Storm was looking up at him. She was wearing a pack on her back, and was clutching two more, one in each hand.
* * *
FALLER HELD Storm, her long hair snapping against his face.
“If this doesn’t prove we’re meant to be together,” he shouted, “I don’t know what would.”
Below them, and off just beyond the edge of the debris field, Faller noticed a silver-grey object that was growing larger as they dropped. Faller squinted, trying to see what it was.
He pointed. “Look at that.” It was clearer now. It was shaped like a cross, or a bird, but larger.
“An airplane,” Storm shouted. “My God, it’s flying.”
They waved their arms over their heads to get the others’ attention, then pointed at the object. It was closer now, holding its position as they dropped toward it. Could these be the people who had tipped the Orchids’ world, coming to finish them off? If they could fly a plane, they must be powerful. Maybe Melissa had been right. Maybe Ugo Woolcoff really was behind it.
Snakebite was moving toward Faller, waving his arms, screaming something. Faller strained to hear him.
“Spread out. As far apart as you can.”
Of course. Clumped together, they were an easy target. Faller spread his arms and legs, and glided away from Storm.
The aircraft was closing, heading right at him. The massive machine cruising under its own power was awesome, and horrible. It reminded him of his dream of aircraft shitting bombs.
Overhead, a green car was falling side first. Faller would make a more difficult target if he was hiding behind something. He strained against the buffeting wind, allowed the car to drop to him.
Faller angled alongside it, then lowered his arms to try to match its speed. Reaching out, he grabbed the bumper with one hand. The aircraft was close enough that he could hear the wheem of its engines over the howling wind. Faller pulled himself along the car’s greasy undercarriage, putting it between him and the aircraft. The harrier, his mind offered. Not an airplane, a harrier.
It occurred to him that it would be better if he could get in the car. Then the Harrier wouldn’t have a clear shot at him. Faller hooked his foot under a steel rod connected to one of the wheels and reached until he grabbed the handle of the rear door that was facing downward. Clutching the handle with both hands, he dislodged his foot. His body whipped free, his toes pointing up. Gasping from exertion, he worked his legs into position to brace his feet against the side of the car. He strained, pulling the door open against the force of the wind. Then, feetfirst, he squeezed inside. The buffeting wind slammed the door against his shins, then his knees, then hips as he dragged himself into the backseat.
Panting, he grabbed a seat belt and pulled himself to the center of the seat. The Harrier’s engine was deafening. Faller glanced through the side window, then the back, as he fished the handgun out of his pack.
The Harrier rose, filling the car’s sideways windshield. It rotated, exposing an open side hatch, where two of his duplicates squatted, huge black rifles raised.
Faller dropped to the floor as rifle fire erupted. The windshield and driver’s side window shattered as bullets thunked into the body of the car.
The firing stopped. Faller leaped up, aimed out the shattered windshield.
The two gunmen had retreated out of sight.
Faller waited, gun trained on the open hatch, finger on the trigger. Both the car Faller was in and the Harrier were rocking and shuddering, making it difficult to keep the gun aimed anywhere close to his target.
Snakebite appeared below the Harrier, spread-eagled, allowing the Harrier to drop toward him. Relief washed over Faller as Snakebite clutched the bottom of the aircraft’s front end and hung on.
Faller kept his gun trained on the open doors as Snakebite looped something—the seat belt from the truck, Faller realized—through a catch beneath the front of the Harrier, then lashed it around his ankle. Snakebite pulled it tight, then let go.
The wind whipped him upright, so he was staring straight in through the front windshield of the Harrier. Snakebite raised his handgun, fired point-blank, calmly squeezing off shot after shot. The windshield cracked.
Movement in the doorway caught Faller’s attention. One of the gunmen leaned out, clinging to something inside the Harrier, and trained his rifle on Snakebite.
“Look out,” Faller shouted. He fired at his look-alike, his shots flying wild as his look-alike’s assault rifle roared to life.
Snakebite was jolted backward by the force of the bullets.
The shooter ducked back into the Harrier as Faller, screaming, clambered over the seat, pushed himself out through the car’s windshield.
As blood whipped off his body, forming a spiral of red mist above, Snakebite lifted his gun and fired. The canopy shattered. Snakebite fired three more shots.
The Harrier spun out of control.
Faller glided toward it, arms outstretched, as Snakebite whipped around, still strapped to the Harrier’s nose.
His look-alikes appeared in the doorway. One pushed off, leaping from the Harrier. The wind kicked him into a spin; he pinwheeled his arms, trying to right himself, unaccustomed to falling. Faller clutched his handgun with both hands, fired three shots, but the wind made it impossible to aim.
The second look-alike jumped out. As he flew outward from the careening Harrier, the tail swung around and hit him squarely in the face. Faller didn’t need to watch further to know he was dead.
Faller had drawn to within fifty feet of the other duplicate, who’d finally stabilized and was falling feetfirst. Drifting headfirst toward him, Faller raised his handgun, tried to take aim as his duplicate pointed the assault rifle at him.
The muzzle of the rifle jerked upward as the rifle’s kick threw his duplicate into a backspin. Moving ever closer, Faller missed four more times as his duplicate repositioned himself and again raised the rifle.
Something splashed into Faller’s eyes, blinding him. Burning agony in his shoulder came a heartbeat later, and Faller realized it was blood in his eyes. Gasping in pain, he wiped his eyes with his good arm.
His duplicate was struggling to get into position to fire again, his eyes trained on Faller so intently he didn’t notice Storm below him, closing fast. She was falling faceup, her arms and legs spread. When she’d closed to within just a few dozen feet, she raised her gun and fired.
Storm didn’t stop firing until she plowed right into him. By that time he was dead, his blood spraying upward in sheets.
Careful to avoid the swinging tail of the pilotless harrier, they headed toward Snakebite, who was limp, his arms flapping in the wind.
Faller wrapped his arms around Snakebite from behind. When he saw Snakebite’s eyes—open, sightless—Faller pressed his face into Snakebite’s back and screamed. He cried on his friend’s big shoulder.
Fingers touched the back of Faller’s neck. He lifted his head and, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, reached out to wrap one arm around Storm, who was clinging to the seat belt holding Snakebite to the Harrier.
“He’s gone,” Faller said.
Storm pressed her face close to Faller’s as they clung to Snakebite.
“I just want to keep falling,” Faller said. “I don’t want to land anymore.”
Storm nodded. She lifted her head, stared at Faller’s shoulder, her red-rimmed eyes widening. “Is that your blood? Are you shot?” She looked around; Melissa and Penny were nowhere in sight. “We have to get you help; we have to stop the bleeding.” She reached up to where the seat belt was tied to the Harrier, tried to pry it loose.
“His left leg,” Faller said. “There’s a knife.”
Storm strained, pulled up Snakebite’s pant leg, unsheathed the hunting knife and cut the seat belt. With Snakebite between them they pushed off the nose of the Harrier and got clear of it.
“Faller?” Storm’s cry seemed to come from far off. He opened his eyes, realized he’d blacked out. He grasped the w
ebbing of Snakebite’s suit with his good arm, pulled himself closer.
“We have to let him go,” Storm said.
“Unzip his pack,” Faller said. He had his bad arm tucked close to his body.
Storm unzipped Snakebite’s pack a few inches. Wrapping his legs around Snakebite, Faller felt around inside the pack until his fingers brushed the photos, tucked in an inner pocket. Faller slid them into his own pocket, against the photo of him and Melissa.
“I’ll find them.” He choked up, felt his tears whipped from his eyes before they could reach his cheeks. “I promise I will. And when I do I’ll keep them safe. Like they were my own.”
“We both will,” Storm said.
They unstrapped Snakebite’s backpack, then let him go.
XXII
“DR. SANDOVAL?” Paula Tankersly, his head of security, stood under the archway between the factory floor and the main passageway. “You have a visitor. We’ve detained him outside.”
“Who is it?” Peter asked.
“He wouldn’t say. Big guy, early forties. Accent.”
Peter found Ugo standing just outside the door to the lab, facing away, hands in his pockets, straddled by two security people. His Panama hat was gone, replaced by a snappy maroon U.S. Army beret to go along with a black and army-green dress uniform. Ugo turned when the outer door opened.
“There’s a face I never expected to see again,” Peter said.
“This isn’t a social call. With so many lives at stake, we can’t always choose who we speak to.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Peter’s thoughts were spinning, trying to anticipate what Ugo could want. Certainly it had to do with their plea for a cease-fire. They were responding quickly; the interview had aired on MSNBC two hours earlier.
“Shall we walk?”
Peter shrugged. “I could use some air.” He turned to Paula. “We’re fine.”
“Impressive setup,” Ugo said, nodding slowly, hands behind his back as they walked. “You’ve got your own little army.”
“And you’ve got a big one.”
Ugo laughed. “I’m part of a big one. The people in charge sent me. They caught your TV appearance.”
“And?”
Ugo held out his hands, looked toward the sky. “Unlimited energy forever? Come on, Peter. Or should I call you Peter the Second? That’s quite a claim.”
They wanted to know what it was. They were dying to know. Of course they were. “We can back up our claim in ten days, if the rest of you can keep from destroying the planet for that long.”
“No one’s going to destroy the planet.”
Peter slowed, studied Ugo’s crooked profile. He knew that smug tone well. “Why is that?”
Ugo tilted his head, lifted one shoulder toward his ear. “You have your secrets, I have mine.”
To their right, a huge smokestack rose out of the yellow weeds; beyond it three rusting tanker cars sat on a dead-end strip of railroad track.
“Only your secret’s not so secret,” Peter said. “Right now it’s ravaging Singapore and Indonesia.”
“Ravaging.” Ugo waved a dismissive hand. “No one’s dying. They’re not even getting sniffles or sore throats.”
“It’s wiping their memories.”
Ugo glanced at Peter. “Tough to fight when you can’t remember who you’re fighting, or why.”
Peter stopped walking. After taking a few more paces, Ugo stopped as well. “Singapore is an ally. You can’t use the virus because it’s too difficult to control. If you released it on Russia, South America, and North Korea, eighty percent of our own people would end up contracting it.”
Ugo smiled. “That would end the war, though.”
Peter laughed dryly.
Ugo wasn’t laughing; he was looking at Peter, eyebrows raised.
“Wait. You’re not seriously considering releasing that virus on a large scale?”
He gaped at Peter as if Peter were being incredibly dense. “Why wouldn’t we be? If the war goes on much longer, someone is going to start launching nuclear weapons. Maybe North Korea, maybe India. China would be my dark horse–pick. As soon as someone goes down that path, there’s going to be retaliation. How many will die then?” His eyes were wide, the vein on his forehead bulging. “How many more will die when the radiation drifts to neighboring countries? The blackout virus stops it now.” Ugo chopped his palm for emphasis.
“What if the virus is too efficient? What if it wipes everyone’s memory?”
Ugo shook his head. “Central command will wait out the infection in an airtight underground facility.”
“I take it you’re part of central command.”
Ugo didn’t respond. They were planning to wipe everyone’s memory, ally and enemy alike. Intentionally.
Out of nowhere, Peter had a flash of memory: he and Ugo, sprawled on couches in Ugo’s living room watching The Usual Suspects, drunk on Ugo’s cognac, stuffed with pizza delivered from Chanello’s. How had they possibly gotten from that moment to this?
“Give me ten days, then all parties can sit down and negotiate a permanent armistice.” He wished Melissa and Kathleen were here to help reason with Ugo.
“Where is this boundless energy?” He made a show of squinting and peering toward the lab. “In there? What are we going to do, put a chorus line of salmon through your duplicator and run the world on fish oil?”
It was possible Ugo was bluffing, trying to force Peter to show his hand. The thing was, Ugo didn’t sound like he was bluffing. He sounded like he was convinced his plan was better than the alternative.
Removing the singularity from the equation, he might even be right.
“Come on,” Peter said.
* * *
THE LOOK on Ugo’s face as Peter led him to the window on the containment chamber was gratifying. His smugness, his air of importance, melted away, and left a little boy staring openmouthed at a miracle.
“What is that?” he said, once he’d regained some of his composure.
“It’s exactly what it looks like. A singularity.” Peter spread his hands, mocking the gesture Ugo had made outside. “Boundless, unlimited energy, right here in my lab.” Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a moment this much. Ugo had been so proud of his little virus. “I’m on the verge of transporting energy to nanostructured carbon fuel cells all over the world. The energy will just keep flowing; the fuel cells will be inexhaustible.”
Ugo went on staring into the chamber. “Where did the singularity come from?”
Peter laughed. “Trade secret.”
His nose almost pressed to the glass, Ugo grunted.
“Can you get Elba to agree to the cease-fire?” Peter asked.
“Now, why would I do that?” Ugo stepped away from the glass and folded his arms across his chest. “So you can close your eyes and poke at some buttons and hope this singularity responds the way you’re hoping it will?”
Harry was crossing the floor to join them. Peter waved for him to stay away.
“This is the equivalent of how many nuclear warheads?” Ugo asked. “A thousand? A million? And you’re screwing around with it, lighting light bulbs.” He gestured at the wall of spotlights. “You don’t need ten days. You need ten years, of careful, controlled experimentation.” Ugo spun, headed for the exit. “And you don’t have ten years, so if I can help it, you’re not going to get ten minutes.”
“Oh, I see. That’s how you’re going to rationalize it to yourself. I have a solution that doesn’t involve you becoming a god. One of the supreme rulers of the lobotomized masses.” Peter took a few steps toward Ugo’s swiftly retreating form. “You’re a sociopath. What you’re planning is no different from genocide.”
Ugo stopped, spun, pointed at Peter. “What you’re planning is genocide. You’re a loose cannon. You always have been.” He disappeared through the doorway.
Peter called Kathleen, asked her to return to the lab, immediately. They were out of time.
SOMEONE WAS slapping his cheek. “Faller. Wake up. You have to drink.”
Faller peeled one eye open as the canteen was pressed to his lips. He took a few swallows, pushed the canteen away.
“How long have we been falling?” He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for what felt like a long time.
“Three days.”
His shoulder was bandaged with white strips—from Melissa’s dress, he assumed. The strips were mottled with dried blood, none of it fresh as far as he could tell. His shoulder was aching worse than the day before, and he felt so exhausted his eyes kept closing on their own.
Melissa and Penny were nearby. When they saw he was conscious, they came over.
Melissa unwrapped the bandage.
“I don’t feel well,” Faller said.
“The wound is infected. The bullet is still in there,” Melissa said.
Faller spotted a lone figure, falling through the clear blue sky a few hundred yards away. Snakebite.
“Am I going to die?” he asked.
The wind tore the softly spoken word away before it reached Faller, but he could read Melissa’s lips.
“There,” Storm said, pointing straight down.
Faller closed his eyes. He didn’t have the strength to look, but he knew what she’d found. He didn’t care.
Cries of disappointment cut through the howl of the wind. He pried one eye open, gently rolled on the wind until he could see what was below.
The world was nothing but sand and rock.
“We must have drifted over what’s left of the Atlantic Ocean,” Melissa said.
“We have to land,” Storm said. “Faller can’t keep going.”
Storm deployed Faller’s parachute for him.
Snakebite plummeted past, down into the endless sky.
* * *
FALLER KEPT his gaze on Storm, tried to muster the strength to tell her he loved her. Storm pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.
“He’s burning up.”
Penny tapped Storm on the shoulder. “Get out of the way.”
Faller Page 27
