1/1/2029

By Sam Adriaens

A simple program error cascades into the global failure of the Sky King Network. While the public reacquaints itself with life before the Internet, President Thompson watches America's Manchurian Offensive grind to a halt. Is this a prelude to another Căn Shèng? The spectre of the DEZ hangs over NS Norfolk as a team of researchers scramble to figure out what went wrong on New Year's Day 2028.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Adriaens
• Release date: Nov 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311803399

Sam Adriaens

Online since before the advent of www, I know way too much about computers and the internet. Growing up my favorite author was Michael Crichton and my writing aspires to his obsession with technology and its impact on society. Today my favorite author is H.P. Lovecraft and you can find my serial fiction @ http://astropulp.blogspot.com. When I'm not writing I'm either playing games or engaged in creative photo editing.

Book preview

1/1/2029

Sam Adriaens

Cover design by Sam Adriaens

Copyright © 2014 Sam Adriaens

Smashwords Edition

All characters appearing in this work are

fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Main Menu

Chapter 01

Auld Lang Syne The Window UFOs Fireworks

Chapter 02

Vlad the Impaler Pepper Spray Suit Up The Red Phone

Chapter 03

1 Minute 12 Seconds Do Not Answer Santee Basin Tumor Box DON'T GIVE UP THE SHIP

Chapter 04

War Golok Faster! Ham Radio Enthusiasts Out of the DEZ

Chapter 05

Marmalade Kuril Gap Cioccolato

Chapter 06

Briefs Slide 23 Cucumber Sandwiches Short!

Chapter 07

Pad Kee Mao Paneer Tikka Masala Furugelm Subordinate

Chapter 08

Electric Kettle Articles Fidelis ad Mortem Glen Burnie

Chapter 09

Kingsville The Stevensons Admiring the Angel The Paisley Box Event Recreation

Chapter 10

Haut Médoc The Paisley Special DON'T TELL MOM 1st Cavalry Midazolam

Chapter 11

Seville Orange Bit Shifting Enhanced Toilet Paper

Chapter 12

IRC Spinning Chairs Socratic Approach Toaster Oven Because... Too Busy Starting Pistol

Chapter 13

Chinese Remainder Theorem A Full Night's Sleep Detour Lindbergh Baby

Chapter 14

And May the Whole World Burn Exodus Social Engineering

Chapter 15

Treason 1/1/2029 Precinct 23

Chapter 01

Should auld acquaintance be forgot...

Someone left the hatch to the Combat Information Center open again. Davies put his glasses on and got up from his terminal. Ceremonies, particularly ones that celebrated arbitrary calendar designations, annoyed him deeply. He learned long ago that the surest way to avoid such festivities was to hide under a pile of work.

You know that project isn't scheduled for completion for another three months.

Lieutenant Commander Tawnya Jackson stood beside the open hatch. He always enjoyed how her dinner dress whites accentuated her dark complexion. It reminded him of her smile, warm and honest. Winston Davies, a civilian contractor, had no such uniform, or rank for that matter, and delighted in reminding the officers on board of that fact whenever he could, yes, ma'am.

Now you're making me feel old, Jackson sniped back, tonight we celebrate the birth of a new year. New, you got that?

Yes, ma'am.

I will have you thrown overboard, Davies could never tell when she was joking, save your work and rendezvous on the flight deck in five. I need a dancing partner who doesn't report to me. That's an order!

She wasn't in a position to issue him orders of course. He was a civilian after all, on loan from Titan Aerospace to help implement firmware upgrades to the Sky King Network. Nevertheless, the invitation to dance with a woman in uniform was compelling enough. Ma'am! May the civilian make a counter proposal?

The civilian may, there was that smile.

Winston tapped out a few commands into his terminal and walked past the Lieutenant Commander to shut the hatch. The sound of the seal engaging prompted a raised eyebrow and her smile softened into something else. As the first few notes of Debussy trickled out of the PA, Winston extended a hand to Tawnya, the civilian wishes to dance in the privacy of the CIC, ma'am.

In these cramped conditions? Wouldn't you prefer to be above deck?

Not at all, he whispered into her ear as he pulled her close enough to fit between the workstations, I like cramped.

They turned slowly as the music evoked images of forbidden lands. Strictly speaking, there was nothing wrong with listening to pentatonic scales aboard a US Navy vessel, but it was something that got looked at. Winston liked being looked at, especially by Tawnya. She leaned her head back to do just that and pointed out, you know they can hear this all over the ship, right?

He leaned his head forward, over all that singing? I doubt they can even hear the sea, or...

Or what?

Tawnya's eyes contained the same intensity you would find had you told her the ship was taking on water. Winston's hands made their way to either side of her face. Ma'am, may the civilian-

The civilian may, and with that their eyes closed.

His lips found hers on their own.

* * *

President Thompson looked out at the throngs of revelers gathered in the Square below and they in turn looked up to him. Over him, to be precise. A Southern lad, he was never comfortable in his New York office – temporary office, he reminded himself, at least until the Reclamation Project was finished – and now his discomfort was at its peak. The million or so cheering party-goers besieged his tower, jealous of the future it held aloft that would soon descend upon them. It's just a stupid ball of lights, the leader of the free world muttered to no one in particular.

It is a symbol of hope, Greenfield interjected.

The White House Press Secretary always made a point of staying close to the President at such functions. Ben knew the President's disdain for such ostentatious displays as he liked to call them. He also knew how important they were to the public. When the advertising market collapsed, it was Benjamin Greenfield, then an Internet news commentator, who successfully lobbied Congress to acquire 1 Times Square and continue the New Year's tradition. When the Federal Government was moved to New York City in the aftermath of 25-25, then President Hernandez chose the Crossroads of the World for her office. The displays were taken down and the massive window through which the two men now looked installed. Its purpose was twofold: to show an openness to the American people, who saw a Presidency mired in secrecy in the years leading up to the disaster, and brazen fearlessness to an increasingly hostile world.

Not that the window was by any means a security risk.  Greenfield marveled at the twinkling optical effects of so many lights shining through four inches of aluminium oxynitride. His first day on the job, a Secret Service agent told him the story of how Colonel Schuler, the Air Force officer in charge of the project, demonstrated its effectiveness by ordering an F-35 to strafe the test window while standing behind it. The agent added that by the third pass you couldn't see anything through all the spidering, but the Colonel was still very much intact.

The President turned away from that marvel of physical chemistry in favor of the solid oak of Resolute II, given by King Charles to replace the original desk lost with the capitol. He sat back and drained the rest of his champagne, his third this evening by Greenfield's count. I don't see why I have to be here, he said as he cut another cigar, it's not like anyone can see me through all this glare.

You would be amazed what the network cameramen can do, Mr. President, replied Greenfield, pausing to sip, I'm sure people are already discussing the deeper metaphorical implications of that moment you spent looking out the window just now.

In fact, he was more than sure. While the President did not allow televisions in his office, Greenfield was quietly monitoring the media response on his mobile. The speech-to-text app he used wasn't perfect, but it was clear the talking heads were doing their best to tie the brief moment of reflection to the ongoing Manchurian offensive. He was pleased to note the general consensus saw grim determination in the face of the President.

Benjamin knew better. The President was simply irritated at having to spend the night locked in his office while half of New York partied outside. Successful Presidents, he mused, transmuted those feelings, any feelings really, into the image of the State, and the State was very grim indeed.

Is it midnight yet? the President growled. I have a six o'clock briefing I'd like to be somewhat awake for.

Five minutes, sir, one of the Secret Service agents replied without checking his watch.

The President snapped his fingers and another champagne flute found its way to his open hand. Number four, Greenfield noted. Not that it mattered. He knew the President planned to be unconscious in exactly six minutes. Men with his kind of schedule never have trouble falling asleep.

The First Lady evidently disagreed and asked the President for a sip. Casually handing the glass to an aide, she took her husband's arm and quietly inquired, why don't we pose for the picture so we can hurry off to bed?

President Thompson's eyes slid over to his graceful wife. A smirk born out of a battle long since surrendered pinched the side of his face. The White House photographer directed the First Couple to a set of Xs marked off with blue tape in front of the giant window facing Times Square. With their backs to the collected throngs of New York City, the President and First Lady put on their professional smiles while the photographer re-checked her lighting. The plan was to get a picture of the President and First Lady ringing in the New Year with a kiss as the fireworks went off behind them. After taking a few initial staged shots, the photographer dialed back the lighting in anticipation of the dazzling display that would light up Times Square in less than a minute.

Ben's mobile buzzed. Rachel's familiar face beamed from somewhere on the streets below. The speech-to-text app provided the caption, I no you have this muted, but five you can four still read three so read two these lips one.

He smiled as the video stream lagged out with her puckered mouth descending on her mobile's camera. The screen capture with the garbled caption was perfect wedding album material, but his mobile kept timing out when he tried to text it back to her. I'm very sorry, Mr. and Mrs. President, Greenfield reflexively winced as heard the photographer employ the wrong form of address, but these shots are over exposed. Can we try again?

Excuse me, Ms... Greenfield tried and failed to remember the photographer's name, the President is extremely busy. Can't you just edit what you have?

Laird, Denise Laird. You hired me last week, Greenfield winced again, and no, I can't Photoshop that out.

Ben's gaze followed her outstretched arm to the window and abruptly stopped. First the President, then the First Lady, turned to look at the giant mass of glowing aluminium oxynitride that rose behind them.

A phone started ringing.

* * *

The clunk from the hatch seal disengaging pulled Jackson out of her momentary – or so she assumed – indiscretion with Mr. Davies. She pulled away from Winston only to stumble into a workstation chair. She couldn't see a thing, what the hell happened to the monitors?

Winston turned to survey the CIC for any signs of light when a bright beam shined through the now open hatchway. Commander, are you down here?

Affirmative. The civvie too. Report, Seaman.

Whole ship's gone dark, ma'am, the flashlight responded, and there's something you should see on deck.

And the Captain?

On the bridge with Kryzynski, ma'am.

Very good. Is everyone accounted for?

Walters and Barnhardt are still missing. Walters was on engine room duty and Barnhardt turned in early, ma'am.

I take it the comms are down too?

Yes, ma'am.

Make sure Walters is okay and go wake up Barnhardt. This is an all hands situation. I'll be on the bridge.

Yes, ma'am, the sailor sounded less sure of himself, but I really think you should come to the flight deck.

Why is that, Seaman?

UFOs, ma'am, Winston was surprised at the casual use of the term.

As was Jackson, excuse me?

Lights in the sky, ma'am, the sailor was struggling at this point, I really think you should see for yourself.

Yes, I think I should, she commanded, Davies, are you okay on your own here?

Winston marveled at Tawnya's ability to become utterly impersonal when the situation demanded. I'll be fine, his bravado showing, the Martians won't stand a chance against me.

Not now, Davies, he could hear her teeth grinding, lead the way, Seaman.

The flashlight turned back down the hatchway. Winston's eyes relaxed in the dark as he fumbled his way to the nearest workstation. Leaning back, his eyes focused on the nothing where the deckhead used to be. The pounding from above was surely the result of the crew running to their stations and not a boarding party, he rationalized. Infiltrators would try to be quiet and... well that didn't exactly discount the possibility of infiltrators boarding the ship.

Shit, he muttered.

Davies hunched forward to reposition himself in the chair when he saw the soft green glow of the monitor. Ow! his hand smacked against the terminal tray in his eagerness to employ a now functioning command shell, is that French?

Something failed to register with Davies. Weird startup messages were standard in the civilian world, but he figured the military frowned on such things. Oh well, let's see what's running.

Why would it be easy? Let's see...

Seriously?

Um, was all Davies could manage before furiously attacking the keyboard.

The CIC lit up immediately. He had been in the dark so long the normally dim light from the assembled monitors, dials, and buttons hurt his eyes. The intercom crackled, Anderson to Operations. Davies, was that you? Over.

Uh, I think so? I mean affirmative, over, he was still getting used to voice procedure.

You think so, eh? Then you can tell me why the Gaspée thinks she's sailing in the 18th century. Over.

Winston was relieved to finally see what failed to register earlier.

* * *

Get your 2028 glasses right here! shouted a man buried in colorful plastic beads and novelty glasses, beads for $2 a pop!

Rachel was admiring the ingenuity of his Uncle Sam hat. While the glasses were designed to frame one's eyes inside the curls of the 2s, the vendor had removed the temples, rotated the frame 90 degrees, and slid the 8 through a slit in the brim to cover his eyes with infinity. She thought it looked much nicer than having the 0 squished between the 2s and extending over your forehead like some technicolor third eye. Plus it kept the 8 from sticking out to the side of his head where it could easily catch and break off. Her friend Chandra made a game of counting all the people celebrating New Year's 202; forty, at last count.

Chandra, two more, Rachel pointed out a pair of such gentlemen in matching glitter vests, leather thongs, and not much else who were busy harassing an older gentleman with a sandwich board that admonished the assembled revelers to repent. The end, apparently, was nigh.

Why do you hate fags? shouted one.

Maybe this is how he gets attention. Does he want to come to the after-party? suggested the other.

Chandra finally pulled her gaze away from her mobile long enough to notice the world around her, how do you guys not freeze to death in those outfits? And we should totally go to the after-party. Rachel, can we go to the after-party?

Sorry, the sarcasm evident by the second syllable, but this is a NGA party.

The pronunciation was deliberate and Rachel could read the words excuse me? cross her friend's face. Yeah, No Girls Allowed! the second vest tittered.

Please, Chandra was not impressed, let's buy some beads to throw to some real hard bodies who want to really party.

They paid $20 for a dozen necklaces while the police quietly escorted sandwich board guy out of the crowd. Ugh, can't we get any closer? Can't your Very Important Boyfriend pull some strings or something?

Yes, I'm sure the White House would appreciate another influence scandal, Rachel replied, in fact, let me call him right now and ask if the President can put the war on hold for a moment; we need front row seats to watch the ball drop!

First of all, it's not the White House anymore. It's the New York House, Chandra inadvertently prompting a burst of the now familiar New York House! chant around them, and second, what's the point of having a VIB with no perks?

Oh, Ben has his perks.

A great big ol' perk, is that right? Rachel blushed at the suggestion.

Here, I have an idea. Follow me.

Rachel turned around and bought three dozen more necklaces from Uncle Sam. She grabbed Chandra by the hand and made for the line of NYPD along Broadway. Her friend asked, girl, what are you up to?

You'll see, she said with the same mischievous grin that snared her Very Important Benjamin.

The first officer in line looked uncomfortable and out of place in front of the Marriott. Perfect, thought Rachel as she walked towards him, Chandra in tow. Officer, I have a concern.

The rookie looked to the older officer on his right who just shook his head. How can I be of service, ma'am?

Employing the same authoritative speech she watched Ben practice countless times in front of the bathroom mirror, she explained, it has come to my attention that you brave officers have no one to be your New Year's kiss. My friend and I find that unacceptable.

As the officer turned to check with his now chuckling superior, Rachel placed one of the bead necklaces around his neck. His head snapped back just in time for her to assault a uniformed officer of the law, while on duty no less! Chandra, right on queue, approached the second officer who dutifully bowed his head to receive this great honor from the