that the storm doesn’t outlast the planet's capacity to recover."

  "And how long is that?" the Chief of Staff demanded relentlessly.

  "Unknown."

  The room was engulfed in a deep and impenetrable silence.

  10

  Striker Legend impatiently paced up and down in front of his battered desk and stroked his long beard, deep in thought.

  "Chou Lin, fetch me a fresh cup of java," he barked to one of his Chinese women.

  Legend’s office was attached to one of the world's most successful Harley Davidson dealerships in downtown Kowloon, China. On his savings from his first year out of college working as a mechanical engineer, he had taken a few thousand American dollars and transformed them into millions in just a few years. He simply recognized the secret desires of so many Chinese to ride their very own great American Harley.

  Legend towered above the average resident of Hong Kong, a virtual giant in their world. His six foot three, massive frame held a set of muscles he had trained in body building contests as a younger man, then added another seventy five pounds of bulk as beer, food and the general good life of a wealthy man. He looked as though he had been groomed for a ZZ Top look-alike, his unshaven and poorly kept beard, blondish red, streaked with
ample grey, flowed down over his Hawaiian shirt and protruding belly. As the perfect irony of his odd strength in the oriental community seemed to decide, to the usually immaculate Chinese, he was a virtual god and looked every bit the part that he played so very well.

  "Mei Long, fetch my phone, dear – now - and make it fast!" he barked nervously at another of his beautiful women. Legend kept no less than half a dozen women attendants beside him at all times. They were not only beautiful, but were schooled in English, various areas of business expertise and the martial arts. It was widely recognized that Legend held the most accomplished and beautiful entourage harem of body guard advisors on the planet.

  Mei Long handed him the cordless phone with a deft and practiced lowering of her eyes.

  "Baker," Legend spoke into the phone which automatically began to dial.

  "Baker, Striker," he said a half minute later. "I know I already asked you this question an hour ago, but I have to know the answer and I can't afford to be wrong on this one. Are you sure about what you just told me? Are you one hundred and fifty percent sure, no bull?"

  Legend’s piercing grey eyes narrowed as he listened. Then he said into the phone, “Okay, okay. Listen, Baker, forget the fifty percent off the debt. Let's just call it all even, all of it. Hell, if what you’re saying is right, you ain't gonna have a chance to pay it off anyway. Get over here to my shop on the first plane; I'm gonna need your help. Oh, and Baker, don't plan on goin’ back." Legend clicked the phone off with a touch of its button. He was going to need the expertise of his brother, Baker, and all the high tech engineering he could bring to the table.

  "Sam, front and center. Take a list," he ordered his closest aide.

  Sam approached with a pencil and notebook in hand. She was a beautiful, Harvard educated native of Kowloon , and she was also the ‘number one’ among his stunning orderlies.

  "Call Lung Steel and order up two hundred and seventy sheets of three eights plate according to our last order. Then I’m gonna need a crapload of beam and tube. I'll have you a list later this morning."