Termination Shock

“This is the Lone Star State,” T.R. explained.

“Ah, I see, so you took it as an omen.”

“You know, Your Royal Highness, it’s a funny thing about candles. They’re real purty and all, especially when you get a lot of ’em going at once—”

“But they produce carbon dioxide.”

“Yup.”

“They are raising the CO₂ level of the atmosphere we depend on,” Saskia said.

“Yup, I knew you’d make the connection.”

“And yet, what’s the harm in lighting one more candle? It’s only a tiny contribution to the problem.”

“You do it anyway,” T.R. said, “because you can tell yourself a story about how this is going to end.”

“Oh?”

“Either terrorists are gonna come down here and blow us up, or we’re gonna be rescued by the good guys. Either way you can probably light all the candles you want, Saskia. We probably won’t run out of ’em and find ourselves in the dark. We probably won’t asphyxiate on CO₂. ’Cause something bad or good’s gonna happen before we get to that point. Someone out there is gonna take some kind of action, while we sit on our butts and wait and have learned conversations about how bad these candles are. And I just hate being that guy.”

“You want to be the guy up there, taking action.”

“Someone’s gotta.”

“But then China, India, the Saudis . . . when powers like that get involved, you’re helpless.”

“They’re gonna do what’s in their national interest. Always have, always will. You think China didn’t have its eye on that copper mine before I started building a gun there? The gun was a pretext, that’s all. Does that mean I oughta do nothing? When I got the means to do something?”

“All that stuff you told us about raising the value of Houston real estate was just bullshit,” Saskia said.

“Not exactly. That was me making sure it penciled out. But was it my only reason? ’Course not.”

“We’re stuck down here because India is pissed off at you,” Saskia said. “I’ve talked to people with connections in the Punjab. I’ve seen climate models suggesting that this thing”—she slapped the combustion chamber wall, and her palm came away black with carbon—“this thing right here could reduce crop yields there! Is it any wonder they’ve sent people to blow it up? Perfectly reasonable, if you ask me.”

“If they’d bothered to ask,” T.R. said, “I’d have showed them Vadan. Sneeuwberg. Showed ’em the simulations my boys put together of how we can make it all work. Punjab’s gonna be fine.”

“But you have to tell them that.”

“They have to give a shit. They don’t. They just want to pull off a PR stunt, get votes in the next election.”

“I understand how democracies work,” Saskia said. “Believe me, I do. But their PR stunt might kill us. Isn’t that an indication that you might have made a mistake?”

“I don’t deny things have gotten a little out of hand,” T.R. admitted.

Saskia laughed out loud.

“But you gotta start somewhere. Sometimes you drill a well and you get a gusher. Makes quite a mess. But you just gotta deal with it. Get it under control, cap it off.”

Saskia just shook her head. They sat there in silence for a minute. Not perfect silence; it might have been her imagination, but through her back, which was leaning against the hard floor of the dome, she thought she could feel faint thumps. Footsteps, maybe.

“That’s why I need you,” T.R. said.

Saskia sighed.

“Sorry,” T.R. added. He seemed puzzled by her reaction.

“Oh, not at all,” Saskia said. “It’s just that there’s a lot of that kind of thing going around. I’m the Queen of Netherworld, did you hear?”

“I was so informed.”

“A prince gave me a jet.”

T.R. shrugged. “You crash a jet, someone gives you a jet, things even out over time.”

“You can’t just admit you need me and pretend that makes a difference,” Saskia said. “You have to listen.”

A blinding bright crescent appeared on the wall of the combustion chamber. Someone had opened the latch a crack. Silhouetted was the head of a person wearing some kind of getup that completely covered their head. They were breathing through a respirator. Visible just behind this person was a wall of plastic sheeting that had apparently been taped into place to create a barrier between the area surrounding the hatch and the rest of the mine shaft. They tossed a pair of bundles in and then closed the door.

Saskia was closest. She pushed herself up to her feet and carried a candle over to investigate. Each of the bundles was sealed in clear plastic: a coverall, neatly folded up, and a respirator.

Taped to one of them was a sheet of printer paper on which someone had written with a marker: RADIATION HAZARD! PUT THESE ON, THEN KNOCK.

“The cavalry, I guess,” T.R. remarked.

“There must be some kind of contamination up there,” Saskia said. One of the suits was a medium, the other a large. She tossed the large to T.R.

“I refuse to be the mom in the Cadillac,” she said, and ripped the packet open.

“Beg pardon?”