The Mayflower Project

by K. A. Applegate

  D-Caf and his brother, Mark, had to provide their own transportation, a regular commercial flight out of Baltimore-Washington International airport that landed in Miami. Then they caught a bus northward.

  They used false identification that Mark had created. They used a credit card number plucked off the Web. It would be hours before the FBI realized that one of the many Aware Individuals had disappeared.

  Special Agent Paul Boxer had followed Jobss family to their destination, then been detached to Miami along with half the field agents in the United States. The Miami office would oversee coverage for the Kennedy Space Center. Boxer drew the assignment to locate and question Mark Melman and his brother, D-Caf. Mark Melman was known to be cognizant of the Mayflower Project.

  Boxer requested that the Baltimore office search the Melman home. They found evidence of the flight to Miami. And worse.

  Boxer took the call while eating his third hot, fresh, practically melting Krispy Kreme doughnut.

  Theyre in the Miami area, thats definite, the Baltimore agent reported. Theyre all yours, Paul.

  Great. What do we know about this guy? Anything thats not in the file?

  We canvassed the neighbors. They all say the same: Mark is a nice guy, but a loner. His little brother, who calls himself D-Caf, is kind of a twitchy kid. One other big thing, though: Their father had a weapon.

  A weapon?

  A Ruger six-shot .44 magnum. And its missing. You have to assume those two kids are armed and dangerous.

  The news did not particularly surprise or bother Agent Boxer. The lunatic fringe had never bought the official denials of the Mayflower Project. The nuts were gathering around Cape Canaveral. Where there were nuts, there were guns; the two went hand-in-hand.

  And really, with all the so-called militias, all the doomsday cults, the extremists, and the outright terrorists, some maladjusted computer geek and his twitchy brother didnt seem like a top-level threat.

  Boxer had another doughnut. Hed fought a weight problem all his life. Well, if there was one upside to the end of the world it was that now, at least, he could eat all the Krispy Kremes he wanted.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TICKTOCK, HERE COMES THE ROCK.

  The chosen few, the eighty men, women, and children who would form the cargo of the Mayflower, were taken to a remote corner of the base, to a shabby, run-down, long-abandoned barracks. It was one of three barracks buildings which, together with a low administrative bungalow, an olive-drab mess tent, and a perilously leaning motor-pool barn formed a sort of compound.

  The only thing new in the compound was the chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

  One of the Eighty had arrived a few hours early. His birth name was Robert Castleman. He called himself Yago.

  The President of the United States, Janice Castleman, had refused a berth for herself and her husband. But she had demanded, and been given, a berth for their fifteen-year-old son.

  And as Yago stood contemplating the noisy squalor of the barracks, the disorder of arriving families, he knew beyond any reasonable doubt that his parents had secured his berth not so much to save his life as to have him out of theirs.

  That would hurt, Yago thought, if I cared.

  Yago had never been a good politicians child. Articles had been written about him, contrasting him unfavorably with the sainted Chelsea Clinton, dean of Perfect Presidential Children (who had, of course, gone on to be such a spectacularly, tediously perfect adult), but also mentioning Amy Carter and John-John Kennedy and various others going all the way back to Lincolns kids. No one could come up with another presidential kid quite like Yago.

  Polls showed that Yago had actually earned his mother a fair number of sympathy votes following the fateful interview in which, at age thirteen, hed told the NBC news anchor his goal in life was to become feared.

  Then there had been the time he yelled, Gun! at the top of his lungs during a post-summit meeting press conference. The Secret Service had tackled his mother, and the security detail around the president of Azerbaijan had very nearly shot a sound man holding a long microphone that looked just a bit like a rifle.

  Yago surveyed a glum assemblage, for the most part, these chosen survivors. They had all packed in a hurry, hustled along by FBI agents. There were too few toothbrushes and not enough toilet paper and everyone was hungry and all the littler kids wanted upper bunks, and all the parents wanted lower bunks, and where was the trash, and good lord why wasnt it air-conditioned, and why couldnt they at least have killed the roaches, and how were they supposed to have any privacy at all?

  Killing time till its killing time, Yago muttered and laughed a bit at his bon mot. Normally hed have recorded it on his link. But it was an unhooked, unlinked world now. It made him feel deaf and blind. A creepy feeling.

  There were no really young kids. There was no set cutoff age. But, prepubescent kids were thought to be at greater risk from hibernation. There were no old people, either. The upper age limit was just over forty. It wasnt just that NASA wanted everyone to be fit and healthy, they were also looking ahead: to populating some entirely speculative planet.

  But in a room filled with scientists and the kids of scientists you couldnt ignore facts: The Mayflower didnt represent a real chance, it represented death delayed. Or death unnoticed, unremarked: Death deprived of all the drama and majesty of the shattering, fiery annihilation that was being prepared by that cold-blooded killer Mother Nature.

  For his part Yago had no doubts. He had a destiny. His destiny was not to die on a shattered Earth, one of seven-billion bugs cowering under the big cosmic shoe. Nor was it to float through the cold emptiness of space for the remaining life of the universe, pockmarked by micrometeorites and disintegrated into soup by radiation.

  Yago was going to be something. And there was no point moping over the long odds, or boo-hooing over poor, lost Earth. The point was to figure out how to come out on top. And the time to start preparing was now.

  He fixed his gaze on the most promising arrival, the Asian girl, the one with the messed-up face. She would be an easy mark. Like taking candy from a baby.

  He tried to recall her name from the personnel files hed wheedled out of a secretary at the White House. What was it . . . Scent? No, that couldnt be it. Substance . . . Effect . . . Essence! That was it: Essence Hwang.

  Well, it was her lucky day.

  Yago knew he was good-looking. After all, he got fan mail from half the girls in the United States, and a lot of girls from other countries, too. They even sent pictures, and some of them werent half bad.

  He was tall and powerfully built. He had his dads Caucasian, male-model features and his mothers African-American skin coloration, but the rest of his look was straight out of a petri dish his parents were rich and indulgent.

  Yago had had his original kinky hair replaced with straight-growing light brown hair, which hed dyed different colors over time it was currently the green of a late-summer elm leaf. His original brown eyes had been genetically altered to a distinctly golden color with just enough cat DNA to be slightly reflective in the dark. His teeth were unnaturally white and perfectly straight. His skin would never know a pimple. Hed even had his navel relocated and reshaped.

  The smirk was all his own.

  He was handsome, he was smart, he was smooth: He was way, way out of the freak-girls league, obviously. But if he beamed the sunlight of his attention on her shed be his devoted servant not only now, but later, when they all thawed out. And that was the key: He would need a hard core of sycophants ready to back him up from the very first.

  Hed seen the early documents on the Mayflower Project. Hed seen right away what everyone else in their desperate haste had missed: There was no one in charge. No hierarchy. No one in command.

  How could they be dumb enough not to see that wherever the Mayflower ended up, someone would be giving orders? What did the NASA people think? That theyd form up into Democrats and Republicans and hold an election?

&nb
sp; In any crisis the strong rose to the top and the weak fulfilled their own paltry destiny as willing servants, unwilling slaves, or victims.

  It was a game. A hard, cruel game of survival, and he at least understood that. Let the others mope for poor old Earth. He was starting the game early: right now.

  Kind of a zoo, huh? Yago said.

  Essence Hwang looked at him thoughtfully. Like he looked familiar, but she couldnt quite place him. I guess it is, she said. Adding, Literally.

  Im Yago, he said and flashed his number-two modest smile not the full, number-three aw-shucks modesty he saved for meeting with sports stars, but more than the deliberately transparent number-one modesty. He made a sort of deprecating gesture toward the two Secret Service agents, Horvath and Jackson, who watched him from a discreet distance. Dont mind those guys. They come with the job. He raised his voice. As a matter of fact, why dont you guys take five, huh? I dont think Im in any danger.

  The girl glanced at the departing agents, obviously clicked into recognition, and said, Oh. Im 2Face. She watched him closely, waiting to gauge his reaction.

  He gave her nothing. Hed long ago learned to conceal all but the strongest emotions. So, what do you think of all this? Kind of amazing, isnt it?

  2Face considered. It seems very sad to me.

  The girl looked like she might start crying. Or maybe that was just the creepy way her messed-up eye always looked. He wished shed turn her head a little, not aim all that scar tissue at him.

  Yago nodded. Its very sad. The whole Earth getting wiped out and all. Ticktock, here comes the Rock. All those people dying and whatnot. Kind of depressing. So, you here with your folks?

  Yes. My mom and dad.

  Me, Im alone, Yago said. You know, my moms the president, so she has this idea she has to go down with the ship. Like thats going to help all the losers whore getting sledgehammered into the center of Earth. I think she cant get it out of her head that shes not exactly running for reelection.

  Yago laughed a winning laugh, expecting 2Face to join in. She didnt. In fact she gave every sign of wishing she was somewhere else.

  I hope we can be friends, Yago said. Hed spent his life around politicians, and could, when it was required, mimic the heartfelt tone, the sincere look, even the warm handshake. He could also mimic the subtle threat. Wherever we end up, a girl like you will need friends.

  I see. A girl like me. Do you want to be my boyfriend?

  Yago gulped, caught off-guard for once. Do I . . . He almost laughed. The idea that the freak was going to be his girlfriend was just amazing. Who did she think she was?

  2Face winked with her one good eye and smiled a smile that was unavoidably wry. Sell it somewhere else, she said, and started to walk away.

  Yago grabbed her shoulder, spun her back to face him. Hey, freak. You dont turn your back on me till I say you can go.

  2Face tried to knock his hand away but Yago had a powerful grip. She struck at him, palm outward, trying to push him away.

  It was a blow, clearly, clearly, in Yagos mind, it was a blow. She had hit him! All bets were off, all restraint was gone. Shed hit him!

  Yago drew back his hand to deliver a slap. Two hands locked around his wrist. Yago glared, processed the necessary data: It was the nerd. The one from California. What was the name? Oh, yeah.

  No, Jobs said. He shook his head slightly. No.

  Yago glared at this intruder. He wasnt very big and he didnt look very tough. He looked scared. But he didnt flinch or look away.

  Yago rotated his hand, broke Jobss grip, and using the same hand, shot a short, hard, snapping punch into Jobss head.

  Jobs fell back. Yago shoved hard and knocked him on his butt.

  2Face yelled, Stop it! Stop it, you jerk!

  Yago moved in to kick Jobs. He would teach the punk a valuable lesson. Once theyre down, make sure they stay down.

  Just then, a blur of movement: someone running, bounding from top bunk to top bunk.

  Yaaahhh!

  MoSteel threw himself at Yago, caught him around the neck, and carried him to the floor.

  Yago rolled with almost professional skill and was on his feet in a flash. But so were Jobs and MoSteel and 2Face. Three against one.

  Yago spotted the Secret Service agents across the room drinking coffee from disposable cups. They attacked me! he roared. What are you doing standing there? They attacked me! Get them. Get them!

  The agent named Horvath looked puzzled. He cupped a hand to his ear and pantomimed that he couldnt hear. Agent Jackson just smiled.

  Yago swallowed the rage that came boiling up inside him. Swallowed it hard and slowly, slowly erased the feral, murderous expression from his face.

  We seem to have a misunderstanding, he said stiffly, then turned and walked away. Under his breath he added, On my list. Thats three of you, on my list.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SHE LAKKA YOU BEEZNESS.

  You want me to go bounce on him some more? MoSteel asked Jobs.

  No. Let it go. Its all over. Jobs put a hand on MoSteels arm and gently drew him away.

  2Face said, Hey. Thanks.

  Jobs shrugged. No problem.

  No, I mean, really: Thanks. Is your head okay?

  Jobs touched his injured ear and then looked at his hand. There was a little blood on his fingers. It seemed to puzzle him. Hmm.

  You should have someone look at that. You need a Band-Aid, 2Face said.

  That ear is gonna have to come off, MoSteel offered with a giddy grin. Get you a nice, new, titanium ear. Change your name to . . . to, um, oh, hey, I know! Change your name to Earanium!

  Jobs and 2Face both looked at him. Earanium?

  Hey, its the best I could come up with just off the top of my head, all right? You know, youre not exactly Mr. Quick either, MoSteel grumbled.

  This is my friend Mo, Jobs said. MoSteel. Im Jobs. And the ear is fine. Mos in favor of as much surgery as possible.

  2Face.

  They shook hands. The name brought a smile to Jobss face. He nodded to himself, absorbing it, smiled again.

  Jobs looked at her face, interested at almost a scientific level in the effect. Not at all horrified, not at all sickened.

  I was in a fire, she said.

  He nodded. Yeah. Well, see you later.

  For his part Jobs had already half forgotten the incident. He was remembering the girl instead. His always-distracted expression grew positively dreamy.

  That girl liked your business, Duck.

  What?

  Uh-uh, dont give me what? MoSteel said. You know what I said. She lakka you beeznees. She wants to invest in you.

  Jobs said, Mo, you know Im faithful to Cordelia.

  The girl who isnt even totally sure who you are?

  Jobs smiled ruefully. Cordelia knew who he was, he was sure of that at least. Shed included his picture in her flatscreen montage. Hed come in right after what, admiration? But what had come next? He couldnt remember, had been too stunned to pay attention. Where did he fit in Cordelias emotional cycle?

  No way he could go into that with Mo. Mo was an old-fashioned kid. Hed never understand creeping Cordelias computer. Jobs said, Yeah. Thats right, Mo: Cordelia, the girl who isnt sure who I am.

  Thats you, Jobs: All you need is a girlfriend up here. He tapped his head. Me, I need a real, live girl. You know, like maybe someone who would recognize me at least.

  Whats going to happen to her? Jobs asked, but silently, to himself alone. What will happen to Cordelia?

  Had to avoid those images. Had to sheer off, stay out of that, or lose his mind. The Rock was coming. Cordelia was just another dinosaur.

  He shook his head so hard that MoSteel looked at him with concern.

  Whats the bruise, compadre?

  They didnt leave us any hope, Mo. The Rock. Its all too sure. Too . . . And we dont get to fight it, man. All we can do is run away. All we can do is be cowards and save ourselves. Its just random. If the Rocks trajectory was one-hundr
edth of a degree different, itd miss us. Its just random, and we dont even get to fight it. What kind of a story is that?

  MoSteel looked perplexed. Then he shrugged. Maybe we fight later, Duck.

  It cant all end this way. It cant just end in some meaningless . . . Jobs couldnt find the word. He hung his head. Everyones just going to die, Mo. Whats the point in that?

  MoSteel said, Everyone always dies, man. Always been that way. And I dont think it ever did have a point. Did it?

  DAYS TO IMPACT:2

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  OH, MY GOD, ALL THOSE PEOPLE.

  Cordelia was in San Francisco. Actually standing on the balcony of a monstrously big faux-Victorian mansion atop exclusive Twin Peaks. The balcony looked out over the backyard where the wedding reception of her cousin, Lucy, was under way. But more compelling by far, to her artists eye, was the view beyond the backyard.

  The house had been built on two lots. Two existing houses had been torn down to make room, and to ensure the capture of this very view.

  The view included much of San Francisco, down through the skyscrapered downtown and beyond to the sparkling bay, ornamented by the eternally stunning Golden Gate Bridge. As it happened, an aircraft carrier, the new, sleek, low-silhouette USS Reagan, was entering the bay, sliding beneath the bridge in a spectacle that combined the reassuring grace of perfect form with the disturbing grace of might.

  Of course Cordelia was supposed to be focusing her link on the reception. She had the latest link, capable of shooting very high-resolution video and transmitting it directly to satellite, so shed been drafted, or perhaps volunteered, she wasnt sure which, to act as the videographer. The link allowed far-flung family members to follow the events live from anywhere they happened to be.

  Messages were beginning to pile up, superimposed on the viewfinder. Messages like, Show the ceremony! And, We want to see the bride, not the bridge!!! Cordelia ignored them. The more they nagged, the less she was going to show the silly bride and her dweeb of a groom.