They drove to Angel Rock Ranch to check on the jet and its crew. Bonnie had found refuge at the ranch lodge; the pilots were camped out in the plane, awaiting a delivery of jet fuel. Next stop was the lodge itself, where Corvallis was able to get through to Laurynas on a landline. Laurynas was desperate for the photos, so they split up for a couple of hours; Maeve drove down to the sandbar to fetch Tom and the rafts while Bob drove Corvallis up to the top of a mesa from which he predicted—correctly—that it would be possible to get cell phone coverage from another town, many miles from Moab and unaffected by the DDoS attack. From there Corvallis was able to transmit the photos, though it was slow. By the time all of those pictures had seeped down the pipe and Bob had driven him back to the landing strip, Maeve was back with Tom and the rafts, waiting for him.
Maeve: Corvallis’s girlfriend. During this little excursion he had suddenly remembered this a few times and been delighted by the newness of it.
A couple of years ago he had broken a bone in his hand during weapons practice and been obliged to wear a cast for some time. During the first few days, he’d forget it was there, and then be surprised by some new limitation as he would discover that he couldn’t hit the Return key on his keyboard or operate the shift lever on his car. Suddenly having a girlfriend was the opposite thing, with all of the discoveries, so far, being good ones. Enhancements, not limitations. Prosthetics.
As they were driving back into Moab, Tom—who had been relegated to a back seat—said, “Fuck me,” while looking significantly out a window on the left side of the vehicle. Maeve said, “Holy shit.” Corvallis nearly had to put his head into her lap to see what they were looking at: a blue-nosed 747 banking into its final approach for landing, a few miles to the northwest.
“Air Force fucking One,” Tom said.
This time, they actually were stopped on the outskirts of town, but once Maeve had explained herself, and the Secret Service guys had checked IDs and given the van and the trailer a once-over, they were allowed through. She ditched the vehicle, and Tom, in the parking lot of Canyonland Adventures, and then walked with Corvallis to Main Street.
By the time the president had rolled into town and his press secretary and staff had finished arranging things and the media had set up their equipment, the day was in its last hour. Which might have been calculated, since the light was magical, and lit up the red rocks east of town perfectly while making everyone seem ten years younger and twice as good-looking. They found a place where the president could look into that light, with mountains and a big sign that said MOAB in the background of the shot. They set up the presidential lectern and handpicked people to stand to the left, and to the right, and behind it: uniformed National Guardsmen; Native Americans; salt-of-the-earth farmers; outdoorsy types with frizzy, sun-bleached hair; a minister; and an Asian-American tech executive with a disabled girlfriend. The president came online and announced to the world that Moab, the states of Utah and Colorado, the United States of America, and indeed the entire world had been the victims of a hoax that had been perpetrated almost entirely on the Internet. Nothing had happened here, save for a denial-of-service attack, originating overseas, that had shut down its Internet service and its cell phone towers. There had never been a bright flash of light; this was just a pattern of fake social media posts. The young actor at LAX was just that—a performer who had been hired to play a role, under the pretext that it was some kind of reality television show. Local police departments had been conned into setting up roadblocks by telephone calls that had originated overseas but been digitally tweaked to look as if they were local. A similar call had summoned the SWAT team in Las Vegas. They’d found nothing more than an empty suite that had been booked and paid for online. No one had ever checked in, but a package had arrived from overseas and been delivered to the suite by hotel staff. It turned out to be some old radium-dial watches in a scary-looking box: enough to make the cops’ Geiger counters click but not in any way dangerous. A similar gambit had been used in Manhattan. All of the confirmatory posts that had hit the Internet in the next hours—the burn victims, the fallout samples, the Los Alamos press conference—had been faked and injected onto the Internet via social media accounts and domains controlled through untraceable overseas shell companies.
Much of this was just placing an official stamp on information that legitimate news organizations had been piecing together all day but been unable to articulate loudly enough to be heard over the din. It brought out a kind of bloodlust in the assembled White House press corps, which was gathered right there in the middle of Main Street. During the wait, they’d had plenty of time to sample Moab’s impressive range of locally produced microbrewery offerings. Having spent the whole day sifting through incredibly depressing news reports, they were bouncing back to a kind of giddy frame of mind brought on by a combination of completely natural and understandable happiness that Moab was fine; beer; and schadenfreude directed at the social media companies that had been chipping away at their industry and their job security for the last couple of decades. Pointed questions were asked about how just unbelievably irresponsible those companies had been today and whether the scorpion-filled pits into which their executives should now be lowered should be a thousand meters deep or two thousand. After the third such question, the president was handed a note by his press secretary. He read it, then raised his head and glanced over to his right, scanning his way down the line of nearby Moabites until he found the one person there whose last name could possibly be Kawasaki. “Why don’t you direct your questions to someone who knows? Mr. Kawasaki, from Lyke, has been here all day, working hard to establish the ground truth.”
Maeve didn’t want to think of herself, or to be seen, as someone who had been in need of getting rescued by a Prince Charming in a jet, and so this added a lot of texture to her relationship with Corvallis in the early going. Fortunately for that relationship, but not so much for Maeve and her family in Australia, those issues were soon swamped by something else.
All of the people in the Miasma’s conspiracy/troll ecosystem had been sucked into the vortex of Moab and begun to devote excruciating levels of attention to the entire cast of characters: the actor from the red-eye, all of the other performers in all of the fake videos, the cops who had searched the penthouse suite in Vegas, the sheriff ’s deputies who had manned roadblocks, et cetera.
And, of course, Corvallis Kawasaki and Maeve Braden. For he had been identified by name, on national television, by the president of the United States, and had been a reasonably well-known person to begin with. And she had been standing next to him. So within twenty-four hours, the citizens of Crazytown had compiled a huge dossier of mostly wrong material on him, and begun to evince interest in her; and within a week, she had become a figure of greater significance, in the collective mind of Crazytown, than he.
Crazytown was repelled by facts and knowledge, as oil fled from water, but was fascinated by the absence of hard facts, since it provided vacant space in which to construct elaborate edifices of speculation. Toward power it felt some combination of fear and admiration, and Corvallis was powerful. Toward vulnerability it was drawn, in the same way that predators would converge on the isolated and straggling. Within a week, Maeve—who suffered from the fatal combination of being mysterious, vulnerable, and female—had been doxxed. Canyonland Adventures, as a business, had been destroyed by a flood of fake negative reviews and various other hacks. Maeve sought refuge at Angel Rock Ranch, but after a couple of days, Bob’s wife decided to believe some of the more wildly slanderous posts being made about Maeve on social media and decided it was time for her to leave. Tom, having nothing else to do now that the business was wiped out, bundled Maeve into a car, handed her a shotgun, and drove her to Salt Lake City, where he dropped her off (minus the shotgun) at the private jet terminal to await a jet that Corvallis had dispatched. Maeve only went into the waiting lounge long enough to use the toilet. Her legs were visible under the stall door. They were glimpsed in a mirror by a young woman who was standing in front of a sink freshening up. She was the best friend of