Alluvium and the Algorithm
A disgraced nuclear regulator, living in self-imposed exile, is pulled back into the world he fled by a young activist with proof that a 'green' radioactive waste facility, defended by a flawless AI PR machine, is poisoning the land.
INT. CABIN - NIGHT
SOUND of a GALE howling, rain lashing against wood and glass
The room is a cluttered sanctuary against the storm. Warm light from a lantern illuminates walls covered in topographical maps, yellowed and curled. Books on geology are stacked high. A half-eaten meal sits on a rough-hewn wooden table.
PETER MACLEOD (60s), with a long, untrimmed grey beard and the haunted eyes of a man in hiding, looks up from a map.
A loud KNOCK, sharp and unnatural against the storm's roar. Peter flinches, mistaking it for a falling branch.
Another KNOCK. Insistent.
He moves to the heavy wooden door, unlatching a deadbolt. He opens it a crack.
A blast of wind and rain shoves its way in. OLIVIA (20s) stands on the porch, dark hair plastered to her face, a waterproof jacket gleaming. She looks fierce, exhausted, and determined.
OLIVIA
> (Shouting over the wind)
> Mr. MacLeod? Peter MacLeod?
Peter just stares. His face is a mask. He starts to close the door.
OLIVIA
> My name is Olivia. I need your help. It's about the Athabasca Repository.
PETER
> I'm not that person anymore. You have the wrong man.
His voice is rusty, unused. He pushes the door further shut, but her hand shoots out, stopping it.
OLIVIA
> The person who wrote the 2038 report on seismic instability in Palaeozoic bedrock? The one the Commission classified an hour after you filed it? That's the person I'm looking for.
Her eyes lock on his. The certainty in them makes him hesitate. It's all the time she needs. She pushes past him, into the cabin's cramped warmth.
She drips onto the floorboards, pulling a heavy canvas bag from her shoulder. From it, she takes out three Ziploc bags filled with dark, wet earth. She places them on his table, shoving aside his dinner plate.
OLIVIA
> Downstream from their outflow pipe. Three hundred metres. I had this analysed. Paid cash. Caesium-137. Not much. Just enough to be unmistakable.
Peter slowly approaches the table. He picks up one of the bags. The soil is heavy, alluvial. He rubs the plastic between his thumb and forefinger, his old instincts kicking in.
PETER
> They have a closed-loop system. It's impossible.
OLIVIA
> Is it?
She pulls a tablet from an inner pocket. Its screen flares to life, a stark rectangle of cold, blue-white light in the warm room.
She swipes. A video plays. A majestic BULL MOOSE drinks from a crystal-clear stream, its antlers thick with velvet.
OLIVIA
> This is from Geo-Veridian's public dashboard. Updated hourly. Generated by their stewardship AI, 'Gaia'. It produces a constant stream of reassuring content.
She swipes again. A MOTHER BEAR and cubs feast on unnaturally plump salmon. Then a time-lapse of wildflowers blooming across a meadow. It's all beautiful. Too beautiful.
OLIVIA
> Look.
She taps the moose video.
CLOSE ON THE TABLET SCREEN. The image is hyper-real.
OLIVIA
> (O.S.)
> Watch its left ear.
A tiny, almost imperceptible FLICKER of pixels. A digital seam.
OLIVIA
> A rendering artefact. And the salmon? Their spawning cycle is two months off. The AI doesn't know that. It just knows people like seeing bears eat fish. It’s all fake. Every last leaf.
Peter looks away from the screen, his gaze falling on the maps covering his walls. His maps. He traces a faint blue line with his eyes—a subterranean river system. The condescending faces of ministers in a long-ago hearing room flash behind his eyes.
The old fire stirs in his gut.
He turns, walks to a large, flat-file cabinet in the corner. He pulls open a heavy drawer with a low groan of metal.
It's filled with carefully labelled cylinders of rock. Core samples.
He selects one, about two feet long, and carries it back to the table. He lays it down with reverence, beside the bags of contaminated soil and the glowing tablet.
He runs his calloused fingers over its surface, a cross-section of the earth's guts.
PETER
> This is from a borehole three kilometres south of the site.
He points to a thin, dark seam cutting through the granite.
PETER
> Look here. Fissure. Filled with sedimentary clay. It's a channel. A pipe, straight into the watershed. You don't need a computer to see it. You just need to look.
Olivia stares at the rock, then at him. Hope wars with the exhaustion on her face.
OLIVIA
> Can you prove it? In a way they can't delete or dismiss as a deepfake?
Peter looks from the ancient rock in his hands to the glowing screen, where a synthetic eagle now soars over a pristine, computer-generated forest. A war of two realities.
He nods at the tablet.
PETER
> Get rid of that thing. And your phone. We do this my way. Paper. Rock. Water. They've forgotten how to fight on this terrain.
He picks up one of the Ziploc bags of contaminated soil, his grip firm, his purpose clear.
PETER
> And we start with more of this. A lot more.
He holds the bag up. In the lantern light, the dark, wet earth looks like a promise. Or a weapon.
SOUND of a GALE howling, rain lashing against wood and glass
The room is a cluttered sanctuary against the storm. Warm light from a lantern illuminates walls covered in topographical maps, yellowed and curled. Books on geology are stacked high. A half-eaten meal sits on a rough-hewn wooden table.
PETER MACLEOD (60s), with a long, untrimmed grey beard and the haunted eyes of a man in hiding, looks up from a map.
A loud KNOCK, sharp and unnatural against the storm's roar. Peter flinches, mistaking it for a falling branch.
Another KNOCK. Insistent.
He moves to the heavy wooden door, unlatching a deadbolt. He opens it a crack.
A blast of wind and rain shoves its way in. OLIVIA (20s) stands on the porch, dark hair plastered to her face, a waterproof jacket gleaming. She looks fierce, exhausted, and determined.
OLIVIA
> (Shouting over the wind)
> Mr. MacLeod? Peter MacLeod?
Peter just stares. His face is a mask. He starts to close the door.
OLIVIA
> My name is Olivia. I need your help. It's about the Athabasca Repository.
PETER
> I'm not that person anymore. You have the wrong man.
His voice is rusty, unused. He pushes the door further shut, but her hand shoots out, stopping it.
OLIVIA
> The person who wrote the 2038 report on seismic instability in Palaeozoic bedrock? The one the Commission classified an hour after you filed it? That's the person I'm looking for.
Her eyes lock on his. The certainty in them makes him hesitate. It's all the time she needs. She pushes past him, into the cabin's cramped warmth.
She drips onto the floorboards, pulling a heavy canvas bag from her shoulder. From it, she takes out three Ziploc bags filled with dark, wet earth. She places them on his table, shoving aside his dinner plate.
OLIVIA
> Downstream from their outflow pipe. Three hundred metres. I had this analysed. Paid cash. Caesium-137. Not much. Just enough to be unmistakable.
Peter slowly approaches the table. He picks up one of the bags. The soil is heavy, alluvial. He rubs the plastic between his thumb and forefinger, his old instincts kicking in.
PETER
> They have a closed-loop system. It's impossible.
OLIVIA
> Is it?
She pulls a tablet from an inner pocket. Its screen flares to life, a stark rectangle of cold, blue-white light in the warm room.
She swipes. A video plays. A majestic BULL MOOSE drinks from a crystal-clear stream, its antlers thick with velvet.
OLIVIA
> This is from Geo-Veridian's public dashboard. Updated hourly. Generated by their stewardship AI, 'Gaia'. It produces a constant stream of reassuring content.
She swipes again. A MOTHER BEAR and cubs feast on unnaturally plump salmon. Then a time-lapse of wildflowers blooming across a meadow. It's all beautiful. Too beautiful.
OLIVIA
> Look.
She taps the moose video.
CLOSE ON THE TABLET SCREEN. The image is hyper-real.
OLIVIA
> (O.S.)
> Watch its left ear.
A tiny, almost imperceptible FLICKER of pixels. A digital seam.
OLIVIA
> A rendering artefact. And the salmon? Their spawning cycle is two months off. The AI doesn't know that. It just knows people like seeing bears eat fish. It’s all fake. Every last leaf.
Peter looks away from the screen, his gaze falling on the maps covering his walls. His maps. He traces a faint blue line with his eyes—a subterranean river system. The condescending faces of ministers in a long-ago hearing room flash behind his eyes.
The old fire stirs in his gut.
He turns, walks to a large, flat-file cabinet in the corner. He pulls open a heavy drawer with a low groan of metal.
It's filled with carefully labelled cylinders of rock. Core samples.
He selects one, about two feet long, and carries it back to the table. He lays it down with reverence, beside the bags of contaminated soil and the glowing tablet.
He runs his calloused fingers over its surface, a cross-section of the earth's guts.
PETER
> This is from a borehole three kilometres south of the site.
He points to a thin, dark seam cutting through the granite.
PETER
> Look here. Fissure. Filled with sedimentary clay. It's a channel. A pipe, straight into the watershed. You don't need a computer to see it. You just need to look.
Olivia stares at the rock, then at him. Hope wars with the exhaustion on her face.
OLIVIA
> Can you prove it? In a way they can't delete or dismiss as a deepfake?
Peter looks from the ancient rock in his hands to the glowing screen, where a synthetic eagle now soars over a pristine, computer-generated forest. A war of two realities.
He nods at the tablet.
PETER
> Get rid of that thing. And your phone. We do this my way. Paper. Rock. Water. They've forgotten how to fight on this terrain.
He picks up one of the Ziploc bags of contaminated soil, his grip firm, his purpose clear.
PETER
> And we start with more of this. A lot more.
He holds the bag up. In the lantern light, the dark, wet earth looks like a promise. Or a weapon.