Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(11)

The morning after being the last prisoner in Edgefield, I am the only prisoner to walk out alive.

I look for Pedro, but he’s nowhere in sight.

They lead me to a parcel van, where the federal agent is waiting, along with a man with a beard, short gray hair, and kind eyes. He’s a man I recognize and respect but have never met. I can’t imagine why he would be here, and my imagination is vast.

“Lose the gloves and gown,” Agent-Man says.

When they’re off, a guardsman calls out to the van, “Want us to cuff him?”

Agent-Man gives a wry grin. “Nah, he’s not that kind of criminal. Are you, Doc?”

“Many don’t consider me a criminal at all. Just a man ahead of his time.”

“Well, I’m a man without much time, so get up here.”

Inside the van, Agent-Man dismisses everyone but me and the other man. Then he introduces himself. “Dr. Sinclair, I’m Raymond Larson, Deputy AG.”

In my mind, I upgrade him to Agent-Boss-Man.

He points to the other man. “This is Dr. Lawrence Fowler—”

“Director of NASA. I know.” I look Fowler in the eyes. “It’s nice to meet you… despite the circumstances. I’ve followed your work for a long time, since you were at Caltech.”

His eyes brighten. “You have?”

His voice is more subdued than in the last video I saw of him at a conference giving a presentation. That was four years ago, and the years have apparently taken a toll. Stress and time have worked on Dr. Lawrence Fowler.

“Yes. Your research on alternative jet propulsion fuel sources is of particular—”

Larson holds up a hand. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s get to it.” He smirks at me. “If you’re as smart as they say you are, why don’t you tell me why we’re here?”

I shrug. “Because you need something from me. Specifically, you’re going to offer me a pardon or work release—contingent on my cooperation—and you’re going to threaten me with the alternatives, most likely a transfer to another prison where the other inmates will know that I’m the sole survivor of the Edgefield Prison riot. The implication will be that I’m a snitch, one who got all of his fellow inmates killed. To avoid a lawsuit, the warden will put me in the hole for protection, until I can’t take it anymore. Then I’ll demand to be released, and when that happens, I’ll be dead within a few days.”

Larson looks genuinely impressed. He draws a folded paper from inside his suit jacket and glances at Fowler, who nods curtly. He unfolds the page and lays it in front of me.

I expected it to be longer. Phrases jump out at me: Full Presidential Pardon

Contingent upon approval by the Justice Department, NASA, and any government agencies and private entities they designate.

Work period has an indeterminate end date.

No compensation or benefits whatsoever are conferred.

He hands me a pen, and I sign it. Then he folds the page up and slips it back into his jacket.

“Do I get a receipt or a copy or something?”

“You do not.”

“So… when do I start?”

As I suspected, it’s Fowler’s show now. He speaks as he opens his laptop. “I’m afraid you’ll need to start right away. Time is of the essence, Dr. Sinclair.”

“Call me James.”

“All right, James. What I’m about to show you is the most closely guarded secret in the world.”

I have the urge to make a wisecrack. Ever since I was a kid, sarcasm has been my defense against a world that didn’t seem to understand me—or like me. And somewhere along the way, sarcasm became how I communicated all the time. It kept me from getting close to anyone and from getting hurt. But I hold my tongue here. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I sense, despite the overdramatic opener, that what I’m about to hear is actually that important. Or maybe it’s because I know Lawrence Fowler doesn’t deserve it. I’ve been in his presence all of five minutes, and I already feel as though I know him—and what he’s about. It isn’t games or politics. He’s here for a reason, and I bet it’s a good one. And he reminds me of my grandfather.

“As you know,” Fowler says, typing away, “the Long Winter is the greatest threat to humanity’s survival in our history. All the climate models have been wrong. NOAA is collectively pulling its hair out trying to figure out why it’s even happening. In short, it doesn’t add up. Do you know why?”

“Because there’s a variable that hasn’t been factored.”

He nods. “Precisely. NASA was tasked with finding that variable. A year ago, we launched a series of probes into space. Our aim was to measure solar output outside of Earth. What we found shocked us.”

His screen shows an interactive 3D simulation of Earth surrounded by a series of probes in space, a number beside each one. My guess is that these numbers are measures of solar radiation. What strikes me is the variation in the numbers. Solar output isn’t absolutely uniform, like, say, a light bulb’s output, but it’s a lot more consistent than what I’m seeing here. Earth is getting far less solar radiation than the regions of space surrounding it.

The implication is clear.

My mouth runs dry. It’s impossible—but I’m looking at the data. I could throw up. This is too odd to be a natural phenomenon. The source is probably an extraterrestrial entity. If I’m right, this is truly the end of the human race. No two ways about it. Any species or force sufficiently advanced to cause this could wipe us out a trillion different ways—ways we aren’t even advanced enough to imagine.