The Rift by Walter Jon Williams
Author’s Note
The following is a story of chaos, destruction, death, and civil strife following a massive earthquake in the central U.S.
It is also a tale of a more innocent time.
In the 1990s, when The Rift was written, the world seemed a more stable and secure place. The Cold War had ended, bringing to an end the threat of a worldwide atomic holocaust that had furnished the background for so many works of fiction both hopeful and despairing. While I did not subscribe to Francis Fukuyama’s theory that history had just ended, it did seem as if the role of the American chief executive was to intervene cautiously and hopefully in minor ethnic conflicts abroad and “to be seen to be caring” about people and their problems.
And then, well, elements of my novel started to come true.
Not a giant earthquake at New Madrid, no. But the floods of 2002, 2008, and the disastrous floods of 2011 gave more than a hint of what might befall the country in such an event. The fall of the Twin Towers resulted in an abrupt lurch in foreign policy, as well as highlighting the dangers of religious fundamentalism. And, more than anything, Hurricane Katrina brought the world of The Rift vividly into focus.
As I watched Katrina unfold on the television, I was oppressed by an appalled sense of déjà vu, particularly as regards the apparent decision of the authorities to sacrifice thousands of people, most of them poor, disadvantaged, and black. In The Rift, the racial tragedy is the work of bad men with bad intentions. During Katrina, the sacrifice seemed the default tactic of all involved. Even the city administration, run by an elected black mayor, seemed incapable of doing anything other than enact the cultural imperative of the region.
And when I heard of the Danziger Bridge shootings, I couldn’t help but think of Omar Paxton and the officers of my fictional Spottswood Parish.
Another jolt of déjà vu came with the Tohoku Earthquake of 2011 and the subsequent meltdowns of the nuclear reactors at Fukushima. Again, watching the catastrophe unfold in realtime, on a high-definition television screen, I couldn’t help but think that in my story of Larry Hallock and the nuclear power station at Poinsett Landing, I’d written the script the world was now following. I sometimes wish that I’d been a little less prescient.
When I began planning to reissue The Rift, I considered whether I might want to rewrite the novel to give my characters knowledge of these events. But I realized that not only would this be a major undertaking, it might well be impossible— if my characters knew about Katrina and Fukushima, would their actions remain even remotely the same? Or would they behave differently, and with a different mindset?
It may be that all disaster novels are creations of their own time, reflecting the anxieties of their particular era. But even if that’s the case, that doesn’t eradicate their virtues: The Poison Belt is just as entertaining as it was in 1913, even if we no longer believe in the luminiferous aether stretching between the stars. The insights of Alas, Babylon and On the Beach are no less stirring than they were in the 1950s, and the wit and cynicism of A Canticle for Liebowitz is no less refreshing than it was in 1959.
I am therefore pleased to present to you The Rift, which barring the correction of a few errors of fact and more than a few insalubrious sentences, appears just as it did in 1998.
May you be preserved from all disasters.
Walter Jon Williams
New Mexico, 2013
Lights of ships moved in the fairway— a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.
“And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.”
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness