“Are you up for this?”
Jianyu looks at me as if to say, Do we really have a choice? He says, “I’ll be fine.”
“Liar.”
There’s nothing to see out the windows of our helicopter beyond the whitecapped waves of the open ocean. Jianyu is weak and tires easily. He falls asleep, curled up on the warm leather seats, using the backpack as a pillow. I sit opposite him, watching the video repeat as the hours slowly pass. Night falls, and still the sea seems endless. A red navigation light flashes in the darkness, reflecting off the water as we race on through the night.
I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but I wake to sunbeams breaking over the ocean. The helicopter is flying higher now, at roughly five hundred feet, giving us a spectacular view. Pink hues sit high in the stratosphere, catching the first rays of dawn. Ahead, a coastline appears. It’s just a thin, dark crack on the horizon, but before long, we’re flying alongside the jungles of South America. Palm trees line the shore. Dark volcanic rocks disappear into the azure waters. Occasionally, there’s a sandy stretch of beach. Tiny islands dot the various bays and inlets. Small fishing vessels motor through the waters, leaving white trails in their wake.
Jianyu stirs.
“We’re here.”
It’s still another half an hour before we spot the distinct shape of a rocket rising above the rugged coast. The fuselage of the Ariane 6 is as white as the driven snow, forming a stark contrast against the dark greens of the jungle canopy and the crystal blue of a clear sky.
“It’s a beautiful day to take flight.”
“It is,” Jianyu replies, his face seemingly glued to the window like mine. Our fingers touch at the glass, longing for the promise to be true. We’re going back to Mars.
My mind wanders, excited at the prospect of returning to the red planet. The colonists have salvaged two of the modules in the hub. The central area is lost, with the basement buried in debris and the walkways crushed. Instead of a dome, the roof of the lava tube opens out like a crater, but there are plans to reseal the walls and eventually replace the roof. In the meantime, food is being grown in the outlying surface stations, which means daily journeys in the rovers for maintenance and cultivation. Life is harsh. Spare parts are hard to come by, and on more than one occasion a colonist has stumbled into an airlock with borderline hypothermia after a heating coil failed, but humans are fighters. We’re adept at surviving.
Our helicopter continues on down the coast, passing over vast mud flats exposed by the low tide. Rivers meander to the sea. We circle over the city of Kourou, south of the ESA launch facility. None of the buildings in Kourou are over two or three stories. Quaint brick homes line narrow streets. The Sikorsky hovers over a school, setting down in a soccer field and scattering the local kids. Dust kicks up from the ground, racing out toward the trees. A Jeep sits in the shade of a large tree, out of sight from the road, with a local standing beside it. That must be our ride. The door opens automatically, and Jianyu climbs out first, holding a baseball cap over his plastic skull, trying to hide it from sight. I follow, hoisting the medical kit over my shoulder.
As soon as we clear the wheels of the helicopter, it lifts smoothly back into the air, rapidly gaining height and turning south. Within seconds, its deafening roar is but a faint beat in the background. The heat and humidity hit me like a sledgehammer. It can’t be more than seven or eight in the morning and already the temperature is a hundred plus.
Teenage boys look on as we jog across the field to the waiting Jeep. They bounce their soccer ball, unimpressed by our intrusion into their game.
“Dr. Li,” an elderly man asks, reaching out and shaking Jianyu’s hand. He greets me as well, saying, “Dr. Jacobs. We’re pleased to have you here for the launch.”
“Thank you.” I feel horrible. Like the air traffic controllers, he’s been fed false information by the A.I. He opens the rear door for me. I climb into the back of the Jeep and put on a seat belt. The irony isn’t lost on me. He’s my kind—flesh and blood—but I trust him less than a bunch of circuit boards and electronics that tried to take over the world.
“I’m Max Durant,” our host says, hopping into the driver’s seat. “Welcome to French Guiana.”
“Thank you for having us.” The Jeep pulls out onto Rue Picasso. I’m just about to comment on how nice it is to see French road signs and the international feel of the country when we drive past a very American-looking McDonald’s. The golden arches are a welcome sight. Seems Kourou isn’t as remote as I thought.
“Are you hungry?” Durant asks, seeing my interest in the fast food restaurant as he peers in the rearview mirror.
“No, but I’d love to use their bathroom.”
“Me too,” Jianyu says.
After a brief pit stop, we’re on our way again.
“Your customs procedures are rather informal.” I’m nervous, trying to make small talk and wondering how much Durant knows about us.
“Oh, the airport is only about two miles from here, but it’s not much to look at, just a single runway with turning points at either end. Nobody bothers with passports anymore. No one comes here uninvited. This is South America, not France. At the moment, the airfield’s being used by the U.S. military as a staging post.”
“Oh.”
Jianyu seats his baseball cap low over his forehead, moving gingerly, as the wound is tender. He’s trying to ensure his plastic skullcap isn’t visible. I suspect Durant has noticed the distinct casing and traces of dried blood, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t stare, so maybe he hasn’t looked too closely.
“Normally, we don’t get many Americans down here. Too many bugs, I think. Mosquitos mainly. You’ve had your shots, right?”
“Yes,” I say, lying without missing a beat.
“There are lots of Europeans, and French, of course, mostly scientists. But since the war, the Americans have had an interest in protecting the handful of launch sites still in operation.”
I nod, unsure what to say in response. I note he’s talking about the American presence in regards to launches and not hunting for fugitives, which is a relief. A bit more scrutiny around our launch, though, isn’t good. At a guess, the A.I. is going to handle that, making sure video feeds are doctored to ignore our approach. Lucifer probably had the payload categorized as classified to avoid prying eyes. Even so, I’m nervous about the launch. We could be walking into a trap. My hands are sweaty. I can’t wait for all this to be over.
27
Jungle
Mud splashes from potholes in the dirt track as our four-wheel-drive winds its way through the jungle. Vines hang across the road. The canopy blocks our view of all but a thin sliver of the sky, hiding us in the shadows.
Durant winds the steering wheel back and forth even though we’re driving in a straight line, trying to negotiate the ruts. It must have rained last night. The big leafy plants encroaching on the track are covered in surprisingly large water droplets. Bats wing their way down the track, flying high overhead, using the man-made road to soar between trees. Insects and birds cry out for attention, competing with each other in a cacophony of noise unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Those wanting to seek tranquility among nature should venture to places other than French Guiana. The trees are awash with life—all of it loud.
Monkeys swing from the canopy, but they’re little more than a blur—an outstretched arm, the flash of a tail, a mess of fur, and they’re gone. I try to point them out to Jianyu, but he seems distracted. His eyes are on the road; mine are feebly trying to take in the jungle.
I point at a familiar-looking bird with an absurdly large beak.
“Toucan.”
Well, familiar from nature shows on TV and National Geographic magazines—and Froot Loops. For me, it’s like spotting a celebrity on Sunset Boulevard.
A flock of parrots takes flight ahead of us and we’re assaulted by flashes of reds and yellows, blues and greens cutting through the air.
“Isn’t th
is amazing?”
Jianyu doesn’t seem to share my enthusiasm. I’m entranced by the jungle.
Durant doesn’t reply. He must be used to tourists going gaga.
Jianyu finally says, “Yes,” but he sounds deflated. His eyes glance at the rearview mirror, looking to see if Durant is watching. Jianyu is subtle. He points on an angle at the sky, whispering, “Sun.”
I can’t see the sun, but the shadows give away its position. When we flew into Kourou, the sun was at our backs, rising over the Atlantic. The ESA launch facility is to the north, which should put the sun on our right, but it’s to the left and slightly behind us. We’re heading southwest.
“Um,” I say. “Where are we going?”
“Centre Spatial.” Durant doesn’t take his eyes off the track. His knuckles are white. He’s gripping the steering wheel with the intensity of a Formula One racing car driver.
Centre Spatial Guyanais is the Guiana Space Center run by the European Space Agency. Right place. Wrong direction.
“Isn’t that to the north?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Why are we heading south?”
“They are looking.” It’s an incomplete thought and doesn’t inspire confidence. I’m about to press the point when we drive into a clearing. Lush green trees surround a mansion hidden in the forest. White columns line the facade of a vast two-story colonial home. Blue, white, and red bars flutter in the wind as a French flag hangs over the entrance. Vines climb the side of the house. Several windows are broken. Part of the roof has collapsed, caving in one side of what was once a stately home. There are several large buildings at the rear. Armed guards stand outside the entrance, wearing olive drab. Their dark skin glistens in the sunlight.
“We’re here.”
Where the hell is here?
Durant turns onto a gravel driveway circling a grassy field and brings the vehicle to a halt in front of an open portico. French soldiers jog down to meet us. On second thought, these aren’t soldiers, they’re militia.
Rebels.
Their inconsistent clothing betrays them, while they all sport different weapons. Some have AK-47s while others carry M-16s. A few even have old Lee-Enfield rifles slung over their shoulders. They smile and laugh, talking in French.
One of them opens the door, yelling, “Out. Out.”
Out? My heart sinks. We’ve been betrayed. From here, things are only going to get worse, and yet there are no other options. Out is all we have. Reluctantly, I step into the oppressive humidity, feeling as though I could wilt. I’m carrying the bag with Jianyu’s medical supplies, but it’s wrenched from my hands.
“No.” I try to pull the bag back, but the rebels laugh, teasing me and pushing me away. “I need that.”
Jianyu steps out of the Jeep and the soldiers become animated, pointing at his head. He has his baseball cap on, but it doesn’t come down low enough to hide his exposed brain on the sides or at the back. The rebels holler, jostling with him, taunting him and pulling at the cap even though he has a firm grip on the rim. They tease him, kicking and pushing him. One of them strikes him with the butt of a rifle, hitting him on his back as he crouches. He tries to escape their attention by rushing along with me into the portico.
“Leave him alone.” As much as I can, I try to get between Jianyu and the soldiers.
“Or what? Little lady.”
“Come. Come.” Durant ignores the commotion, beckoning us to enter the decrepit mansion. I wrap my arm over Jianyu’s shoulder, sheltering him as we rush after Durant. Thankfully, the rebels stay outside.
There are no doors in the entranceway. They’ve been removed, which seems strange. The carpet is rotten. Insects buzz around us, not attracted to any smell so much as being aggravated by our intrusion into their home. Durant rushes through the lobby, pushing a set of large doors open and leading us into a drawing room.
Mildew grows over what was once a stunning oil painting of a couple from the Victorian era. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, but it’s lopsided. Paint peels from the walls. Once, this room was stately, but not anymore. Now it speaks of death and decay.
“Wait here.” Durant closes the door behind us. A key turns within the lock, sealing us in the room. I rush to the window, looking out at the jungle beyond.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“We won’t make it a hundred yards on foot.” Even with that, Jianyu is probably overstating our chances.
“We can’t stay here.” I pull at a latch, trying to open the window, but it’s stuck. I move to another window, but it won’t budge either. How can we break out without being detected? I’d rather not send a lamp through the plate glass. That’ll attract attention and make it difficult to climb down. Although we’re on the first floor, we’re at least eight feet above the grass and would have to drop to the ground. The jungle, though, is barely ten feet beyond the window.
Jianyu rifles through a desk drawer, looking for something we can use to pry one of the windows open. A key rattles in the lock, and we both stop what we’re doing and move more centrally within the room, wanting to keep up appearances.
The door opens and two rebel soldiers walk in along with Durant and a woman dressed as an officer. She’s wearing a dark navy pantsuit with red stripes running down the legs. Medals adorn one side of her chest, while there are emblems embroidered in gold on her shoulder boards. She has her hair pulled back tight in a bun and, by my estimate, couldn’t be more than thirty years old. Although we’re inland, her uniform seems to be related to the French navy, which is confusing, given her association with these thugs. She looks more out of place than we do.
“Ah, our guests have arrived,” she says in a magnificent French accent.
Jianyu isn’t impressed. “Who are you?”
“Does it matter? Honestly? Do you really care?” Her hand rests on a ceremonial broadsword hanging from her waist belt. She’s come from somewhere else to be here and must have been pulled out of a formal parade. We’re an interruption. She dismisses Jianyu’s point. “No. I don’t think so. It matters not who I am but who you are. You’re the astronauts. You’re fugitives. Criminals. Traitors.”
She walks around us, examining us as though she were buying livestock at auction.
“You have done well,” she says, reaching inside her vest and pulling out a thick envelope, handing it to Durant. He mumbles something in French and excuses himself.
“Your mistake was trusting in money.” She steps back around in front of us. “You see, regardless of what you were prepared to pay, Durant knew I’d pay more.”
Neither of us say anything. I look around, hoping to find something linking us to the outside world, but there’s no electrical power. We’re off the grid. Even if Lucifer knows we’re gone, I doubt even he could find us here in the jungle. There’s only so far his electronic fingers can reach. We’re on our own. The officer circles us, moving like a shark corralling its prey.
“Is it true what they say?” She removes Jianyu’s baseball cap. “That you were dead? That the devil brought you back to life?”
Jianyu is silent. He stares at the floorboards. Our captor examines his transparent skullcap, eyeing the folds of his brain from various angles. The soldiers accompanying her stand well back. We don’t pose any physical threat, but still they play their role.
“The Americans—oh, they’re looking forward to getting their hands on you.” She torments him, running her fingers over the back of his plastic skullcap. “They’re going to dissect you. Slice you apart. Figure out what makes you tick.”
She comes around to face me.
“You made a powerful enemy when you threatened Congress. My dearest Uncle Samuel has a long reach and deep pockets. Can you believe it? One hundred million. Each. I can buy an awful lot of real estate with that kind of money.”
She turns to one of the guards, saying, “Get in touch with the Americans. Tell them we have the package.” He leaves and she instructs the other rebel. “Lo
ck them in the bathroom.” Last of all, she addresses us. “Enjoy your stay in French Guiana.”
“Move.” The guard shoves his rifle into my back, pushing me on even though I’m already starting toward the door. We walk past rooms repurposed as lecture halls, only they’ve been neglected for years, perhaps decades.
We’re directed through the mansion, along an enclosed walkway, and over to a gymnasium at the rear of the abandoned campus. Seems the mansion was some kind of administration block for a college. At each point, the guard is cruel. It’s as though he resents that we have no idea where we’re going. Pause for a moment and a rifle barrel pokes at my kidneys or the butt strikes my shoulder. We’re being punished for our ignorance. I try to shield Jianyu, but that makes it seem as though I’m stalling, dragging my heels and hanging back, which infuriates the guard even further. He’s impatient, angry. We’re an interruption to his day.
“In there.”
The bathroom stinks. I doubt the plumbing has worked for years, but that doesn’t seem to have deterred the rebels from using it. There’s a central area with empty lockers, a set of open showers, and a row of stalls. Most of the doors have been torn off. Broken porcelain and shit lie scattered across the floor. The windows are small and up high. With only one way in and out, it’s ideal as a holding cell.
“You stay here,” the rebel bellows. He needn’t try so hard to intimidate us. I’m already terrified.
Jianyu walks around a bench seat in the middle of the locker room, and the soldier lashes out, yelling, “I said, here!” He strikes Jianyu on the shoulder with his rifle, causing his legs to buckle beneath him. I’m horrified. Neither of us took the soldier quite so literally, but it seems we’re not supposed to move from that exact spot.
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