Too Many Disaster Movies

22 hours to Thunderbolt – 12 noon Mountain

David hated press conferences, especially this one. Public liaison. He’d taken it for the pay bump, not the spotlight. If it were up to him, he’d be back in the lab. During his last live TV interview, he’d come off as authoritative, pleasant, and the man in the know. But that was yesterday before the mess hit the fan.

Today, he looked like a clown as he downplayed the unusual celestial events. He might get tossed out of the science he loved, because the reporters saw what was happening and they weren’t as stupid as they looked.

He exhaled at the last question. “No, we’re not going to be hit by an asteroid. It won’t even come close.” David resisted the urge to face-palm. He glared at the reporter. “You can get that idea out of your head right now.”

He recognized the man. Of course, Stan Johnson, the bulldog science reporter from the Denver Post. Stan asked the same question at every CU Boulder astronomy briefing.

“What are you, a prophet or something? How do you know that?” Stan was in rare form. One of the other reporters groaned. Phones rose from the masses. Notebooks closed. Everyone knew what was coming.

David scowled, letting the sarcasm drip. “Mr. Johnson, you’re not going to make me explain this again, are you?”

It was their routine dance. Stan wanted an angle for his next sensationalist piece, the kind that blurred the line between science and science fiction. The man moonlighted as a disaster novelist, and it showed.

“What?” Stan feigned innocence. “It’s a legitimate question. Our readers have a right to know their tax dollars are being put to good use.” He smirked at the occupants of the room. “Besides, we need to know if we should build a bomb shelter or something.”

A few chuckled. David didn’t.

Stan had perked up yesterday when David casually mentioned the sighting of a near-Earth object in close proximity to the sun—an oddity not flagged by the usual observatories. Had he guessed why David mentioned it?

David gripped the podium. He sighed loud enough for the room to hear. “Near-Earth Objects—NEOs—are comets and asteroids nudged by gravity into orbits that bring them near Earth.” He glared at Stan.

“Comets form near the outer planets and are made of ice and dust. Asteroids are rocky and come from the belt between Mars and Jupiter—”

“Well, which one is it?” Stan cut in.

David hesitated. “Too early to tell.”

“You said that yesterday. After what’s happened across the world today, what’s changed?” Stan leaned forward, his voice rising. “NASA doesn’t announce anything unless they know exactly what it is and where it’s going. How close will this one get, and when?”

David straightened. “Due to its location in the daytime sky, observations of 2025 MZ12 are limited. Its trajectory hasn’t been fully modeled yet.” He raised both hands. “But that day is coming soon.” Gosh he hated to lie, but it was for the good of mankind, or so he’d been told at the point of a gun.

Stan waited, pen in hand. “When?”

“When what?”

“When will you be able to see it properly and tell us where it’s going and what other cataclysmic events we can expect?”

Eyes turned to David. Silence filled the room. “You’ll have to take that up with the NEO office.”

“Oh, come on, professor. I’m not flying to Pasadena. You’re hiding something. Who discovered it?”

David licked his lips and tugged at his collar. “I did,” he said softly.

“What?” Stan took a step forward. “Did you say you discovered it?”

“Yes. I told you that yesterday during the formal briefing.”

“If I didn’t say it, congratulations, Professor.” But the look in Stan’s eyes wasn’t congratulatory. “Were you even looking for it? How did you know where to look?”

“You can check the CBAT website,” David deflected. “The details are there.”

“No—” Stan’s tone shifted to mocking. “NEOs don’t usually show up there. JPL tracks those. You know that.”

David looked down and fidgeted with his laser pointer.

“It’s not an NEO, is it?” Stan jabbed a finger. “Why were you looking for it? Does this have anything to do with that solar blackout, that eclipse we experienced a little while ago?”

For a man who wrote pop science, Stan was too well-informed.

David needed to end this. Now. “I have a NASA conference call in a few minutes.” He gathered his notes and laptop. “Mr. Johnson, you can follow up with my secretary for the rest. Thank you.”

He turned, walked briskly offstage, and out the side door—leaving his projector still running, now showing only snow which might be indicative of their world’s future—blank.

Stan followed, but David ducked into the elevator.

“You bet I’ll talk to your secretary,” Stan shouted as the doors closed.

David had his Washington contact on the line before stepping out on his floor.

“What now?” Keys barked. “I told you not to call unless it was urgent.”

“It is. The press conference went sideways. Johnson sniffed out too much. No one bought the standard rhetoric. This isn’t going to stay quiet.”

“You’re supposed to handle this. What do you want from me?”

“I’m telling you the clock just moved up. You said I could put my name on that object—well now it’s front-page news.”

Keys exhaled, annoyed. “So what?”

“So now I want more. A hundred grand doesn’t cut it anymore.”

“Oh really? What did you have in mind, Brainiac?”

David hated Keys’ nicknames. “Once this blows over, I want a seat on the National Science Board—and oversight of all Western U.S. observatories. Including Hawaii.”

“Hawaii? You’re dreaming. ATST is Rinehart’s baby.”

David raised his voice. “Then find a way. Because I’ve got another interview in a few minutes because of the darkening. Dean called it. And it’s with a reporter who’s very curious, and very sympathetic.”

A pause. Long enough to matter.

“You make that interview go smoothly,” Keys said slowly, “and I’ll see what I can do. But you’d better be the most convincing nice, guy genius ever to spin science on live TV.”

David snorted. “Just keep your promise.” He ended the call. He was in his office. He’d walked there without noticing.

The door was open.

Jillian sat at her desk, pale and wide-eyed.

How much had she heard?

“Mr. Mitchell. David…?”