Mercedes and other expensive makes --had veered off the roads and plowed into
buildings. The plate-glass windows on several storefronts had shattered, but there
didn't seem to be any looting going on. Even the tourists were apparently too
stunned by what had happened to take advantage of the situation.
They did spot one ambulance, tending an old man at the side of the road; they
also heard the sirens of fire trucks or other emergency vehicles. And at one point,
they saw a helicopter embedded in the glass side of a small office tower.
They drove across the Pont de l'Ile, passing over the river Rh.ne, gulls wheeling
overhead, leaving the Right Bank with its patrician hotels, and entering the historic
Left Bank. The route around Vieille Ville --Old Town --was blocked by a four-car
traffic accident, so they had to try negotiating their way through its narrow, crooked,
one-way streets. They drove down Rue de la Cité, which turned into Grand Rue. But
it, too, was blocked, too, by a Transports Publics Genevois bus that had spun out of
control and was now swung across both lanes. They tried an alternate route, Michiko
fretting more and more with each passing minute, but it was also obstructed by
damaged vehicles.
"How far is the school?" asked Lloyd.
"Less than a kilometer," said Michiko.
"Let's do it on foot." He drove back to Grand Rue, then pulled the car over at the
side of road. It wasn't a legal parking spot, but Lloyd hardly thought anybody would
be worrying about that at a time like this. They got out of the Fiat and began running
up the steep, cobbled streets. Michiko stopped after a few paces to remove her high
heels so she could run faster. They continued on up the streets, but had to stop
again for her to replace her shoes as they came to a sidewalk covered with glass
shards.
They hurried up Rue Jean-Calvin, passing the Musée Barbier-Mueller, switched to
Rue du Puits St. Pierre, and hustled by the seven-hundred-year-old Maison Tavel,
Geneva's oldest private home. They had slowed only slightly by the time they passed
the austere Temple de l'Auditoire, where John Calvin and John Knox had once held
forth.
Hearts pounding, breath ragged, they pushed onward. On their right were the
Cathédrale St-Pierre and Christie's auction house. Michiko and Lloyd hurried through
the sprawling square of Place du Bourg-de-Four, with its halo of open-air cafés and
patisseries surrounding the central fountain. Many tourists and Genevois were still
prone on the paving stones; others were sitting up on the ground, either tending to
their own scrapes and bruises or being aided by other pedestrians.
Finally, they made it to the school grounds on Rue de Chaudronniers. The
Ducommun School was a long-established facility catering to the children of
foreigners working in or near Geneva. The core buildings were over two hundred
years old, but several additional structures had been added in the last few decades.
Although classes ended at 4:00 P.M., after-school activities were provided until 6:00
P.M., so that professional parents could leave kids there all day, and, although it was
now getting on to 7:00 P.M., scores of kids were still here.
Michiko was hardly the only parent to have rushed here. The grounds were
crisscrossed by the long shadows of diplomats, rich business people, and others
whose kids attended Ducommun; dozens of them were hugging children and crying
with relief.
The buildings all looked intact. Michiko and Lloyd were both huffing and puffing as
they continued running across the immaculate lawn. By long tradition, the school
flew the flags of the home countries of every student out front; Tamiko was the only
Japanese currently enrolled, but the rising sun was indeed snapping in the spring
breeze.
They made it into the lobby, which had beautiful marble floors and dark-wood
paneling on the walls. The office was off to the right, and Michiko led the way to it.
The door slid open, revealing a long wooden counter separating the secretaries from
the public. Michiko made it over to the counter, and, between shuddering breaths,
she began, "Hello, I'm --"
"Oh, Madame Komura," said a woman emerging from an office. "I've been trying
to call you, but haven't been able to get through." She paused awkwardly. "Please,
come in."
Michiko and Lloyd made their way behind the counter and into the office. A PC sat
on the desk, with a datapad docked to it.
"Where's Tamiko?" said Michiko.
"Please," said the woman. "Have a seat." She looked at Lloyd. "I'm Madame
Severin; I'm the headmistress here."
"Lloyd Simcoe," said Lloyd. "I'm Michiko's fiancé."
"Where's Tamiko?" said Michiko again.
"Madame Komura, I'm so sorry. I'm --" She stopped, swallowed, started again.
"Tamiko was outside. A car came plowing through the parking lot, and ... I'm so very
sorry."
"How is she?" asked Michiko.
"Tamiko is dead, Madame Komura. We all --I don't know what happened; we all
blacked out or something. When we came to, we found her."
Tears were welling out of Michiko's eyes. Lloyd felt a horrible constriction in his
chest. Michiko found a chair, collapsed into it, and put her face in her hands. Lloyd
knelt down next to her and put an arm around her.
"I'm so sorry," said Severin.
Lloyd nodded. "It wasn't your fault."
Michiko sobbed a while longer, then looked up, her eyes red. "I want to see her."
"She's still in the parking lot. I'm sorry --we did call for the police, but they
haven't come yet."
"Show me," said Michiko, her voice cracking.
Severin nodded, and led them out behind the building. Some other youngsters
were standing, looking at the body, terrified of it and yet drawn to it, something
beyond their ken. The staff were too busy dealing with kids who had been injured to
be able to corral all the pupils back into the school.
Tamiko was lying there --just lying there. There was no blood, and her body
seemed intact. The car that had presumably hit her had backed off several meters
and was parked at an angle. Its bumper was dented.
Michiko got within five meters, and then collapsed completely, crying loudly. Lloyd
drew her into his arms, and held her. Severin hovered nearby for a bit, but was soon
called away to deal with another parent, and another crisis.
At last, because she wanted it, Lloyd led Michiko over to the body. He bent over,
his vision blurring, his heart breaking, and gently smoothed Tamiko's hair away from
her face.
Lloyd had no words; what could he possibly say that might bring comfort at a time
like this? They stood there, Lloyd holding Michiko for perhaps half an hour, her body
convulsing with tears the whole time.
Theo Procopides staggered down the mosaic-lined corridor to his tiny office, its
walls covered with cartoon posters: Asterix le Gauloix here, Ren and Stimpy there,
Bugs Bunny and Fred Flintstone and Gaga from Waga above the desk.
Theo felt woozy, shell-shocked. Although he hadn't had a vision, it seemed
everyone else had. Still, even just having blacked out would have been enough to
unnerve him. Added to that were the injuries to his friends and coworkers, and the
news of the deaths in Geneva and the surrounding towns. He was utterly devastated.
Theo was aware that people thought of him as cocky, arrogant --but he wasn't.
Not really, not down deep. He just knew he was good at what he did, and he knew
that while others were talking about their dreams, he was working hard day in and
day out to make his a reality. But this --this left him confused and disoriented.
Reports were still coming in. One hundred and eleven people had died when a
Swissair 797 crashed at Geneva Airport. Under normal circumstances, some might
have survived the actual crash --but no one moved to evacuate before the plane
caught fire.
Theo collapsed in his black leather swivel chair. He could see smoke rising in the
distance; his window faced the airport --you needed a lot more seniority to get one
that faced the Jura mountains.
He and Lloyd had intended no harm. Hell, Theo couldn't even begin to fathom
what had caused everyone to black out. A giant electromagnetic pulse? But surely
that would have done more damage to computers than to people, and all of CERN's
delicate instruments seemed to be running normally.
Theo had swiveled the chair around as he'd sat down in it; his back was now to
the open door. He wasn't aware that someone else had arrived until he heard a
masculine throat-clearing. He rotated the chair and looked at Jacob Horowitz, a
young grad student who worked with Theo and Lloyd. He had a shock of red hair and
swarms of freckles.
"It's not your fault," Jake said, emphatically.
"Of course it is," said Theo, as if it were plainly obvious. "We clearly didn't take
some important factor into consideration, and --"
"No," said Jake, strongly. "No, really. It's not your fault. It had nothing to do with
CERN."
"What?" Theo said it as if he hadn't understood Jake's words.
''Come down to the staff lounge."
"I don't want to face anyone just now, and --"
"No, come on. They've got CNN on down there, and --"
"It's made CNN already?"
"You'll see. Come."
Theo rose slowly from his chair and started walking. Jake motioned for him to
move more quickly, and at last Theo began to jog alongside Jake. When they
arrived, there were maybe twenty people in the lounge.
" --Helen Michaels reporting from New York City. Back to you, Bernie."
Bernard Shaw's stern, lined face filled the high-definition TV screen. "Thanks,
Helen. As you can see," he said to the camera, "the phenomenon seems to be
worldwide --which suggests that the initial analyses that it must have been some
sort of foreign weapon are unlikely to be correct, although of course the possibility
that it was a terrorist act remains. No credible party, as yet, has stepped forward to
claim responsibility, and --ah, we now have that Australian report we promised you
a moment ago."
The view changed to show Sydney with the white sails of the Opera House in the
background, lit up against a dark sky. A male reporter was standing in the center of
the shot. "Bernie, it's just after four A.M. here in Sydney. There's no one image I can
show you to convey what's happened down here. Reports are only slowly coming in
as people realize that what they experienced was not an isolated phenomenon. The
tragedies are many: we have word from a downtown hospital of a woman who died
during emergency surgery when everyone in the operating theater simply stopped
working for several minutes. But we also had a story of an all-night conveniencestore
robbery thwarted when all parties --including the robber --collapsed
simultaneously at 2:00 A.M. local time. The robber was knocked unconscious,
apparently, as he struck the floor, and a patron who woke up before he did was able
to get his gun. We still have no good idea what the death count is here in Sydney, let
alone the rest of Australia."
"Paul, what about the hallucinations? Are those being reported down under, as
well?"
A pause while Shaw's question bounced off satellites from Atlanta to Australia.
"Bernie, people are buzzing about that, yes. We don't know what percentage of the
population experienced hallucinations, but it seems to be a lot. I myself had quite a
vivid one."
"Thanks, Paul." The graphic behind Shaw changed to the American Presidential
seal. "President Boulton will address the nation in fifteen minutes, we're told. Of
course, CNN will bring you live coverage of his remarks. Meanwhile, we have a report
now from Islamabad, Pakistan. Yusef, are you there --?"
"See," said Jake, sotto voce. "It had nothing to do with CERN."
Theo felt simultaneously shocked and relieved. Something had affected the entire
planet; surely their experiment couldn't have done that.
And yet --
And yet, if it hadn't been related to the LHC experiment, then what could have
caused it? Was Shaw right --was it some sort of terrorist weapon? It had only been
a little over two hours since the phenomenon. The CNN team was showing amazing
professionalism; Theo was still struggling to get his own equilibrium back.
Shut off the consciousness of the entire human race for two minutes, and what
would the death toll be?
How many cars had collided?
How many planes had crashed? How many hang-gliders? How many parachutists
had blacked out, failing to pull their ripcords?
How many operations had gone bad? How many births had gone bad?
How many people had fallen from ladders, fallen down stairs?
Of course, most airplanes would fly just fine for a minute or two without pilot
intervention, as long as they actually weren't taking off or landing. On uncrowded
roads, cars might even manage just to roll safely to a stop.
But still ... still ...
"The surprising thing," said Bernard Shaw, on the TV, "is that as near as we can
tell, the consciousness of the human race shut off at precisely noon Eastern Time. At
first it seemed that the various times were not all exactly the same, but we've been
checking the clocks of those who've reported in against our own clocks here at CNN
Center in Atlanta, which, of course, are set against the time signal from the National
Institute for Standards and Technology in Boulder, Colorado. Adjusting for slightly
incorrect settings that other people had, we find that the phenomenon occurred to
