68:52:19 Two men monitored the same information feeds on identical screens half a world apart. Despite the distance between them, the men were much alike. Close in age on the cusp of thirty, both sported beards, though with differing lengths. One man was blonde, his hair styled asymmetrically in line with current trends, his beard flaring across his chest. The second man’s hair and beard were dark brown and closely cropped as if he expected to labor outdoors on a hot day or reach among the belts and gears of machinery. Both men wore buttoned shirts over black pants. The dark-haired technician wore narrow suspenders over a work tunic, its coarse weave the shade of an angry thunderhead. The blonde preferred a belt, though it was hidden under the hem of a tailored shirt so white it shimmered in the fluorescent light. Each of them toiled alone in windowless rooms close in size and containing similar equipment. They were equally proficient in their technical skills, though one had trained in a technical college and the other had never set foot in a public school. Both performed their monotonous duty with diligence; their desktops free of clutter. They shared the same purpose, monitoring global feeds for breaking news. The alert flared on both screens simultaneously, marching over the normal feeds like an invading army to the centre of the screen, where it abruptly halted and flashed with urgent import. The blonde stared at his screen for some moments in surprise and disbelief. He read the alert several times, his lips mouthing the message as if to force his brain to cast aside denial and create context that made sense. Suddenly, he pushed away from his station, putting distance between himself and the threat, and fumbled for his phone. There was neither shock nor hesitation by the second man. His hand smacked his desk and he laughed as if he had just won a jackpot. 68:48:23 Short, stuttering jets of gas spit from nozzles spaced evenly around the circumference of an American military satellite. It rotated through a little more than a hundred and eighty degrees to shift the view of its payload, a high resolution camera normally trained on the Demilitarized Zone separating North Korea from its southern neighbour. Deep beneath Nevada in another windowless room crowded with workstations, a young female US Air Force lieutenant typed a numerical sequence into the last empty field of the window on her screen and hit ‘Enter.’ The commanding officer for this secret facility, a general, was livid. “How did NASA see this before we did?” He barked his question at no one in particular, but the lieutenant still flinched. High above her, the camera obeyed her instructions until it seemed to gaze into deep space. She opened another window and adjusted the settings of some linear values. “Bring it up on the main screen,” said the other man standing behind her, his tone calm. He was the officer of the watch, a colonel, subordinate to the frustrated general beside him. A map of the Korean DMZ vanished from the giant screen that dominated the front wall of the room, leaving blank darkness. Then, a muddy grey image grew into existence, uneven and blurred. The young lieutenant made additional adjustments. The object firmed, becoming brighter and sharpening into focus. An asteroid. Asteroids. Sometime in its ancient history, several fragments had split away. All but one looked as if they were escorting the largest piece. A tiny section lagged behind, as if asserting its independence. “Where’d it come from, Colonel?” The general demanded to know. “And how did we miss it? A billion dollars spent on this bunker and a dozen satellites and still we missed it? What am I going to tell Washington?” The colonel ignored his commanding officer’s angry whining. The man was incompetent. Now, if he was CO of this place, he mused, but went no further. He had a far more pressing issue. As in how had this approaching threat surprised every system around the globe tasked to search for exactly this type of danger? “Colonel? Did you hear me?” “Yes, Sir. We’ll have your answers shortly, Sir. Origin, make-up and orbital track, as soon as we upload this data to the mainframe in Washington.” The general nodded. “Priorize the track. I want to know how close it will approach and when. I’ll be in my office,” he said, then turned away. “Yes, sir,” the colonel said to his superior’s back. The lieutenant looked over her shoulder. “Initial data transferred, Colonel. I’ll notify you when it’s analyzed.” “I think I’ll stay put, Lieutenant.” 68:46:47 Gretchen Hoag, hereditary leader of the unregistered collective known by its residents simply as Benevolence, gazed towards the open double doors of the community centre. Still young enough that she had yet to relinquish her beauty, in this moment her intense, expectant expression hinted at an inner severity. Her modest white dress hid her ankles and covered her arms, but from her neck hung a gold cross on a gold chain that flashed in the sunlight. She pretended to be unaware of how the ornament’s weight emphasized her cleavage, secretly proud the men of her community still looked at her that way. Behind her stood four serious young men dressed in black pants and white shirts, though their crosses were mere silver. The men also watched the open doors of the structure. The one hundred and fifty-three other sworn members of the community lined up in silent ranks opposite Gretchen and her four escorts on the square of lawn set aside for just such use. Their clothing was simple, modest and durable, the women’s long dresses distinguished by minor details in cut and the shade of grey of their age group. The few elderly wore black, mothers dark grey, maidens light grey and children, white. The men, all bearded, wore black pants held up with suspenders and shirts to match the women’s dresses. There were many more dresses in attendance than suspenders. Women outnumbered men by nearly four to one, most of them barely out of childhood. Benevolence proper surrounded the grassy field on all four sides, granaries and workshops and storage sheds interspersed with small, neat houses designed for practical shelter rather than creative expression. Movement in the shadows of the community centre caused a restless, expectant stir in the crowd. The man who rushed from the building was slightly winded, but had not stopped laughing. “He was right!” the technician shouted. “Noah Hoag was right! Our founder’s prophecy is upon us!” A wild cheer erupted from the people who, moments ago, stood like soldiers on parade. Some danced, many hugged those around them, regardless of age or gender. Children darted among their elders. Gretchen shared her people’s joy. As this day approached, she felt a growing dread that her father’s prophesies and promises were symptoms of madness rather than faith. A rush of pride swelled within her. She would lead these people into a new world, repopulating and rebuilding it with respect for God and spurning all evil. A voice in her ear said, “Gretchen, do you see them dance? It is a sin. Shall I punish them?” She turned to her First Consort, physically close to perfect and young enough to serve her for the duration of the Cleansing and perhaps, beyond. Perhaps. “The sin would be in your joy for their punishment,” she said. “We will soon face our greatest trial and joy will be a rare treasure. Let them have this moment.” She caught his scowl as he turned away and wondered, not for the first time, if his beauty had clouded her judgement. No matter, she thought. Her authority was absolute, her pedigree unquestioned. She could be rid of him with a word, but the future would need his seed. Turning back to her followers, she remembered she only had three days left. Three days to complete the preparations begun thirty years ago and there was still much to do. Holding out her arms, she called, “My beloved Benevolence, hear me! This is a joyous day, but our time runs out. Three days is a short time and anything we do not finish will go forever incomplete.” As quickly as it started, the joy dissipated like smoke on a breeze. The people of Benevolence quieted, recapturing their piety and their obedience to their leader. They began to disperse before Gretchen lowered her arms. 66:37:54 “Sir?” The colonel, lost in his mental dissection of asteroid protocols he had a role in writing, didn’t respond to the lieutenant. He started when she touched his arm. “Sir?” “Yes, Lieutenant?” “You’re not going to like this, Sir. I’m glad I don’t have to inform the CO.” The colonel didn’t like it already. “Just tell me, Lieutenant.” “It’s going to hit us, Sir.” “No way.” “I did the math four times, Sir. Twice with the server, once on my phone and then on paper. Same answer four times.” The colonel said, “What? How?” The Lieutenant typed and the asteroid vanished from the main screen. At the last moment, the colonel realized what his subordinate planned to do and dropped his hand on hers. His voice low, he said, “No. Not yet. Show me here.” “Yes, Sir.” The colonel pulled a chair over and sat, pushing it next to her with his feet. “Ok.” The lieutenant applied her calculations to a circle representing earth and a second, smaller one for the asteroid. It animated. The colonel watched the asteroid close on Earth in a direct hit. The short animation looped, but he couldn’t look away. The lieutenant stopped it and her colonel asked, “When?” “Monday morning, Sir. 67 hours from now, give or take.” “Three days, give or take. Talk about a last weekend. Fuck.” The colonel had an abrupt change of heart. There was no way he’d want to be the general delivering this news to Washington. “Lieutenant?” the colonel paused, then spoke in a rush. “In no other circumstances would I risk a court-martial by asking this, but — “ He hesitated again. “Sir?” “We’re both off duty in an hour. Want to get a great hotel room and forget the future?” She studied his face, met his gaze. “Why not? No point in the gym or grocery shopping now.” Also published here.

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