After the successful test flight, ATLAS BLOCK B smoothly settled into its usual spot in the underground hangar. The hum of the electric motors faded, and I, along with Hunter, left the machine under the care of the hangar's automated systems. We headed unhurriedly toward the residential complex. On the way, we ran into my colleague from Toronto, Dr. James Larson, temporarily working at our base on the small nuclear reactor project. His face lit up when he learned we were heading to Alaska.
"Ork, heard you're flying to Alaska?" he began, quickening his pace to walk alongside us. "Could you possibly drop by Toronto on the way? My daughter Emily and her friend visited me for a few weeks, but it's time for them to head home. My wife will meet them in Toronto."
I thought for a moment. The cargo Hunter insisted on bringing took up a significant part of the ATLAS cabin, but there was still enough room for two passengers. "Alice," managing the machine's systems, could adjust the route effortlessly, and the hydrogen fuel cells provided sufficient energy reserve for an additional stop.
"Of course, James," I replied, trying to sound confident. "Let me know when they'll be ready. We depart today at 16:15."
Larson nodded gratefully, promising to meet us at 16:00, and Hunter and I continued on to my apartment. Hunter walked in silence, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, and I sensed his thoughts were occupied with something bigger than a vacation.
Back in the apartment, Hunter and I decided to have lunch before departure. I turned on the smart kitchen system, which quickly prepared a standard bachelor's lunch—a vegetable salad and vitamin-enriched soy meat. We sat down at the table, but Hunter ate silently, picking at his food with a pensive look. His silence, usually a precursor to a serious conversation, created a gloomy atmosphere, and I decided to lighten the mood with a gentle jab, hoping to return us to our usual friendly banter.
"Still missing Afghanistan?" I asked with slight irony, taking a sip of coffee.
Hunter looked up, his fingers pausing over his plate.
"Not exactly," he replied slowly, and a sadness I hadn't expected sounded in his voice. "Just remembering the lost years. While I was defending the honor and dignity of our army with a rifle in my hands, you were here developing new types of weapons of mass destruction."
His accusatory words hit me unexpectedly, like a cold wind. He straightened up, set his fork aside, and continued, looking me in the eyes:
"Have you heard? Yesterday, I read online that you're developing technology that could now destroy civilization using genetic engineering and telepathic rays. As if nuclear weapons weren't enough for you already."
I waved it off, trying not to take his words seriously.
"That's tales and science fiction," I said, shrugging, but Hunter seemed serious.
"Don't be so sure!" he retorted, his voice sharper. "And, strangely enough, it's not terrorists or enemy armies to blame, but you, scientists."
His accusation was unjust, and I felt irritation boiling inside me.
"Why is that?"
"Because you've turned us into hostages of madness," Hunter cut me off. "Science is to blame for everything!"
His words struck a nerve. I pushed my plate aside and looked at him, trying to understand if he was serious or just venting accumulated fatigue.
"Hunter, I've thought a lot about this," I began, carefully choosing my words. "A scientist makes a discovery, but how it's applied—for peaceful purposes or for evil—is not in their power. We can only warn about dangerous consequences. Scientists don't just create technologies; they also point out the risks. Are we to blame if no one listens to our voice?"
Hunter didn't seem convinced by my brilliant speech. He waved his hand as if shooing away my arguments and fell silent. After a few minutes, he spoke again, his voice quieter but filled with bitterness:
"You know, Ork, even in the toughest moments, I believed in the power of reason and goodness. But over the last few years, I've become convinced our leaders have lost that reason."
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the blue sky, clear and cloudless, as if mocking his words. Then he returned to the table, turned on his laptop, and quickly checked his personal email, as if waiting for something important. I noticed his fingers froze on the keyboard, but he didn't type anything. Instead, he continued:
"I read recently that you plan to deploy nuclear weapons on the Moon. With our leaders' consent, you've sent lethal machines into space to, as they say, burn our planet more reliably."
I didn't know how to respond. Hunter was talking about rumors circulating online, but I knew the truth: the lion's share of the state budget went to armaments. We couldn't afford to let other countries get ahead of us—it was a race where the loser risked disappearing. How many times had we scientists proposed reducing lethal arsenals, signing disarmament treaties? Politicians nodded, promised peace, but when it came down to it, they even backed out of their own conditions, continuing to build up military might.
I got up from the table and went to the window to distract myself. Below stretched the green expanse of the city park, surrounded by steel-and-glass skyscrapers. Beyond it, in the distance, the majestic slopes of Beyond Peak were visible, their summits lost in the blue waves of clouds. Autumn here was surprisingly generous with colors: golden and crimson hues of trees blended with the transparent air, creating a breathtaking landscape. I pointed at the mountains, trying to change the subject.
"The government decided to create a nature reserve there," I said, hoping talk of nature would ease the tension. "They'll study the interaction of living beings with the environment."
Hunter snorted, and a caustic note sounded in his voice.
"And nowhere else will the harmful consequences of our interference in nature be as visible," he said, not taking his eyes off the window.
His words stung, but I remained silent. Irritation gave way to fatigue. I looked at the mountain slopes, at the clouds frozen just below the sky, and felt their beauty acting on me like a balm. Even in September, the city was full of life: figures of people sunbathing on the grass by small ponds were visible in the park, enjoying an illusion of tranquility. I shifted my gaze to the mountains, and it seemed to me their timeless beauty, billions of years old, was impervious to time. I didn't want to believe it could disappear from the face of the Earth.
The argument with Hunter left a bitter aftertaste, but the view from the window gradually calmed me. I returned to the armchair, which offered a view of Beyond Peak, and felt the tension easing. The upcoming flight to Alaska, despite all doubts, was beginning to seem like an opportunity to break free from the cycle of work, from the concrete walls of the base, from endless debates about the fate of the world. Hunter, still standing by the window, was silent, and I didn't know what he was thinking. His words about nuclear weapons, about the madness of science, about leaders losing their reason had touched a nerve, but I didn't want to continue the argument. Instead, I began to prepare myself for the vacation, imagining the silence of the Alaskan forests, where perhaps I could find answers to the questions that haunted me.