Chapter 4

Joseph DuChiens had been a boy of only eleven, living in the small town of Plessisville, Quebec in the eastern townships, when the nuclear waste dumps on the moon had exploded and blasted Earth's only natural satellite out of orbit. Until the last day of his life, he would remember that day like no other, much as people of an earlier generation remembered so clearly where they were and what they were doing when they heard about Pearl Harbor or Kennedy's assassination. He was sitting at the little desk in his room, working on his long division, when he heard his mother cry out downstairs. He ran down to watch the television reporting about some terrible accident on the moon. After a few minutes, he went outside to look at the sky. Sure enough, there was the moon sliding across the heavenly vault, and getting smaller and smaller until it could be seen no more. The next few days went by in a blur. The TV in his house never went off. His parents seemed glued to it. What would happen as a result of this unbelievable calamity? There had already been terrible earthquakes and a few tsunamis. More were predicted. Would the tides affect the climate? Would there be famine? Perhaps the moon would disturb gravitational fields and orbits throughout the entire solar system? Was this the beginning of the end of the world? Speculation, both natural and supernatural, ran rampant. The discussions among his family were spirited.

"Nicole, do you believe this idiot bishop of yours? Blaming the moon blowing out of orbit on sexual immorality, of all things!" commented his Uncle Lucien one night at family dinner, slapping the newspaper in disgust.

"He said no such thing, Lucien! If you would spend some time actually going to mass instead of reading that garbage.."

"Oh please, Nikki. No more talk about the flying spaghetti monster. I'm eating, thank you very much!" said Uncle Lucien.

"I heard there is talk of a new famine in China," said his older brother Jacques. All eyes turned to him.

"Oh really? And why might that be?" inquired his father.

"Our science teacher has a friend in Hong Kong. He says the rice crop is going to fail because of the crazy weather. He says the government is keeping it a secret, like the communists did in Russia in the nineteen twenties, covering bins of sand with a thin layer of grain."

"Just what we need. A half a billion starving Chinamen, and guess where they will head to?" commented Uncle Lucien.

"No sense buying trouble. We'll deal with what comes, when and if it comes." said father, with typical Quebecois aplomb.

Eventually, the schools reopened. Joseph ( he never went by Joe or Joey, even to his Anglophone friends) finished high school, graduating with honors and earning distinction on the track field. He enrolled at McGill University, and majored in business and computer science. His goal was to get a good paying job with one of the posh multi-nationals in Montreal as a web designer, as far away from his small town life as he could get. He could live out his dream of business trips to exotic places, a fashionable loft apartment in one of Montreal's ritzier districts, and playing the field in a city well known for its haute couture and seemingly endless supply of friendly, modern-minded women. True, he was not the handsomest man ever born, nor the smoothest, but he was far from a coureur de bois. The four years at McGill had smoothed out most of his rustic mannerisms. He was fluent in French and English. He was bright, fit, and good-looking, and he was on his way up. What more could a woman ask for?

He met her in his senior year, taking a short break from finals to play a game of touch football on the quad. As a sprinter, he was a wide receiver. He went out for a pass, as usual ignoring everything else. He saw the quarterback let fly the ball, his brain correctly calculating its trajectory, adjusting his speed and direction accordingly, leaving his defender in the dust. Tres bien. This would be an easy six points, he thought to himself. It was not to be. He heard her before he saw her, a surprised feminine cry and the "oof!" sound when all the air is forced out of lungs by sudden impact. They fell in a heap together, papers flying everywhere.

"You klutz! What is wrong with you?" Joseph looked up to see a girl sitting on the ground amidst a pile of books, a small pocket book, and a pile of white papers rapidly scattering in the light spring breeze. She clutched her ankle in obvious pain, tears streaming down her face. "My report!" she cried. The light spring breeze was rapidly dispersing it. He never knew why he did it. His first instinct was to give into his flash of anger at this dizzy girl, anger at having spoiled his reception, and then at calling him a klutz. Instead, he spoke to his team mates who were rapidly gathering around the free entertainment. "Guys, quick! Grab these papers!" he ordered. They complied. Within five minutes, both teams had managed to retrieve all but the cover page. He crouched down next to this girl to hand them to her. "I'm sorry for running into you." She looked up into his eyes and decided he was more or less sincere. He looked back and found himself drowning in the bluest eyes he had even seen. He caught his breath and felt his heart skip a beat. Before he could make a complete fool of himself, he tore his gaze away and helped the girl to her feet. He looked her over more thoroughly. Shoulder length blonde hair, oval face with eyes as deep as the ocean. She had a nice figure too, but this he noticed only as an afterthought, which was strange in and of itself.

He never figured on falling for a religious girl, but fall he did. The first summer after he graduated, they were married in the old church in Plessisville. Their first child was born nine months later, almost to the day. Marie had wanted to live back in the small town where she grew up. Joseph had wanted to live in Montreal. They compromised by living in a town close to Montreal, but far enough out into the country so that Marie could have her big yard, her trees, her garden, and her peace. She had the gift of insight. Since she was a little girl, she was pious, thoughtful, and usually right. Some people called it the third eye, ESP, the shine. She herself knew it was the Holy Ghost, and nothing could convince her otherwise.. But by whatever name it was called, Marie Picard knew things, saw things, that others did not. It was often unnerving, and sometimes frightening.

The summer of her twelfth year saw the family preparing to depart for a picnic in the next town.

"Papa, take the old highway this time." she pleaded.

"That's ten miles out of the way, mon cheri. Forget it." said her Dad, with finality. Her father, being the voice of ultimate authority since she was a baby, was therefore surprised when Marie spoke up.

"No, Papa" said Marie, in a strange quiet voice that caused everyone to turn and look at her as they were getting into the car.

"What?". Andre Picard was more amused than angry. Her older brother Louis scowled.

"We cannot go on the Ste. Anne road today. We'll all be killed if we do." said Marie, with a faraway look. Andre opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He looked carefully at his daughter. He knew she had a gift of…knowing. He was a pious man, but also a practical one. Marie was usually a sensible, grounded girl.

"All right, little bean sprout" he said. "We'll take the scenic route today".

And no more was said about it that day. The family had a grand time at the picnic. Andre did not ask his daughter what route to take on the trip back. And she did not suggest it. But when the car came around a bend, and Andre saw two patrol cars with flashing lights and the insignia of the Sûreté du Québec, he felt his heart skip a beat. Somehow, Marie had known. He rolled down the window.

"What happened?" he asked the officer, who looked to be about twenty.

"Monsieur, the bridge ahead collapsed."

"Anyone hurt?" asked Andre.

"Yes, two cars went into the river. They are searching now. Please move along."

The car ride back home via a long detour was silent. No one dared to speak.

"Lew, don't go. Something is going to happen." she told her older brother as he packed his bag.

"Marie, we've been through this before. This is the chance of a lifetime for me. Moonbase Alpha! How can I say no?"

"I don't know anything about that, all I know.."

"No, you don't know!" he snapped, cutting her off." You don't! I'm a scientist, and I just don't buy this spiritual gift nonsense, or whatever you call it! Please Marie, just drop it!"

She turned away while he finished packing. As he left, she thrust something into his hand, kissed his cheek, and ran off to her room without saying a word. She did not want him to see her tears, or hear her crying so she buried her head into her pillow. She knew she would never see her brother again.

"Joseph, would I be telling you this if I were not certain?" she now pleaded to her husband.

"Of course not. But just because you are certain does not mean you are right."

"What is coming will be worse than Breakaway. Worse than the war in China. The famines, the pandemics. Worse than anything you can imagine." Her eyes had a faraway look, like she was imagining horrors she dare not speak of.

"I've talked about this with Nicole. She doesn't make any sense. Neither do you. This is irrational." he retorted, his worst condemnation.

"I never said it was rational."

He scowled at her. "Marie, I am sorry about your brother. He was a fine man…" What else was there to say? Yet, Marie had sensed Lew was not dead. Not yet. He got up from the kitchen table so fast, he nearly knocked over the chair. He looked out the window at the late summer sunset. So beautiful. The kitchen still smelled of chicken stew. She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Marie, sell the house? Quit my job? Cash in my pension? Build a shack in the middle of nowhere? You ask too much."

"Joseph, if you don't, you me, the kids. We will all die."

In the end it was not pleading, or crying, or arguments that swayed him. It was this simple statement from her, delivered matter of factly, followed by her silence. She stated her case, and let it sit with him. After all, he was the head of the family. If it was God's will that she and her family should not survive, then so be it. It was four days later, late one night after a diffident love-making session.

"Honey, are you sure?" he whispered into her ear.

Anton Gorski, former Commander of Moonbase Alpha, reviewed the raw data from the recently updated computer on the International Space Station for what had to be the sixth time in an hour. It had been years since he had been to space. How he missed the artificial gravity of Alpha! Floating around in freefall took awhile to get used to , and time was one thing they were desperately short of.

"Why are you shaking your head?" This came from the station commander, Ulrich, standing nearby.

"I'm not, my whole body is shaking." said Gorski quietly. He showed Ulrich the data read out.

"What's the problem?" said Ulrich, a little too glibly. " JPL estimates a miss distance of over eight thousand kilometers."

"Well I don't. I would estimate about a quarter of that. Maybe less." said Gorski.

"They have more powerful computers down there, you know," said Ulrich gently, as though he were trying to soothe a distraught child. But Gorski would not be baited..

"But we have better data!" What was wrong with the man? Couldn't he read? Gorski really did shake his head this time. It wasn't Ulriches fault that he was a political hack who would not have lasted ten minutes on Moonbase Alpha. Since Breakaway, the quantity and quality of recruits available to the LSRO had dropped dramatically. With so many other problems on Earth, interest in space adventuring had waned, budgets had dried up, governments and popular movements became openly hostile to the very idea of further investments in space science. But there was more than that, Gorski knew. It seemed that since Breakaway, the whole of the Earth was enveloped in a creeping paralysis. Birth rates had plummeted, and interest in science, engineering, and human progress had dwindled, while interest in cults, virtual gaming and fringe movements were through the roof. More people than ever were going to college, but almost none of them were graduating with degrees worth anything. A few years after he had been relieved of command in 1999, Gorski had taken a professorship in Engineering at Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow. He had seen the signs even then. So many of his students were depressed, lethargic, lonely and medicated. The dropout rate was high, and professors who scolded their students for low quality work or gave a failing grade were at risk of violent retaliation. After two years he resigned in disgust and retired to his dacha outside of Perm. He had his pension from the LSRO and a modest income from a few shrewd investments. He entertained his children and grand-children, wrote an occasional article, tended his vegetable garden and his orchids, and watched with unease as the country and world he knew slowly came apart. He knew that Breakaway was not the sole reason, but it was perhaps the match that set off the kindling.

Breakaway. The word had embedded itself in Earth culture, and in every language, for no

corner of the Earth had been immune from the aftereffects. The Discovery of Fire, the birth of Jesus, the agricultural revolution, the Columbian Exchange: Breakaway would be ranked with those epochal events when historians made their rankings a thousand years from now. If, Gorsky thought to himself, there are any historians around a thousand years from now. That remained to be seen. Up until recently, the focus of the world's scientists and politicians had been on the effects of Breakaway on Earth, and those had been plenty: altered weather patterns, famines, earthquakes, tides. But almost no one had thought to consider the effects of Breakaway on the solar system. The path of the moon on its way out of the solar system had taken it close enough to the asteroid belt to cause changes in the paths of several of the larger bodies. The new orbits of hundreds of asteroids were hard to predict. They collided, their gravity affected other masses, which in turn caused more collisions. Computer programs that were written specifically to track their movements failed, due to poor quality control and a lack of efficient debugging. Finding skilled computer programmers was almost impossible. The new orbit of one asteroid had put it on a close approach to Earth. The asteroid was about ten miles wide. At first, there was no cause for alarm. The computer models had it missing Earth by a large margin. But as the weeks went by, the trajectory of the asteroid kept inexplicably changing. The departure of the moon and its many highly trained personnel had left Anton Gorski as the highest remaining officer in the LSRO with significant field and leadership experience. Former Commissioner Owen Dixon, recalled to service on Sept. 14th, 1999 as an emergency measure, had ended up staying on for two more terms, partly because no one else wanted the job. He had naturally asked Gorski to undertake this mission of monitoring the asteroid from the International Space Station. He had stopped in New York City to be briefed, on his way to Cape Canaveral. A true gentleman, Dixon had insisted on having a proper lunch at Delmonico's. Gorski had enjoyed the first part of that meeting, catching up with an old friend and colleague over a lavish dinner, at taxpayer expense.

"To absent friends." Gorski gently touched his glass of bourbon to Dixon's glass of single malt, accepting the toast. Gorski savored the (to him) exotic flavor of the bourbon. He could drink vodka any time, but American bourbon was a treat. After catching up on family and friends, Dixon brought them around to cases.

"You know Anton, wherever the moon is, you would be there with them right now but for a bureaucratic and political foul up." said Dixon.

"Don't be too sure of that. You might have relieved me too, under the circumstances."

"Well, maybe you're right at that." Dixon conceded. "I hate to think I would be in agreement with anything from Gerald Simmond's mind." Gorski only nodded at this. He had never been a man to hold grudges, and he also believed in Divine Providence. To be replaced on the moon a mere four days before Breakaway suggested to him that he was needed for something here on Earth, just as Koenig was the man to lead Moonbase Alpha on its journey to ..wherever.

Just as the waitress brought their orders, Dixon reached into his valise for a manilla folder and handed it to Gorski. "Here are the particulars." Gorski read through the mission brief, in between bites of smothered duck. He grimaced a couple of times, looking at the mission specialists and pilots. "Not a man under fifty on this list."

"I know. Recruiting new talent has been a challenge, to say the least. It's not like the heady days of the Apollo program, when every little boy wanted to be an astronaut. Now all these kids want to do is join cults and go on welfare." said Dixon.

"Careful Owen. You are starting to sound a little curmudgeonly there." said Gorski, with a crooked grin. "You need to take in some opera to soothe your savage breast.

Dixon looked pained at this remark. "I guess you hadn't heard the news that the Met folded last winter."

"No, I hadn't." said Gorski.

"Amazing. They cannot find fifty musicians for real music, or the money to pay them, but Columbia University has the money to pay a messianic crackpot to do transhumanist research!"

"Yes , I had heard something about that. What's his name, Simon Weiss?"

"Weitzman. Simon Weitzman. A death cult is what it is!" Dixon was clearly agitated, but finally gathered himself. "Well, enough of my rants. Any questions?"

"Am I reading this right? The mission commander is.."

"If I had my druthers Anton, you would be commanding this mission. Unfortunately, the only way we could get funding was to pick from the U.N. approved List of Aggrieved and Underrepresented Groups." Dixon said with barely concealed disgust. "Ulrich was the best of the lot."

If that's true, then God help the next mission..if there is a next mission. Gorski thought. Somewhat irritably, he said, "I've never been able to discern how a man's romantic and sexual eccentricities bore any relation to his competency on the job." Getting replaced by John Koenig was one thing, but getting passed over for command in favor of that mincing, prancing bumbler Ulrich ..

"Anton, you and I are old friends. That kind of talk is safe with me, but if you don't learn to curb your tongue…"

That lunch had been three weeks ago. Now Gorski was here on the ISS, and trying not to chafe too much under Ulrich's command. The alert chime broke Gorski from his melancholy musings. "What's that?" asked Ulrich.

Gorski scowled. "It's a flash from Houston. They're using the long wave transmitter, and coded." Gorski thought that was odd. Longwave was used only for classified transmissions, or when all other methods were unavailable.

The communications officer handed the message to Gorski. As he read it, Gorski felt the blood drain from his head. He grabbed the nearest handhold to steady himself.

Z0334Z15OCT FR: HOUSTON SPACE CENTRAL TO: ISS C.O. MERCURY SATELLITE XG67 REPORTS INTERPLANETARY CORONAL MASS EJECTION AT 03;18 ZULU TIME EXPECTED TO HIT EARTH IN 245 MINUTES MARK. EST. MASS 3.5 X 10 TO THE 12TH POWER. EST. STORM STRENGTH DST RANGE -4500 TO -6000 nT RPT -4500 TO 6000. TAKE ALL MEASURES TO ENSURE SURVIVAL OF ISS PERSONNEL. LSRO SENDS GOD HELP US ALL. **END TRANSMISSION**

"What does it mean?" wailed Ulrich.

"An ICME is a sunspot, generating a solar storm of massive intensity. The Carrington event in 1859 shorted out telegraphs all over the world. A similar event in Quebec in 1989 caused massive power blackouts and communication failures." explained Gorski. "This one is at least 15 times as powerful!"

"In short, we all have four hours to live," said the communications officer. "Our shielding is no match for that kind of radiation."

"No. We have one chance." said Gorski. he began to outline his plan to Ulrich and the others.

No one on Earth knew that when what they later dubbed "The Event" happened, DuChiens, his family and several dozens of others were huddled in a few houses in a makeshift , and illegal, settlement in the wilds of British Columbia. A terrible phenomenon had visited the Earth. Arrows in the sky, firing at each other, howling winds, thunderbolts, noxious fumes from the depths of the earth. They watched on TV, before all transmission ceased. Thousands dying. Entire cities wiped out by tsunamis, earthquakes. Poison gas from the bowels of the Earth killing millions in Asia and Africa. Europe was hit by fireballs from the sky. Planes filled with thousands crashing mid flight. Then all things electric stopped working, except for those few antiquated devices using vacuum tubes. All they had was the light of candles. And the voices, Oh, the terrible voices and shrieks from outside! Such sounds seemed impossible for man or beast to make. And in the middle of that, voices of loved ones long dead, or from far away, begging to be let in. Joseph had covered all the windows and bolted the doors. He stood by it with a shotgun, as much to keep the frightened people from opening it as to keep anyone out. They wept. They prayed. They covered their ears and hung on to their sanity with both hands. For three days and two nights it lasted. When it was finally over, they carefully opened their doors and walked out into a new world. That was five years ago, by their own reckoning of time. It did not take them long to notice the different positions of the stars, and the full implication of what had happened. The people of the Sursum Corda community did not have much time to dwell on it. Survival was their first priority.