Creative Destruction
by Bill Kowaleski
Creative Destruction is a sequel to the novel Brighter Than the Stars, in which Earthlings meet technologically advanced space aliens. The Cygnians come only to do business, but their schemes to sell fusion-powered generators become contentious and competitive.
Many human and alien characters return from the previous novel, including Jim McDermott and his team, who try to reduce the risk of societal upheaval that the new technologies threaten. Meanwhile, many different groups are either plotting to steal the technical advances for their own purposes or trying to destroy it and drive the Cygnians off of Earth.
| Cast of Characters and Species | Table of Contents |
Chapter 41: Futile Attack
Salesman-Drake was nervous: nervous like a Cygnian cut off from the herd and lost in the thick forest; nervous like a calf who could smell the sharptooths nearby. He stood in the control room located in the center of Factory Number One of the Botswana and Southern Africa Clothing Corporation staring at a gigantic wall full of flashing, moving displays that Guard-Robert seemed to completely comprehend.
“Fifteen minutes until attack,” said Guard-Robert. “The trucks are at the staging area. They are only waiting for the train with the nuclear weapon now. We will activate the tunnel field as soon as the trucks move.”
“Explain it again to me,” said Salesman-Drake. “Why are we not in danger? Wouldn't a nuclear weapon take out this entire complex?”
“It is quite small, one kiloton, but it can still do significant damage. However, just before they attack, we will superimpose a model of this facility that we built in another universe. That's what will be destroyed. Meanwhile, this facility will continue to operate in a slightly shifted near-universe, but it will not be visible or accessible to anyone on Earth.”
“But the workers—”
“The workers were called to an offsite meeting on short notice. They're downtown right now, all of them. If they were here, they would need only to pass through a Barrier, like the one at UZPG. It looks and feels like you're going through a wall of dense fog. We'll have to do that to return to Earth.”
“I'm confused,” said Salesman-Drake. “Aren't we already on Earth?”
Guard-Robert's eyestalks aimed at a display at the upper right of the wall. “Trucks moving. Here we go.”
He issued a series of thought commands. Salesman-Drake felt giddy, almost nauseous for just an instant, and then everything seemed the same as before.
“To answer your question, Salesman, we were on Earth when you posed the question. But now, we are not.”
“We transported the entire complex? That's impossible!”
“Nothing has actually moved in space, Salesman. All we've done is distort the time-space continuum in a defined area, causing that entire area to appear in a precise place in another universe. You're used to walking through an intermediate universe to get from place to place in our universe. That intermediate universe shaves almost all the distance off of the trip. But of course that requires motion in space, which we can't do with a nine-square-kilometer facility like this one.”
Salesman-Drake felt more befuddled than ever. “Everything looks the same. How do you know we're in another universe?”
“Take a look outside,” said Guard-Robert.
Salesman-Drake walked through the control room door, down a corridor, and into Cafeteria Seven where he knew a wall of windows looked out onto the street flanking the south side of the complex. The facility, normally open twenty-four hours a day, was dark and deserted. As he neared the windows, he saw no street, nothing familiar at all. Instead, there was a rolling plain of golden, waving grass leading to distant bluish mountains framing the horizon of a remarkable, pale pink sky.
“Satisfied?” asked Guard-Robert when the Salesman had returned to the control room.
“Everyone is safe?”
“Yes, everyone except those poor misguided terrorists who are about to destroy a cheap, worthless model of the factory.”
Guard-Robert directed the display wall to split into three video feeds, one for each loading dock, and one for the rail line. Salesman-Drake knew that the self-driving trucks would not notice that the docks were strangely deserted, devoid of vehicles, people, and Cygnians.
The trucks backed right up to the building and, within five seconds of each other, exploded. The display wall did not transmit sound, something usually unimportant to Cygnians anyway, and so the explosion seemed artificial, almost computer-generated. As the smoke cleared, the devastation came into focus, and it was extensive. What had been a long, tidy row of overhead doors had become a mass of concrete chunks and twisted metal.
At that moment, Salesman-Drake realized the beauty of Guard-Robert's plan. The attackers had destroyed any evidence that what they'd blown up was a Potemkin village. And they'd have to believe the casualty counts provided by the authorities.
Guard-Robert directed his thoughts to a communicator. He patched-in the Salesman. “Truck attack complete. Prepare to enter facility.”
“But what about the nuclear weapon?” asked Salesman-Drake. “Wouldn't that leave behind a lot of radiation?”
“They've got protective gear for that,” said Guard-Robert. “United States CIA is well-equipped.”
“Did you say CIA?”
“We've arranged for all rescue and investigative personnel to be the U.S. CIA masquerading as local authorities.”
Just then, the rightmost screen erupted in a tremendous display of smoke and flying debris. The nuke had exploded.
“And at any rate,” continued Guard-Robert as though nothing unusual had happened, “there's nobody to rescue or search for. The CIA will just engage in some photo-ops, evaluate the debris to determine what kinds of explosives were used, and then go home.”
Salesman-Drake transmitted the most intense amusement and sense of awe. “Well-done, Guard! Your reputation can only be enhanced by this!”
Guard-Robert stood on his hind legs and waved a paw. “Consider, Salesman, what happens now. We've bought some time, perhaps enough time for the CIA to properly protect Mr. Martin. We've created outrage in the African public, maybe even the majority of people around the world. The conspirators are only weakened by this foolish act. But soon they'll figure out that we've duped them. Then the next battle begins.”
“Yes, I suppose you're right, Guard. When, then, does it finally end?”
“When we've convinced the people trying to kill us that they're better off joining us. That, my friend, is where your talents come in.”
“Me?” said the Salesman. “I can sell products, but surely you don't expect me to convince these people to—”
“It will be your greatest sale. Your exploits will become a part of the First Stories. And I believe you can do it!”
Copyright © 2019 by Bill Kowaleski
