Invasive Species
Page 38
Near the end, he liked most to sit on the beach and watch Malcolm, Nick, and their team at work. To sit and dream of what was to come, even if he knew he wouldn’t be part of it.
The next New World.
At his funeral, everyone cried. Even Clare, though she didn’t want anyone to notice.
Me? I thought I’d never stop crying. I hadn’t felt like a little girl for a long time, maybe not ever, but I did then. When I think of it, I still do.
* * *
AS I SAID, the thieves have the run of a big world these days, but maybe it’s not as comfortable for them as it used to be. When his airplane was still working, Malcolm reported that he saw fewer and fewer every trip. They’d killed or used up too many hosts in their last great raid, and too many possible other hosts (people, dogs, horses, cattle, even rats) had died off in the chaos that followed.
The thief population had to crash, and it did. That’s how things work in nature. No one escapes unscathed.
They’ll never go extinct, of course. They’re here to stay. We’re always going to have to live alongside them.
Dad said that the human race once believed it owned the world. No one thinks that way anymore. Now we consider ourselves lucky just to get to live on it for a while.
* * *
I MIGHT NOT be related to Dad by blood, but I seem to have inherited his love of exploration. (He called it his itchy feet.) So when Malcolm’s baby, the obsession that kept him—and whoever else he could dragoon into helping—busy every waking hour for a decade, was finally done, I was the first to sign up.
Malcolm’s baby: a gorgeous square-rigged sailing ship built from tropical hardwood and equipped for ocean travel. Modeled after the great expeditionary craft that crossed the seas in the Last World, before the steam engine and the silicon chip and nuclear power and satellites took over.
After Dad died, Malcolm named it the Trey Gilliard. I painted the letters on the bow.
We cast off tomorrow morning. As many as Refugia can spare are going: doctors and scientists and those who, like me, just want to see what lies on the other side of the horizon.
I’m bringing a pad and a bag of colored pencils along, so when we come back I can show you all what the New World looks like.
* * *
WE’RE PLANNING TO find out who else is out there. Because there must be others, somewhere, living in their own Refugias. Everyone is sure of it, even Clare Shapiro. We have to believe we’re not alone.
Dad often spoke of one Refugia he was positive still survived in the highlands of the island of New Guinea.
“You have an uncle and aunt there,” he told me and Jack, right near the end. “And cousins, too. I want you to meet them.”
We will, Dad. I promise.
—Kaitlin Finneran Gilliard,
Founder and Citizen of Refugia