Dream Sky (2 page)

“The fact is, we
are
on this call,” Yeager said. “Whether we should be here or not is no longer an issue.”

“Doctor,” Celeste said, “we may not have been on this board very long, but, if I may remind you, that means we were not part of the directorate that allowed Perez to take full control.”

“You’re saying that like Erik and I had a choice,” Lassiter said.

“There is always a choice,” she said. “And you two made the wrong one. You went against the best interests of the membership and allowed Perez to become the dictator. If he hadn’t been eliminated, I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened to the Project.”

“I think you are being a little premature there,” Halversen said. “We do not even know what happened. It is very possible he is still in charge. We should
all
remember that.”

“Principal Director Perez is dead,” Celeste said.

“And how could you possibly know that?” Lassiter asked. “We have not heard back from the investigation team yet.”

“Actually, we have. I spoke to them thirty minutes ago.”

“We’ve received no report of this,” Lassiter said, waving his arm to indicate the other directorate members. “Any information should be shared immediately.”

“It was shared,” she said. “Mr. Yeager, Mr. Kim, and Mr. Mahajan have all received a full briefing.”

Lassiter’s face turned red. “This is out—”

“Principal Director Perez and all those stationed at NB219 are dead. Not only were the central elevators destroyed, and everything up to and including the ground-level warehouse completely burned, it appears that some kind of poisonous gas was released within the base itself.” She pushed a button on her keyboard, and the feed from her camera was replaced by a picture of Perez lying on the floor of his office, surrounded by a pool of blood. “As you can see, in addition to whatever effects the gas may have had on him, he was shot.”

Lassiter remained silent as he watched the footage. When it was over, he said, “I can’t say I’m not glad he’s dead, but this is something you should have shared with Erik and me immediately.”

“You clearly don’t understand what’s going on here, Dr. Lassiter.” She leaned back. “I’d like to vote on the first motion.”

“What motion?” Lassiter said.

“What are you talking about?” Halversen said.

“Item A: the removal of Dr. Henry Lassiter and Erik Halversen from the directorate. All in favor?”

A chorus of four yeas.

“What the hell is this? You can’t remove us!”

“I believe we just did.”

“For what cause?” Halversen asked.

“Dereliction of duty. Endangering the Project. Inaction resulting in the deaths of the personnel assigned to NB219. Shall I go on?”

“This is absurd,” Lassiter said. “You are all to confine yourself to your quarters. You are relieved of your duties and no longer a part of the directorate.”

“We’re not the ones who let the Project down,” Celeste said. “And I think you’ll find that the membership agrees with me.”

“The membership doesn’t care. They will follow what I say.” He reached forward to disconnect the call.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He snickered but pulled his hand back a few inches. “Oh, really? You think anything you say is going to change my opinion?”

“We don’t care about your opinion. We just want to watch what’s going to happen.”

Lassiter’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” As he finished asking the question, he turned toward a noise off camera. “I’m in the middle of something right now. Whatever you need can wait.”

Someone out of sight said something the microphone didn’t pick up.

“Get out!” Lassiter said. “All of you!”

“Dr. Lassiter,” Celeste said calmly. “There’s something I probably should have mentioned right at the beginning of our meeting. I took the liberty of broadcasting our discussion live to all Project facilities. I believe you’ll find that those there at NB772 will be more than happy to escort
you
to your quarters, where you will await trial.”

Several people moved into the picture behind Lassiter.

“Get out of here! Leave me alone! You don’t understand!”

Men on either side grabbed his arms. He tried unsuccessfully to shake them free as they lifted him out of the chair and carried him out of the frame. In the feed from NB405, Halversen had been joined by his own group of self-appointed deputies, but, in contrast to the doctor, he went quietly.

Celeste killed the two feeds, looked directly into her camera, and said, “Members of Project Eden, we have all been through some unexpected bumps since Implementation Day. To keep that from happening again, Mr. Yeager, Mr. Kim, Mr. Mahajan, and I have agreed to split the responsibility of principal director, so that no one person will have ultimate power. Project Eden has never been about that. We are about creating a sustainable, successful human society free of the old world’s problems. Thanks to your support, we are back on track.”

2

CENTRAL TEXAS

C
URTIS WICKS HAD
watched his friend die from the cover of the arroyo as the blaze lit up the night and consumed NB219.

Though he didn’t know it, there was nothing he could have done. Matt Hamilton had been fatally shot before he stumbled out of the emergency tunnel doorway. Wicks could tell his friend was hurt, though, and knew he should have left his hiding place to see if he could’ve helped in some way. But no, he had stayed in the arroyo even as Matt fell to the ground. Others— members of the Resistance—moved in quickly, but their efforts had been for naught.

Wicks could have gone over to them then, could have grieved at his friend’s side—should have done both—but instead he watched as Matt was carried to a vehicle and driven away.

The flames burned for hours, working their way through the thousands of tons of supplies that had been stored at the base. Finally, as the sun rose and dissolved the shadows, Wicks crawled out of the crease in the land and forced himself to walk over to what was left of the facility.

The warehouse was gone, piles of burnt wreckage surrounding a gaping hole in the center, where the elevator shaft had been. Scattered outside were the bodies of security personnel killed by the Resistance, and a few Project personnel who’d apparently been close enough to one of the exits to get outside, but not close enough to avoid breathing in smoke or the poison gas. Though Wicks didn’t want to, he checked each for a pulse and found none.

He, Curtis Wicks—Project Eden member and Resistance informant known as C8—was the sole survivor of the destruction of NB219.

There was no question of reporting to another Project facility. Given his still-healthy status, he would forever—and rightly—be suspected of participating in the assassination of Principal Director Perez and the murders of hundreds of Project members.

As he surveyed the destruction, he wondered if the remaining Project Eden leadership already knew something had happened. Chances were, after failing to establish communications with the base, teams were already on the way.

He couldn’t help looking at the skies.

They were empty, but for how long?

He needed to get out of there. Now.

He went half a mile before he found a car with keys still in the ignition. He pulled out the body in the driver’s seat, rolled down the windows to counteract as much of the smell as he could, and then went in search of an auto dealership where he could find a vehicle free of any rotting corpses.

He spotted a Ford lot, and liked the looks of the F-150 trucks out front. After dumping the temporary car at the curb, he headed for the sales office to find the keys to the vehicles. But before he reached the door, a speck in the eastern sky caught his attention.

A plane.

Project Eden was coming to town.

He could hardly breathe as he realized he’d waited too long to leave. Taking a truck was out of the question now. They would spot it in no time. Hell, they’d spot anything.

Plan B, then—collect some supplies and find an out-of-the-way place he could hide in until the plane was gone. There was a market several blocks back. He could probably find everything he needed there.

He ran, afraid to drive even that short distance. Two blocks from the store, he slowed when he glanced down a side street and spotted something that was potentially even better than hiding.

A motorcycle, parked in a driveway.

He should have thought of that first. A motorbike had a much smaller profile than an F-150.

He switched course.

The bike was old, its chrome and paint dulled from years on the road, but otherwise it looked in pretty good shape. The tank was near full, but the keys were missing. He glanced at the house, steeled himself, and ran up to the door.

It was locked. He looked around and spotted a weathered garden gnome tucked between two leafless bushes. He used it to smash through the living-room window.

Wicks jumped through the opening and began his search. In addition to the keys that he located in a cabinet near the door, he found a helmet, a pair of riding gloves, a scarf, and a winter jacket that was about his size and would help keep him from freezing to death.

It had been years since he was last on a motorcycle, so it took him six attempts to get the engine started. When he finally did, he checked the sky again.

The plane was low now, maybe five miles out of town. The only consolation was that it was a small jet that probably held no more than ten people.

He considered heading right out, but knew the smart play was to wait a bit.

As the aircraft drew closer, it adjusted its course to the north, putting it on a direct path for NB219. Though Wicks couldn’t see the base from where he was, the column of smoke rising above it was clearly visible.

When the plane neared the plume, it began circling the base.

Again, the urge to run hit him, but he remained where he was.

After a third go-around, the plane lowered its landing gear and flew toward the nearby airport.

Wait
, Wicks told himself.

The plane was only a few hundred feet above the ground now.

Wait.

Five stories up.

Wait.

Tree level.

Wait.

Down.

Go!

He twisted the accelerator and almost fell off the bike as he shot out of the driveway, but he didn’t slow down. With the plane barely on the ground, it was his best—perhaps only—opportunity to get out of there. Not only would they be unable to see him, but the plane’s engine would drown out the initial burst from the motorcycle.

He took the southbound ramp onto the I-25 and sped out of town.

When he hit the I-10, he continued south, every few minutes sneaking a peek over his shoulder at the sky and the highway, sure he would see people coming after him. It wasn’t until he was somewhere in the vast nothingness of west Texas that he started to think maybe he was going to be okay.

He spent that first night in Abilene, and began considering his next move. If he avoided Project Eden locations, most of which he knew about, nearly the whole world was open to him. Finding a place where he could live out his life undetected shouldn’t be that hard.

A voice woke him at four a.m.

What choice do we have? We’re the only ones who can do anything about it
.

Matt’s voice. The words from so many years earlier, before Matt had faked his death and left to form the Resistance. And though the Resistance may have failed at its main objective, it hadn’t failed completely.

The original directorate was dead. And now the new principal director, Perez, was also dead. Project Eden may have unleashed its unholy hell, but the organization had been rocked, too. And if there was any chance of keeping the Project from controlling the resurrection of mankind, it had to be rocked again, in as big a way as possible.

The urge to pull the blanket over his head and hide from everything was so strong that Wicks’s hands trembled. The weak part of his mind said, “You’ve already done your part. Find a beautiful beach or a cabin by a lake. Anywhere. You have your pick. For you, the fight is over.”

But the blanket remained under his chin. The fight was
not
over.

“Do I really need to do this?” he whispered.

Matt’s words again.
Yes. You do.

January 5
^th

World Population

862,727,366

3

WARD MOUNTAIN NORTH, NEVADA

8:15 AM PACIFIC STANDARD TIME (PST)

A
COLD WIND
blew down the barren mountain, passing through skin like water through cloth and chilling the bones beneath. Teeth chattered, hands were stuffed in pockets, necks were buried under scarves, but no one said a word in complaint.

The grave was dug on high ground, well away from the flash-flood channels and dry riverbeds that latticed the area. The coffin was a pine box hauled in from a mortuary in Ely. A fancier one, with metal handles and ornate scroll work, could’ve been chosen, but Rachel Hamilton had said Matt would have wanted things simple.

All but the most essential personnel had made their way out of the warren of rooms and tunnels that made up the Resistance’s base, and trekked the quarter mile to the gravesite. Despite the frigid air, there was no snow, only the dirt and the shrubs and the wide-open sky playing home to a tiny, distant sun.

Ash glanced at Rachel. Her eyes were locked on the pine box that held her brother. Ash let her mourn in silence for several more seconds, and then moved to the head of the grave.

“As you can imagine, I’ve thought long and hard about what I was going to say here today, but I realized no matter what words I chose, they would be inadequate. To say Matt has been an essential element of our cause would not do him justice. Matt was the embodiment of why we are all here. Without him, it’s doubtful any of us would be alive today. He was our leader. Our friend.” He looked at Rachel. “Our brother.” He paused. “It would be easy to say we are now lost without his guidance, that our only choice is to give up. But if we are going to truly honor Matt’s memory, then we can never give up. We
must
fight on.” A silent beat. “I will miss him every minute of every day.”