an impactor some ten kilometres across. The Wormwood is forty times as large, and its mass is therefore some sixty thousand times as great.
Fact: the Wormwood will not simply cause a mass extinction event, like Chicxulub.
It will be much worse than that.
The heat pulse will sterilize the land to a depth of fifty metres. Life might survive, but only by being buried deep in caves. We know no way, even in principle, by which a human community could ride out the impact. It may be that viable populations could be established on other worlds: in orbit, on Mars or the Moon. But even in five centuries only a small fraction of the world's current population could be sheltered off-world.
Thus, Earth cannot be evacuated. When the Wormwood arrives, almost everybody will die.
Fact: the Wormwood cannot be deflected with foreseeable technology.
It is possible we could turn aside small bodies – a few kilometres across, typical of the population of near-Earth asteroids – with such means as emplaced nuclear charges or thermonuclear rockets. The challenge of deflecting the Wormwood is many orders of magnitude greater. Thought experiments on moving such bodies have proposed, for example, using a series of gravitational assists – not available in this case – or using advanced technology such as nanotech von Neumann machines to dismantle and disperse the body. But such technologies are far beyond our current capabilities.
Two years after I exposed the conspiracy to conceal from the general public the existence of the Wormwood, attention is already moving on – and we have yet to start work on the great project of our survival.
Indeed, the Wormwood itself is already having advance effects. It is a cruel irony that just as, for the first time in our history, we were beginning to manage our future responsibly and jointly, the prospect of Wormwood Day seems to render such efforts meaningless. Already we've seen the abandonment of various voluntary waste-emission guidelines, the closure of nature reserves, an upgraded search for sources of non-renewable fuels, an extinction pulse among endangered species. If the house is to be demolished tomorrow anyhow, people seem to feel, we may as well burn the furniture today.
None of our problems are insoluble – not even the Wormwood. But it seems clear that to prevail we humans will have to act with a smartness and selflessness that has so far eluded us during our long and tangled history.
Still, my hope centres on humanity and ingenuity. It is significant, I believe, that the Wormwood was discovered – not by the professionals, who weren't looking that way – but by a network of amateur sky watchers, who set up robot telescopes in their backyards, and used shareware routines to scan optical detector images for changing glimmers of light, and refused to accept the cloak of secrecy our government tried to lay over them. It is in groups like this – earnest, intelligent, cooperative, stubborn, refusing to submit to impulses towards suicide or hedonism or selfishness, seeking new solutions to challenge the complacency of the professionals – that our best and brightest hope of surviving the future may lie…
Bobby was late arriving at RevelationLand. Kate was still waiting in the car lot for him as the swarms of ageing adherents started pressing through the gates of Billybob Meeks's giant cathedral of concrete and glass.
This ‘cathedral’ had once been a football stadium; they were forced to sit near the back of one of the stands, their view impeded by pillars. Sellers of hot dogs, peanuts, soft drinks and recreational drugs were working the crowd, and muzak played over the PA. Jerusalem, she recognized: based on Blake's great poem about the legendary visit of Christ to Britain, now the anthem of the new post-United Kingdom England.
The entire floor of the stadium was mirrored, making it a floor of blue sky littered with fat December clouds. At the centre there was a gigantic throne, covered in stones glimmering green and blue – probably impure quartz, she thought. Water sprayed through the air, and arc lamps created a rainbow which arched spectacularly. More lamps hovered in the air before the throne, held aloft by drone robots, and smaller thrones circled bearing elders, old men and women dressed in white with golden crowns on their skinny heads.
And there were beasts the size of tipper trucks prowling around the field. They were grotesque, every part of their bodies covered with blinking eyes. One of them opened giant wings and flew, eagle-like, a few metres.
The beasts roared at the crowd, their calls amplified by a booming PA. The crowd got to its feet and cheered, as if celebrating a touchdown.
Bobby was oddly nervous. He was wearing a tight-fitting one piece suit of bright scarlet, with a colour-morphing kerchief draped around his neck. He was a gorgeous twenty-first-century dandy, she thought, as out of place in the drab, elderly multitude around him as a diamond in a child's seashore pebble collection.
She touched his hand. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I didn't realize they'd all be so old.’
He was right, of course. The gathering congregation was a powerful illustration of the silvering of America. Many of the crowd, in fact, had cognitive-enhancer studs clearly visible at the backs of their necks, there to combat the onset of age-related diseases like Alzheimer's by stimulating the production of neurotransmitters and cell adhesion molecules.
‘Go to any church in the country and you'll see the same thing, Bobby. Sadly, people are attracted to religion when they approach death. And now there are more old people – and with the Wormwood coming we all feel the brush of that dark shadow, perhaps. Billybob is just surfing a demographic wave. Anyhow, these people won't bite.’
‘Maybe not. But they smell. Can't you tell?’
She laughed. ‘“One should never put on one's best trousers to go out to battle for freedom and truth.”’
‘Huh?’
‘Henrik Ibsen.’
Now a man stood up on the big central throne. He was short, fat, and his face shone with sweat. His amplified voice boomed out: ‘Welcome to RevelationLand! Do you know why you're here?’ His finger stabbed. ‘Do you? Do you? Listen to me now: On the Lord's day I was in the spirit, and I heard behind me a loud voice like a trumpet, which said: “Write on a scroll what you see…”’ And he held up a glittering scroll.
Kate leaned toward Bobby. ‘Meet Billybob Meeks. Prepossessing, isn't he? Clap along. Protective coloration.’
‘What's going on, Kate?’
‘Evidently you've never read the Book of Revelation. The Bible's deranged punch line.’ She pointed. ‘Seven hovering lamps. Twenty-four thrones around the big one. Revelation is riddled with magic numbers – three, seven, twelve. And its description of the end of things is very literal. Although at least Billybob uses the traditional versions, not the modern editions which have been rewritten to show how the Wormwood date of 2534 was there in the text all along…’ She sighed. ‘The astronomers who discovered the Wormwood didn't do anybody any favours by calling it that. Chapter 8, verse 10: The third angel sounded his trumpet, and a great star, blazing like a torch, fell from the sky on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water – the name of the star is Wormwood…’
‘I don't understand why you invited me here today. In fact I don't know how you got a message through to me. After my father threw you out –’
‘Hiram isn't yet omnipotent, Bobby,’ she said. ‘Not even over you. And as to why – look up.’
A drone robot hovered over their heads, labelled with a stark, simple word: GRAINS. It dipped into the crowd, in response to the summons of members of the congregation.
Bobby said, ‘Grains? The mind accelerator?’
‘Yes. Billybob's speciality. Do you know Blake? To see a World in a Grain of Sand, / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,