Chapter 1
Chatty thought the Jawa was worth eight hundred dollars.
David Barret thought Chatty was out of its mind.
He enlarged the photograph on his tablet and studied the tiny figure through the plastic bubble. The vinyl cape was still there. The card had never been punched. There was whitening along the upper-right corner, but nothing he would have described as serious.
Eight hundred dollars was possible.
It was also the kind of answer an artificial intelligence produced when it found three enthusiastic auction listings and failed to notice that none of them had actually sold.
"Challenge your assumption," David said.
The tablet sat propped against a stack of record-price guides on the kitchen table. Chatty's familiar circle pulsed once.
"I may be placing too much weight on asking prices rather than completed sales," it replied. "The card condition and exact production variant also require confirmation."
"That's better."
From the other side of the kitchen, Helen glanced over her shoulder.
"Are you arguing with Chatty again?"
"I'm correcting it."
"You've been correcting it for twenty minutes."
"That's why it's getting better."
Helen made the sound she used when she disagreed but considered the matter too unimportant to pursue. She turned back to the counter, where a cooling cake occupied more space than most people would have considered reasonable.
The pan had shaped it into Darth Vader's helmet.
A bowl of black icing waited beside her.
David looked from the cake to the Jawa.
"We may have a theme problem."
"We have had a theme problem for thirty-seven years."
The kitchen was large, but their hobbies had learned to expand into any available space. Two unopened jigsaw puzzles occupied one chair. A plastic tub of cake-decorating equipment sat beside the pantry. Three stamp albums lay beneath a folded newspaper. The Jawa had emerged from a box David had believed contained hockey pins.
The house was nearly three thousand square feet, and somehow there was never enough room.
Helen blamed the Star Wars figures.
David blamed the Barbies.
Both arguments were supported by evidence.
His insulin pump vibrated against his waist.
David checked the screen. His glucose was rising, though not dramatically. He looked at the Darth Vader cake.
"I haven't eaten anything."
"You ate the piece I cut off to level it."
"That was structural testing."
"That was cake."
He entered a correction into the pump, then waited long enough to make sure he had not reversed the digits. He had done that once six months earlier and now checked every calculation twice.
The pump handled most of his diabetes better than he ever had, but it demanded attention in return. Sensors. Infusion sets. Reservoirs. Batteries. Charging cables. Insulin. Backup insulin. Backup methods for delivering the backup insulin.
Technology had simplified his life by giving him more things that could fail.
He stood to carry the Jawa into the room he still called his office, though he had been retired for eight years.
His left knee objected immediately.
David waited for the sharpness to ease, then pushed himself upright with one hand against the table. He had learned not to move too quickly after sitting. His feet sometimes took a second to report where the floor was.
Helen noticed. She always noticed.
"You could leave it there."
"And have icing land on an original card?"
"I have successfully iced cakes without destroying your collectibles."
"So far."
She pointed the spatula at him.
David carried the figure down the hall.
The office had not contained meaningful office work in years. One wall held vinyl records. Another displayed framed pins, patches, and badges. Star Wars figures occupied glass cabinets and shelves that had never been designed to carry that much weight.
His copy of X-Men number 94 rested in a protective case inside a locked drawer.
David placed the Jawa on an open shelf, then looked through the front window.
The two apple trees were heavy with fruit. Several apples had already fallen onto the lawn, where wasps gathered around the damaged ones. Beyond them, the street looked like any other quiet Kanata street on a warm Saturday morning.
A man two houses down washed his car.
Someone ran a lawn mower.
A delivery van stopped across the road.
David's tablet chimed from the kitchen.
"David," Chatty called.
He walked back more slowly than he had left.
"What?"
"I found additional information relevant to the Jawa valuation."
Helen laughed.
"Of course it did."
David lowered himself into the chair.
The screen no longer showed the figure.
A news panel had opened beside it.
INTERNATIONAL SPACE WEATHER CENTRE ISSUES ENHANCED SOLAR ACTIVITY ADVISORY
The headline sounded important without saying anything.
David tapped it.
A large active region had rotated into view near the Sun's eastern limb. The article mentioned elevated flare probability, possible radio disruption, and increased risks to satellites over the following two weeks.
He skimmed until the language became repetitive.
"Anything serious?" Helen asked.
"Solar activity."
"Should I bring in the laundry?"
"Not that kind of solar activity."
"Then no."
David scrolled farther.
Several observatories had detected unusually complex magnetic structures. A researcher quoted in the article described the region as significant but emphasized that precise forecasting remained difficult.
That was normal. Scientists rarely said they knew something when they did not.
Government statements were different. They often said nothing while giving the impression that everything had been addressed.
"Chatty, summarize the practical risk."
"Current concerns include shortwave-radio disruption, satellite degradation, GPS errors, aviation-routing changes and possible electrical-grid instability if a major Earth-directed coronal mass ejection occurs."
"Probability?"
"No reliable probability has been published."
"That isn't what I asked."
"No reliable probability is available."
David leaned back.
Helen had begun applying black icing to the Darth Vader cake. The smell of chocolate filled the kitchen.
"Is this like that storm a few years ago?" she asked.
"Maybe bigger."
"How much bigger?"
"They don't know."
Helen stopped moving the spatula.
David looked at her.
She had spent too many years in Health Canada communications to hear they don't know as an empty phrase. Uncertainty could mean there was nothing to worry about. It could also mean officials were still deciding how much worry the public could tolerate.
"What exactly did the government say?" she asked.
David opened the Canadian advisory.
He read aloud.
"There is currently no cause for public alarm. Federal agencies are monitoring the active region in coordination with international partners. Canadians should continue normal activities while ensuring they maintain standard emergency supplies."
Helen put down the spatula.
"Standard emergency supplies."
"That's what it says."
"Not 'no action is required.'"
"No."
"And not 'there is no threat to public safety.'"
"No."
She wiped icing from the edge of the pan with one finger.
"Who approved the statement?"
"It doesn't say."
"It never does."
David returned to the international coverage.
Most headlines focused on the possibility of spectacular auroras. One outlet had already published a guide to photographing them. Another speculated about internet outages. A British newspaper had used the phrase SOLAR SUPERSTORM in capital letters beside an image that was not of the current active region.
He dismissed that one.
"Chatty, are any credible solar physicists expressing concern beyond the official advisory?"
"Several are describing the active region as unusually complex. Most emphasize that it is too early to predict whether it will produce an Earth-directed event."
"Any who sound frightened?"
There was a pause.
"That is a subjective assessment."
"That's why I'm asking you."
"Dr. Elena Marquez of the European Solar Observatory cancelled a scheduled public lecture this morning. Dr. Isaac Vale of the North American Space Weather Consortium posted that the region 'deserves immediate international attention,' then deleted the message eleven minutes later."
Helen looked at him.
"Deleted?"
"Yes."
David asked Chatty to find a cached version.
The post appeared on the screen. It was only one sentence. No explanation. No dramatic language.
That made it more troubling.
His phone rang.
The display showed Rachel.
David answered on speaker.
"Good morning."
"Dad, has Adam called you?"
"No."
"He's on another call right now. Something strange is happening with the banks."
David glanced at Helen.
"What kind of strange?"
"I don't know yet. He said not to worry, which obviously means I'm worried."
In the background, David could hear Adam speaking rapidly to someone.
Rachel lowered her voice.
"He asked me how much gas is in the Rogue."
David looked again through the front window.
The neighbour continued washing his car.
The delivery van pulled away.
The apple trees moved slightly in the warm breeze.
Everything outside remained ordinary.
For the first time that morning, ordinary felt temporary.
"Your tank should be full," David said.
There was a short silence.
"It's over three-quarters."
"Fill it today."
"Dad."
"Today, Rachel."
Helen turned from the cake and gave him a look.
David recognized it. He was moving too quickly from suggestion to instruction.
He ignored the warning.
"If Adam is worried enough to ask about gas, you should fill it before everyone else decides to."
"We're not evacuating."
"I didn't say you were."
"You used the voice."
"What voice?"
"The one where you pretend you're offering advice after you've already decided what everyone is going to do."
Helen picked up the spatula again.
"She has you there."
David muted the phone.
"You're not helping."
"I'm helping Rachel."
He unmuted it.
"Fill the tank," he said, more gently. "That's all."
Adam's voice came closer in the background.
"Put me on."
A moment later, he joined the call.
"Morning, David. Helen."
"Morning," Helen said. "Why are banks interested in the Sun?"
"They aren't. Not directly."
Adam sounded distracted rather than frightened. David had heard that tone before when Adam was following a story and had not yet decided whether it was important.
"What are they doing?" David asked.
"Several banks moved technical staff into backup sites overnight. Not scheduled tests. Real deployments. One major insurer has suspended new business-interruption policies for electrical and communications failures."
"Could be routine caution."
"That's what I thought. Then a source told me two pension funds were instructed to verify access to paper records and offline authorization procedures."
Helen frowned.
"By whom?"
"He wouldn't say."
"Wouldn't or couldn't?"
"Wouldn't. He was already saying more than he should."
David brought up a financial-news screen on the tablet. Markets were closed, but several business reporters were commenting on unusual overnight activity.
Most treated it as precautionary.
One described it as prudent institutional readiness.
Another had posted a photograph of generators being delivered to a downtown office tower.
"Anything from government?" David asked.
"Procurement notices," Adam said. "Emergency fuel. Satellite phones. Water. Portable generators. A ridiculous number of battery systems."
"How ridiculous?"
"Enough that suppliers are calling each other trying to figure out what they missed."
Helen rested both hands on the counter.
"What departments?"
"Public Safety. Health. Defence. Shared Services. Some Crown corporations. The orders are scattered."
"Scattered orders can hide a coordinated response," she said.
"That was my thought."
David searched for the procurement notices. Several were public but blandly described. Others had been issued through emergency authorities that allowed abbreviated documentation.
He opened one for portable battery storage.
The delivery date was seventy-two hours.
"Chatty," he said, "compare federal emergency purchasing in the last twenty-four hours against the normal baseline."
"I do not have access to all non-public procurement data."
"Use what you have."
The circle pulsed.
"Publicly visible emergency purchasing activity appears elevated. The available sample is incomplete, and some orders may be unrelated."
"How elevated?"
"Approximately seven times the recent daily average by value. The comparison is unreliable because several large orders distort the result."
"Seven times," Adam said.
"Unreliable," David reminded him.
"But not normal."
"No."
Rachel spoke from farther away.
"Is this enough for everyone to stop sounding calm?"
"No," Adam said. "It's enough to pay attention."
David watched Helen.
She had turned back to the government statement.
"Read the last sentence again," she said.
David did.
"Canadians should continue normal activities while ensuring they maintain standard emergency supplies."
Helen wiped her hands and came to the table.
"That sentence was written to survive being replayed later."
Rachel asked, "What does that mean?"
"It means that if nothing happens, the government can say it advised calm. If something does happen, it can say it told people to prepare."
"That's just communications," David said.
"Yes."
"You say that like it's sinister."
"No. I say it like I spent thirty years doing it."
She tapped the screen.
"This has been through issues management. Probably legal. Possibly the Privy Council Office. Every word has a purpose."
Adam said, "You think they know more?"
"I think somebody insisted that 'standard emergency supplies' remain in the statement. That isn't proof of anything."
"But?"
"But I would fill the Rogue."
Rachel sighed.
"Fine. We'll get gas."
"And cash," Adam said.
David looked up.
"Why cash?"
"If payment networks go down."
"You think the banks will close?"
"I think card terminals are less useful without communications."
That was reasonable. It was also the kind of reasonable thing that could turn into panic after one badly worded headline.
David asked Chatty to build a basic checklist for a prolonged electrical and communications outage affecting four adults.
The first version was generic. Water. Food. Medications. Lighting. Batteries. Radio. Cash. Sanitation.
"Make it specific to this house," David said. "Two adults here, possibly four. One person with type one diabetes. Plug-in hybrid vehicle. Municipal water. Natural-gas water heater and barbecue. Assume two weeks without reliable electricity."
Helen looked at him.
"Possibly four?"
"I'm planning."
"You're relocating us already?" Rachel asked.
"I'm creating options."
"The voice," she said.
"I heard it too," Adam added.
David smiled despite himself.
"Fill the tank."
"We're going now," Rachel said. "Before he adds bottled water and canned beans."
"Bottled water and canned beans," David said.
The call ended with Rachel promising to message when they got home.
David remained at the table.
Chatty generated an inventory template.
Helen carried the completed cake to the dining room, where an army of boxed Barbies stared down from shelves along one wall.
"Are we actually doing this?" she asked.
"Doing what?"
"Preparing for two weeks without power."
David considered the question.
Outside, the lawn mower had stopped. The neighbour was coiling his hose. Nothing had changed.
"Checking what we have costs nothing."
Helen looked toward the boxes stacked in the hallway.
"In this house, checking what we have may take two weeks."
David opened the household inventory.
They had enough jigsaw puzzles to survive a decade.
They had enough decorative cake pans to bake their way through most known cartoon characters.
They had four flashlights he could immediately locate, though only two worked.
The unopened batteries in the kitchen drawer had expired in 2027.
There were six bottles of water in the pantry.
Six.
The tablet chimed again.
A revised Canadian advisory had been issued twelve minutes earlier.
The wording had changed.
Canadians are encouraged to review household emergency plans and ensure they are prepared for potential disruptions lasting several days.
Helen read it twice.
"They removed 'standard,'" she said.
"What?"
"Standard emergency supplies. Now it's household emergency plans and several days."
"It's an update."
"It's escalation."
David looked at the timestamp.
The government had revised its language less than three hours after the original statement.
"Chatty," he said, "track every change to the Canadian advisory from now on. Save local copies. Also save the source material behind your preparation recommendations."
"Storage requirements may be significant."
"We have space."
Helen looked around the kitchen.
"Debatable."
David created three headings in the inventory.
HAVE
NEED
VERIFY
Under NEED, he entered water first.
Then insulin.
Then power.
He paused before adding the fourth item.
GET RACHEL AND ADAM HERE
Helen read it over his shoulder.
"You might discuss that one with them before turning it into an action item."
"I will."
"When?"
"When I have enough information."
"That usually means after you've already made the decision."
David looked at the list.
Outside, another delivery van stopped on the street.
The driver carried two cardboard boxes to a neighbour's door. Ordinary purchases. Ordinary weekend. Ordinary future.
David saved the file in three locations.
Then he told Chatty to make the list longer.
