by Jackson Ford
She could, for instance, be told what occurred at the Vance Campground a few days before. She could be given access to maps. Photos of the surrounding forest. Details on the terrain, the vegetation and animal life, the weather. Then she’d look up, blinking behind her thick glasses, and calmly pronounce that the boy who could cause earthquakes was still alive.
Even then, it was something of a gamble. The girl would only give a general area where the boy would be. It was small, but it would still take days to search.
Unless, of course, the searcher had the genetic ability to see things in the infrared spectrum, with far more precision and at a much greater distance than even the most advanced military technology.
Unless she could pick out warm bodies in the undergrowth from miles away, as easily as someone spotting a friend across a crowded room.
Olivia had helped in other ways, too. The US Army had declared the Olympic National Park off-limits while they conducted their search – nobody in, or out. But the park was almost one and a half thousand square miles in size, and not even the Army could watch every access point. Olivia had worked out that this particular trailhead – the one the Director has just taken – would have the best chance of being unguarded on this particular day. The Army searchers would have moved on, heading deeper into the park.
It was a risk, of course. A big one. Then again, the Director is carrying no weapons. She’s just a hiker, out for a stroll. And of course, she can see them coming long before they can see her.
A few hours later, the Director stops at the top of a small rise, checking a map on her phone. Looks around her. When she was a child, she couldn’t see that far – fifty yards, maybe, no more. But she’s gotten a lot stronger since then. She slowly turns, noting the glowing red form of a bear, snuffling in the undergrowth half a mile away. The squirrels scrabbling across the tree trunks. The deer, drinking from a stream – a very faint glow in her vision, nearly a mile hence. She’s especially alert for large human shapes in the distance – the special forces tracker teams, still hunting. But it’s a huge area for them to cover, and she can’t see anybody.
At her two o’clock, there’s a tiny blob of heat energy. One that might be a raccoon, or a small coyote, or something else altogether.
She takes a drink of water from her pack, then sets off again, moving off the path and into the dense forest, keeping a lazy eye on the bear shape so she can give it a wide berth.
She’s always loved walking. Ever since she was a kid, when she and her brother and sister had a thousand acres of unspoiled Wyoming wilderness to play in. She’d often ditch them and go for rambles – that’s what she thought of them as, rambles, a word her dad had once used which had never left her. She wishes her dad was here now. He’d appreciate what she was trying to do.
And what are you trying to do?
Even now, she has her doubts. It has taken so much faith for her to proceed this far – not just in Olivia, or Ajay, or the other doctors. It’s taken faith in herself. In her mission.
The Facility had been the easy part. Once she had the funds in place, and the right people, it all came together. There were challenges of course – the boy, for a start. His desire to hurt those around him, to see what it would feel like, took some serious thinking to overcome.
But the challenges had been overcome. And the Director had started to think a little bigger. She’d begun to imagine what would happen if people like her and the children and her brother could walk freely, not hiding their abilities, safe in the knowledge that no one could hurt them.
Of course, for that, she needed money. Plenty of it was available – Olivia proved as deft at predicting the stock market as she did at predicting where a baseball would end up after it was hit. But it was far too slow. It would take years to raise the kind of funds needed without attracting attention – years of careful planning, shell companies, an intricate network of investments. Years of trying to outsmart the federal government, not making too much too quickly, staying under the radar.
And then, one day, she’d had a revelation – one so startling she’d sat bolt upright in bed, causing Ajay to spill his morning coffee next to her.
She’d started feeding Olivia more data. Much more. Asking what would happen to the economy and the market under certain scenarios. How the financial world would react following war. Disease. Terrorist attack.
Or if a massive earthquake were to strike somewhere in the United States.
Olivia, ever eager to please, had sucked it all up like a sponge. With her help, they’d modelled a scenario, down to the last variable. They’d worked out where to place their funds, investing in places no one would think to put their money. Setting up a massive, interconnected web of holdings that would sit, dormant, until a specific event thought to be entirely out of human control set them in motion. Then they would grow, and grow, and grow some more.
Causing the specific event – the earthquake – was where the Director had taken a huge leap of faith. No one knew what would happen if the boy were to come across a fault line. He might not sense it at all, or sense it but be unable to do anything about it.
The Director had spent long nights in conversation with Ajay. She’d consulted Olivia repeatedly (without telling her the full picture – she was only five, after all). She’d watched the boy from her office window. Wondering how someone so young could be so cruel.
She had a strong sense that he couldn’t be forced to do it. If they dragged him to a fault line, he might just refuse to help, or lie to them. He would have to find his own way, believe it was his idea…
She could guarantee that he’d cross the San Andreas fault – that part was easy. It was practically impossible to enter Los Angeles without doing so. But the rest of the plan was less certain. It required Ajay convincing the mother and her son to run. It required the Director to trust her instincts as much as she trusted Olivia’s mind.
She knew there was a chance that the boy would disappoint them, and she planned accordingly. She was already in the process of moving the Facility, changing their identities – if the boy was caught, she didn’t want it coming back on her. She’s become used to this kind of subterfuge, the subtle ways to stay out of the government’s eye. She’s been doing it for a very long time.
All the same, she had a good feeling about the plan. When you wanted to create a new world, you had to believe in your ideas.
The Director had wondered why the loss of life in the earthquakes didn’t bother her. She supposed it was because most of the people in the affected area would despise her, and Olivia, and anyone else with abilities.
She didn’t especially wish them dead. They simply didn’t matter to her. If there’d been an easier way to achieve her goals, one without loss of life, she’d probably have taken it. But there wasn’t, so she didn’t.
Of course, things hadn’t gone completely to plan. They’d factored in the Director’s sister, and her little government-owned crew, but not even Olivia could account for everything. Humans weren’t always predictable. Cascadia had not gone off, which meant that their stock market gains hadn’t been as huge as she’d hoped.
All the same, they were substantial. Her dream, of a new world for her and her kind, was closer than it had ever been – and who knew where the next few months would take them?
The thought of her sister gives the Director pause. Teagan thinks she’s dead, of course. Along with their brother, Adam.
The Director isn’t sure how she feels about that. It’s a necessity of course. There’s no way they could pull this off if Emily (Teagan, as she calls herself now) knew about it. But it doesn’t stop the little pang in the heart, the pang of one sister missing another. The pang of lost years.
Off the trail, the woods are hard going. It takes the Director a little while to get close to her target. And it’s no animal, that’s for sure. It senses her coming, tries to hide, but it can’t move very fast and it’s far too weak.
The boy is hidden in the hollow
of a dead tree, curled against one of the roots. He’s smeared with dirt, shivering, scrawny, pale as snow. His hair is a wild mess, and he gazes up at the Director through haunted, half-mad eyes.
The Director crouches down, keeping her distance. “Hi, Lucas. Do you remember me?”
It takes him a few seconds to answer. “The l-lady from the School.”
“That’s right. I’m Chloe. I’ve come to take you home.”
A few moments later, he’s gathered in her arms, his freezing face pressed to her warm neck. She rocks him, soothing him, as he starts to cry. Around them, the forest breathes, slow and sure.
When he’s calmed down a little, she hefts him, and begins her walk back out the woods. A couple of hours later, some signal bars appear on her phone, and she dials Ajay. He picks up on the first ring.
“I’ve got him,” she says. “Tell the monster she was spot on. No, I’m coming back. Keep it warm for us. Oh – and do me a favour? Call Adam. Tell him he can drop the homeless act. We don’t need to watch Teagan any more.”
She hangs up, kisses her charge gently on the head.
“Almost home,” she whispers.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Hey. Teagan here.
Jackson Ford is a lazy asshole, and forgot to do his acknowledgements. It’s cool though, I’ll write the thank yous, it’s not like I’ve got anything else going on right now.
However! Since Jackson left it to me to finish what he started, I get to do it my own way. And since all my amazing, hysterical hip-hop-related in-jokes were forcibly removed during editing, I’m getting my own back here. This isn’t part of the story, and no one actually reads book thank yous anyway, so nobody can stop me.
I thought long and hard about this, and decided the best way to do it would be to give everybody a Wu Tang Clan nickname. Shut up, it’s a great idea. And you fuckers are lucky I’m in a good mood, or at least one of you would have ended up as Blue Raspberry. Google her.
First up: Ed “The RZA” Wilson. Jackson’s agent, the man with the plan, the guy who makes sure things actually get done around here. Without Ed, none of this happens. Also, the world would have a lot more negronis and dog-patterned trousers to go around.
Equally important: Emily “The GZA” Byron. Her editing mind is as sharp as a liquid sword. We couldn’t have done it without her. She also got rid of the ninja unicorn assassin from another dimension that showed up for the final battle, so yeah: she’s good at her job.
Emily got an assist from Bradley “Method Man” Englert. New York’s finest. Thanks, homie.
Joanna “Inspectah Deck” Kramer brought this book from error-filled manuscript through to the thing you hold today. She bombs atomically.
Steve “U-God” Panton, for once again putting together a cover that makes the ladies melt and the fellas get jealous. Seriously: my covers look fucking great.
Saxon “Cappadonna” Bullock, who helped fix all of Jackson’s continuity errors, spelling mistakes and shitty writing. He did a great job, too. Even if he thinks it’s preferable to write Tupac, instead of 2Pac. Don’t ever fight with me on rap trivia, man. You’ll get your ass kicked.
Nazia “Ghostface Killah” Khatun and Ellen “Raekwon” Wright: the dynamic duo who promoted the hell out of this book. Also to Madeleine “Masta Killa” Hall, with the mad marketing moves.
Finally… oh. Shit.
OK, so, here’s the thing. The other main person I have to thank is Tim Holman, who runs Orbit Books, and is Jackson’s publisher. There is only one core Wu Tang member left, and as much as I crack jokes, I’m not sure I can get away with calling the actual boss of this whole operation Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Tim: you’re fantastic, we love you and please don’t fire us.
A few more people. One of the most overlooked parts of this operation is the Hachette Audio division. They do a time-intensive, difficult job creating audiobooks, and I want to thank them here. You really, really need to hear the audiobook of The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t With Her Mind (the book before this one, in case you’re keeping score). They crushed it. Go listen. I’m hoping most of them come back for another go. A big thank you to Lauren Patten, Graham Halstead, Michelle Figueroa, Pavel Rivera and Louise Newton.
Jackson Ford talked to two highly qualified academics for this book, and then did his usual trick of messing up every bit of useful info they gave him. They are not to blame for any of it. A big thank you to Kit Miyamoto, for breaking down Jackson’s misconceptions about earthquakes, and Nick Wogan, for helping him figure out the ETS zones.
As we all know, Jackson couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a map, let alone accurately depict Los Angeles. So thank you to Alisha Grauso. Jackson’s LA connect, his fact-checker extraordinaire, the one person standing between him and God knows how many lawsuits.
George Kelly and Werner Schutz read this book when it was still just a pile of dog-eared pages covered in mayonnaise and earwax. That they actually sent it back with some helpful comments blows me away. Or, hell, maybe they just really like mayo and earwax. Whatever turns you on, guys.
And let me get serious for a second, OK? While this book was being written, we lost two incredible musicians here in Los Angeles. Darrell Fields, aka Mr Guitar, of Skid Row, a huge advocate for the city’s homeless as well as a peerless player. And Ermias Ashgedom, aka Nipsey Hussle, one of the greatest rappers ever, entrepreneur, activist, LA ambassador and a true marathon OG. You will both be missed, and my city is a little darker without you.
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extras
meet the author
JACKSON FORD has never been to Los Angeles. The closest he’s come is visiting Las Vegas for a Celine Dion concert, where he also got drunk and lost his advance money for this book at the Bellagio. That’s what happens when you try to play roulette at the craps table. He is the creator of the Frost Files, and the character of Teagan Frost—who, by the way, absolutely did not write this bio, and anybody who says she did is a liar.
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if you enjoyed
RANDOM SH*T FLYING THROUGH THE AIR
look out for
FORTUNA
The Nova Vita Protocol: Book One
by
Kristyn Merbeth
Fortuna launches a new space opera trilogy that will hook you from the first crash landing.
Scorpia Kaiser has always stood in the shadow of her older brother, Corvus, until the day he abandons their family to participate in a profitless war. However, becoming the heir to her mother’s smuggling operation is not an easy transition for the always-rebellious, usually reckless, and occasionally drunk pilot of the Fortuna, an aging cargo ship and the only home Scorpia has ever known.
But when Corvus returns from the war and a deal turns deadly, Scorpia’s plans to take over the family business are interrupted, and the Kaiser siblings are forced to make a choice: take responsibility for their family’s involvement in a devastating massacre, or lie low and hope it blows over.
Too bad Scorpia was never any good at staying out of a fight.
CHAPTER ONE
Fortuna
Scorpia
Fortuna’s cockpit smells like sweat and whiskey, and loose screws rattle with every thump of music. I’m sprawled in the pilot’s chair, legs stretched out and boots resting atop the control panel forming a half circle around me. A bottle of whiskey dangles from one of my hands; the other taps out the song’s beat on the control wheel.
Normally, this is my favorite place to be: in my chair, behind the wheel, staring out at open space and its endless possibilities. I’m a daughter of the stars, after all. But I’ve been in the cockpit for nearly eight hours now, urging this ship as fast as she can go to make sure we unload our cargo on time, and my body is star
ting to ache from it. Scrappy little Fortuna is my home, the only one I’ve ever known, but she wasn’t built for comfort. She was built to take a beating.
My shift at the wheel wasn’t so bad for the first six hours, but once the others went to bed, I had to shut the door leading to the rest of the ship, and the cockpit soon grew cramped and hot. No way around it, though. I need the music to stay awake, and my family needs the quiet to sleep. Someone needs to be coherent enough to throw on a smile and lie their ass off to customs when we get there, and it’s not gonna be me.
I yawn, pushing sweaty, dark hair out of my face. Envy stings me as I think of my younger siblings, snug in bed, but recedes as I remember they’re actually strapped into the launch chairs in their respective rooms, with gooey mouth-guards shoved between their teeth and cottony plugs stuffed up their ears. I don’t know how they manage to sleep with all that, but it’s necessary in case of a rough descent, the likelihood of which is rising with every sip of whiskey I take. Fortuna’s autopilot can land the ship on its own, but it tends to lurch and scrape and thud its way there, with little regard for the comfort of its occupants or whether or not they hurl up their dinner when they arrive. Some pilot finesse makes things run more smoothly.
Given that, I’d normally avoid too much hard liquor while at the wheel. But as soon as Gaia came into sight, anxiety blossomed in my gut. Now, the planet fills my view out the front panel and dread sloshes in my stomach. It’s a beautiful place, I’ll admit that. Vast stretches of water dotted with land masses, wispy clouds drifting across, like a damn painting or something. Historians say that after centuries of searching for humanity’s new home, the original settlers wept with joy at the first glimpse of Gaia. I, on the other hand, always go straight for the bottle strapped to the bottom of my chair.
