The O.D. (3 page)

Pilot scrolled further down the page, looking for a reference to Ruth, and soon found it.

‘…
and
later
that
year
married
Holocaust
survivor
Ruth
Belkin
,
who
went
on
to
found
the
international
educational
charity
,
Scholasticorps
. Pilot remembered what Vaalon had said about Ruth’s inability to have children as the result of a trauma endured when she was younger.
Holocaust
survivor
. A cold chill ran up Pilot’s spine. He went back to his search results and clicked on one at random, which landed him half way down a page on the Forbes website.

36
.
Forrest
Vaalon
. ‘Thirty-sixth what?’ Pilot scrolled to the top of the page.
The
Forbes
400
.
The
Richest
People
in
America
. He clicked a link to another Forbes page,
The
World’s
Billionaires
, and there, in black and white at number 97, was Forrest Vaalon.

II

“You won’t determine the shape of this island by walking around its coastline,” Vaalon said to Pilot across a first floor table at Morrab Library the next morning. “I’ll give you a brief flyover now and over the next three months you’ll have time to read all the support files and background studies in detail.

“On the first of August a launch will take you from Falmouth to an ocean-going barge anchored offshore. She’ll then be set on a southwesterly course, and, two days later, will rendezvous with the other barges about here.” In the atlas open before him, Vaalon pointed to an area west of Brest in the Bay of Biscay. “We calculate that the island will crest some time between August fourth and August eighth.” Vaalon opened his laptop and switched it on.

“I read that Ruth was a Holocaust survivor,” Pilot said as they waited for the computer to boot up. Vaalon looked up with a pained expression. “How old was she when she got out, Forrest?”

“Twelve.” A vein in Vaalon’s forehead had grown larger. “But she survived, and threw their hideous crimes back in their faces with what she achieved over her lifetime. She’s a silent partner now, sitting here with us as we dot the i’s and cross the t’s of what is, to a large extent,
her
vision. I couldn’t have done this without Ruth.”

Vaalon typed in a password and the screen lit up the old oak tabletop. He clicked
Documents
, then the folder
Flotilla
, then the document
Configuration
, positioning the laptop so that Pilot could see the screen. Although it was just past ten thirty, Pilot had been up since five, too overstimulated to sleep. His eyes felt grainy and the bright light of the screen made him squint. Vaalon scrolled down a page of text and stopped on a series of images.

“Fourteen other barges will be converging on your position on August third.” Pilot looked at a diagram showing three rows of five barges each, all tightly bunched in a rectangle. Vaalon returned to the Flotilla folder to give Pilot a glimpse of its other files:
Mooring
Procedure
;
Deployment
of
Barrage
;
Deckside
Preparations
. “You’ll have plenty of time to absorb what’s in here. Moving on, once the flotilla is lashed together, the fifteen barge masters will be removed to the mainland. Then, it’s just a matter of waiting. Before I forget, I need you to fill this out.” Vaalon pulled a form from his briefcase and pushed it across the table. “Passport application. You can get photos done at the Post Office. Use your credit card to pay the fee.”

“I need a passport to get on the island?” Pilot joked.

“Dublin.” Vaalon pulled an envelope out of his case and handed it over. “This is your plane ticket. On June 2nd you’ll be meeting three of your
crew
, for lack of a better word. It’s easier for one person to travel to Dublin than for three to come to Penzance. Macushla Mara is chief speechwriter for the Prime Minister of Ireland, and her communication skills will be an important asset down the line. Jane Lavery has agreed to head up food production, and Josiah Billy will be your island’s master builder. Out of the 86 who have signed up to the project, only you four and two others, who you’ll meet later, know the true destination. Background details, photos etcetera for all your crew are in here.”

“Where do the other eighty think we’re going?”

“I told them they’ll be taking part in a unique social experiment with other like-minded people; that they’ll be travelling to a remote part of the world; that they might be in for a rough landing; that it’ll be subsistence living to start with; but that all the hardship could be worth it at the end. None seemed to have a problem with that.”

Pilot thought for a minute. “About that
rough
landing
, Forrest, is there any chance the island could kill us on its way up? If so, don’t you have a moral responsibility to tell us?”

“I exaggerated the dangers and even told them there was an outside chance that they could die. There would have been a hundred of you if fourteen had decided to accept the risk like the others. Let me just say that your landing module has been designed to absorb g-forces in excess of what the physics tells us will be the maximum collision speed. “

“Landing module?”

“Positioned above the central barge on hydraulic pillars. If there were any possibility of fatalities, Lonnie, I wouldn’t be here. You’ll be fine.”

Vaalon scanned his document headings and stopped at ‘Rendezvous’. “As soon as the barge captains have left for the mainland and everyone is aboard
Ptolemy
, you’ll inform your crew of their true destination. They know you are the designated leader, but most of them will have never met you. So, before you tell them about the island, you have to instill confidence in you as leader. They need to know that the person leading them into the unknown is trustworthy and investable.”

Vaalon looked back at his document headings. ‘Post Landing… As soon as possible after landfall, and to ensure that the whole experiment doesn’t fall apart, you and your cohorts will devise an administrative structure for your island. You’ve read enough books on governance to know the need for mechanisms and processes through which your people can articulate their interests, exercise their personal rights, meet their obligations, and mediate their differences.”

“And I’ve observed enough Cornwall Council Planning meetings to understand the pitfalls,” Pilot said. “It should be an interesting process.” He worried a loose button on his shirt which had been threatening to fall off for a month. “Can I ask you a question, Forrest? This still bothers me – the fact that you picked
me
to lead this enterprise. Why not one of the other candidates you mentioned?”

“Up until eight years ago, we still had insufficient data to predict the next solar tide,” Vaalon said. “We had no idea it could happen in our lifetime. Back then, it was just science to us. And theory. The breakthrough came with the development of our ‘crust caliper’ as you call it, which allowed us for the first time to identify soft spots in the Earth’s skin. Other hardware crucial to predicting solar tides and measuring magmatic activity came quickly on its heels. Two years ago, we built the world’s first Solarmagnetrometer and placed it on the Chinese satellite,
Joyous
Harvest
. When we’d analysed all the new data, put it into our computer model and set it against the bore samples I showed you, we realized that an event unprecedented in recorded history was about to occur. To our astonishment – and horror – we now had a time,
approximately
, and a place,
roughly
, for a magmatic pulse capable of pushing the continental shelf out of the sea.”

“Why horror?”

“Because the dream of a new Utopia Ruth and I had so much fun toying with when we were younger was now a looming reality.
But
we
were
too
old
to
do
anything
about
it
. We had been looking into successors, albeit without urgency, but now we had to find one fast.” Vaalon ran a liver-spotted hand through his hair. “I’ve told you about our six candidates and the untimely death of our first choice.”

Pilot laughed. “I’ll tell you one thing. I feel a lot more comfortable knowing that I was only your second choice.”

“I’m glad,” Vaalon said. “Back in the sixties, Avis were second to Hertz in the car rental business, but they turned that to their advantage with one of the most brilliant advertising slogans of all time.
Because
we’re
number
two
,
we
try
harder
.”

“Challenge accepted. Where are the other four candidates?”

“In your crew, but I don’t think it would help if you knew their identities. Excuse me, Lonnie, I’ll be right back.” Vaalon stood up and left the room for his third bathroom break since breakfast.

Pilot ran his finger along the edge of France’s western continental shelf and allowed himself a bemused smile. This is mad, he thought. Science fiction. He still had one foot in the mud of Penwith and was far from convinced that this unexpected meeting with a rich American scientist-fantasist was going anywhere.

Vaalon returned and opened another file. “For this colony of yours to work we can’t leave any holes, so, among your crew you will find a dentist, two doctors, a nurse practitioner, a gynecologist, a topographer, and an IT/communications expert. The others are making the trip on the strength of their intelligence, creativity, awareness and drive. To help you get established, I’ve also employed five specialists – an arborist, a stonemason, a marine engineer, an amateur geologist friend of mine and an agronomist/nutritionist to help Jane. They’ll be joining you several days after landing. Their contracts run from one to three years, depending on their field. To preserve secrecy, I’ve told them they’re going to work on a development in Dubai. I don’t think they care whether they go to Dubai or Santa’s workshop just as long as it’s not where they came from. And since I can say that none has been to where you’re going, there should not be a problem.”

An elderly man in shorts and sandals came into the room and began looking through the biography shelf, his failing eyes a mere four inches from the book spines. Vaalon closed the laptop, arose and beckoned Pilot to follow him out. They walked downstairs and through the reading room towards the exit, tracked as they went by half a dozen curious retirees, already seated for a morning lecture on ‘The Bells of St. Mary’s’.

In Morrab Gardens they found an empty bench near the bandstand and sat down. Over by the bushes, a young couple lay sunning themselves. Three old ladies on the adjacent bench sat stony still, as if dead. Vaalon raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. “Mmmm, that feels so good,” he said.

They sunned themselves in silence for fifteen minutes, then Vaalon opened his eyes and turned to Pilot. “Back to the real world, Lonnie. You’ll be relieved to hear that your island won’t be born poor. To ensure your fiscal strength, I’ve put aside a fifth of one percent of the world’s gold reserves and two percent of its silver in the name of your country, whatever that name will be.” He took two business cards from his pocket and handed one to Pilot. “Think of a name for the island and phone it over to this man in Brussels. He’ll do the rest. Once you’re established and self-sufficient – which could take year
s−
then you can sever the financial umbilical cord managed by
this
man.” He handed Pilot the second card. “Franz Barta. I mentioned him earlier.”

“One of the barges will be carrying cash to the value of five million dollars in a number of currencies – spending money for anyone needing to leave the island for medical reasons or to see family. Dispense the cash as you see fit for their travel and other expenses. There’s a box of false passports that can be personalized as well.” Pilot stole a quick look at his watch. “Do you have to be somewhere, Lonnie?”

“Uhh, well, I didn’t know all this was going to happen, Forrest. I’m sorry, but I’ve arranged to meet a friend for lunch.”

The old man smiled. “A friend?”

Pilot’s face went crimson. “Well, Jenny’s more than a friend, but it won’t be a problem come August. It’s just a fling. I can finish it at any time. I’ll cancel lunch if you want.”

“Not necessary.” Vaalon stood up and Pilot followed like a tall echo. “I have a dozen emails that need answering, Lonnie. Come by The Abbey at around two thirty and we’ll pick up from there.” Vaalon turned to go, then stopped. “Enjoy your lunch.”

Twenty minutes later, Lonnie Pilot was at Archie Brown’s sitting across the table from a strikingly beautiful, chronically destitute painter seven years his senior. He looked over at the Specials board, then took a menu out of its holder. “Have you decided what you want, Jen?” Pilot said.

“The usual. Shall I order yours, too?” As two people on the breadline, the couple always had the cheapest meal possibl
e−
soup for the main course and water to drink. While Jenny was at the counter, Pilot went through his options: On
e−
finish their relationship there and then; Tw
o−
tell her he was leaving Penzance in August, but that they should carry on seeing each other until then; or Thre
e−
ask Vaalon if she could come with him to the Bay of Biscay.

Jenny returned to the table with soup spoons, napkins and tap water, sat down and stared into her glass as if it were a crystal ball. Pilot had first been attracted to her by her sexually alluring, hypnotic eyes, framed by a mop of burnt umber curls. When she looked him in the eye, he still went weak at the knees, but it seemed to him now that she was avoiding eye contact. The sexual charge, though, was palpable and he was inclining more and more towards Option Two.

“It’s been a weird morning, Jen.”

The painter looked up at last. “How so?” Pilot sensed something disengaging in her voice.

“Are you feeling okay, Jenny?”

“Fine. What’s been weird?”