The Important One

Imagine a world in which meteorologists are outlaws

“I know you,” the woman wearing oversized, dark sunglasses and blue hoodie said as she stood at the apartment door. “You’re—”

“No names!”

Kia Lang slapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I’m nervous and scared. I’m not good at this at all.”

Wow, Desmond Conant in the flesh. 

The tall, muscular man wore a red bathrobe and golden slippers. He yanked her into his apartment and double-locked the door. 

Not that locks matter. If they want in, the police will break down your door.

“Were you followed? Did you do what we said?”

“I wasn’t followed. It took three hours to travel thirty blocks. I went through six subway stations, rode four buses, slipped in and out of a half dozen department stores, entered and exited two restaurants through the kitchen door, and changed my coat and hairstyle twice.” She pulled the long pin out of her hair, shook it, and let her auburn hair fall to her shoulders. 

“Good.”

“No names, but I’m honored and amazed to meet you.” Kia had never met a movie star, especially not a two-time Academy Award winner. Though he lived less than two miles from her one-room-does-it-all miniature apartment that was carved out of a closet, his place was a palace: a marble front hall, floor-to-ceiling window with a view of Central Park from the west, a choreographed mix of antique and contemporary furniture, and a living room from which a half dozen other hallways extended. 

He guided her to the couch. “May I offer you a coffee? Something stronger?” 

“My heart’s racing. I’m afraid coffee would make it burst, but I’m worried that alcohol will dull my brain.”

“We’re not going anywhere for several hours. A drink won’t hurt.”

“I’d love a Manhattan, but I don’t want to put you through any trouble, so a beer would—”

“One Manhattan coming up,” said a second man.

Kia turned to the other male voice coming from the kitchen. “Hi,” she said, sighing a note of relief. “That would be wonderful.”

She turned back to her host. “I didn’t know you’re—”

“Gay wasn’t what got me blacklisted. If people in the movie and television biz were blacklisted because of their personal lives, there would be no more movies and television. And the president needs Hollywood. He needs entertainment to keep Americans distracted and placid. The more movies, the better.”

“Why were you blacklisted?” Kia had more important matters to discuss, but she'd never get another chance if she didn’t ask now.

“My loud mouth was my demise. The morning after I told a Variety reporter, ‘The president is a bigoted horse’s ass,’ Galaxy Studios canceled my contract for ‘The Gem of Rio,’ and I couldn’t get any more jobs.”

“Variety’s alive?” Kia didn’t know which specialized media outlets still published, though the large ones like The New York Times, Washington Post, and CNN had been successfully sued for libel and defamation so many times that they had about as much money to operate as a high school newspaper.

“It is. They’re careful about what they print. Variety didn’t publish my words, yet somehow the president learned what I said. No matter; you’re important. I’m not. Actors are easily replaced. For every star, there are a hundred wannabes vying for our job, some quite talented.”

“It’s going to storm later,” Kia blurted. “Starting at about six p.m., and lasting for five to six hours. An occluded front will pass over New York City, extending from Trenton to Woodstock. We should see lightning, thunder, and hail during that time.”

“Perfect. That’s when we’ll move. A storm will make tracking you difficult.”

“Are you taking me to Canada?”

“No, I am,” the other man said as he handed Kia her drink. “Des—my partner’s face is too well known for him to be your mule. As for me, my picture’s been scrubbed from the media and internet. I’m a non-entity, which we can use to our advantage. I’m invisible.” He took Desmond's hand and squeezed it. “I don’t need to be famous because we have each other.”

As Kia drank her Manhattan, the actor’s partner continued, “But you’re not going to Canada.”

“I’m not? Isn’t Canada a haven for activists, journalists, scientists, and meteorologists?”

“It is, but we need you in the US. The government has cut the internet between Canada and us, so you’d be useless up north. America needs meteorologists. Despite what el presidente thinks, we require accurate weather forecasting for aviation, farming, maritime, pre-storm evacuation—everything. Two cargo ships have gone down in Lake Michigan and seventeen general aviation aircraft have crashed in the past year because of inaccurate and incomplete weather forecasting. The problem is anyone still reporting the weather is terrified to forecast bad news.”

And for good reason, Kia knew. The president believed that lousy weather reflected on his presidency. A year ago, a meteorologist predicted a storm during a rally the president held in Tulsa. The president ordered the WAKC-TV meteorologist arrested. Over the next three months, Department of Internal Peace officers arrested six more broadcast meteorologists. Soon after, the DIP rounded up every meteorologist who spoke the truth about the weather, regardless of whether they worked for a television station, newspaper, business, or the government.  

Kia was a NASA meteorologist whose forecasts determined the space shuttle’s liftoff and reentry times. But that didn’t matter. The DIP wanted her arrested because she said that the shuttle’s return to Earth should be delayed two days due to a tropical storm.

“Where am I going?”

“It’s better we don’t tell you yet. All I can say is that you’ll like the facility. It’s high-tech. It’s got all the equipment a meteorologist needs: computers, tie-ins to the European satellite weather imaging network, sensors, and even data from rogue weather balloons the resistance sends aloft. You’ll work there.”

“Is it safe?”

“Is any place safe?”

The apartment door shook. A deep voice boomed, “DIP! Open the door! We have a warrant for Kia Lang.” More pounding and the click of police pulling back the bolts of their rifles.

“Now!” the actor said. “Come with me.” Desmond led her into the bedroom, where he and his partner pushed the bookcase away from the wall, revealing an opening into the next apartment. A mid-twenties woman peeked through. 

“I never thought we’d actually use this escape hatch,” she said. “Hurry.” 

The woman helped Kia through the hole, which the men quickly re-hid.

An explosion. 

A loud, demanding voice next door. “Where is she? We know Lang was here.”

“Why do you think that? There’s nobody here but us two.”

“You’ll tell me where she is now or suffer the consequences.” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

The last thing Kia heard from the actor’s apartment was the metallic click of handcuffs.

The woman ushered Kia into her bedroom and said, “Same plan, different person. I’ll escort you to your new location.” She passed Kia a set of clothes, makeup kit, scissors, and a box of gray hair dye. “I hope you don’t mind looking twenty years older. 

An hour later, an unrecognizable Kia emerged from the bathroom. 

“It’s going to rain. We should take umbrellas,” Kia suggested.

The pair deployed counter-surveillance techniques similar to what Kia had used on her way to Desmond’s apartment: multiple subway rides, numerous buses, zigzags through Central Park, an extended sit at an outdoor cafe to see if anyone was watching, and random walks north, south, east, and west. 

Only their shadows followed them.

Kia’s heart slowed as they moved through Manhattan. It hadn’t returned to a normal pace or rhythm—and she was sure if she took her blood pressure it would be extra-high—but with every passing minute she was a little bit calmer. Soon, she’d be safe and serving a noble cause. 

Satisfied they were free from watchers, Kia’s escort said, “I hope you don’t mind long bus rides.” They walked the remaining four blocks to the Port Authority bus station on Eighth Avenue and 41st Street. 

“Do I get to know where we’re going now?”

“Boulder. That’s where I’ll leave you. I don’t know the location of your facility, but somebody who does will meet us at the Boulder bus terminal in forty-two hours. The hard part’s over. If you want, close your eyes and sleep on the bus for the next two days.”

Kia chuckled. “I’m sure I’ll be looking at the weather out the window. A cross-country bus trip is a perfect time for a meteorologist to gather visual data.” 

Ten burley men dressed in identical black suits emerged from the station, pistols drawn. Another ten appeared behind them, also with Glocks in hand, thwarting any retreat. 

The lead Department of Internal Peace agent holstered his weapon and flashed his badge. “By order of the president of the United States and sanctioned by a duly-issued warrant signed by a federal judge, you are under arrest.”

Kia’s escort tried to step forward, but two agents twisted her arms back, holding her in place. “What’s the charge?” 

“Seditious weather forecasting.”

“How did you find us?” the woman asked. 

“The umbrella. Only a meteorologist carries an umbrella on a sunny day.”

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