Applegate, K A - Remnants 01 - The Mayflower Project

by The Mayflower Project (lit)

  Ah.

  You can go now. And put the lawn furniture back where it belongs, hear me?

  Jobs climbed down. MoSteel was standing between two men in dark business suits.

  FBI, one of the men announced unnecessarily.

  Hi.

  Well drive you boys home now.

  Okay.

  The agent, a gray-haired man named Boxer, shook his head sadly. He patted Jobss shoulder and said, Thats okay, son: You tried. Everyone wants to be a hero. It just aint that kind of situation, thats all. Its just not hero time.

  DAYS TO IMPACT:3

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NO ONE MAY SURVIVE.

  2Face prepared to leave the house in the same way she had every morning for the last couple of months. She dressed, made sure everything necessary was in her pouch, checked the battery charge on her link. And then she stood in front of the mirror and looked at her face, looked at it long and hard.

  No deception, that was the point. No fooling herself.

  She turned to the right, showing her left face: the smooth, olive skin, the unsettling juxtaposition of pale gray eye color beneath distinctly Asian eyelid. The strong chin, the too-pert nose.

  Then she turned the other way, revealing the burned, melted flesh. The eyelid drooped at the outside corner, making it seem the eye was eternally crying. Her cheek was like some aerial shot of a desert: pale ridges like sand dunes. Human caramel.

  The nose was untouched, but beneath her long black hair the right ear was nearly gone, a nub. The hearing on that side was an echo chamber, hollow.

  Her straight black hair was an illusion in part, grown longer on the top so she could conceal the ear and the fact that her hairline on that side began two inches higher than it once did.

  But that was the only trick she allowed. She would not wear shades to hide the damaged eye. She would not wear a scarf to conceal the melted wax skin that extended down her neck as far as her collarbone.

  This is what she looked like, at least till the next surgery. She had been beautiful all her life, naturally so, blessed by the fortuitous arrangement of the four letters along her DNA helix.

  And then, the fire. And the hideous results. And the change in how people reacted to her.

  It was fascinating. It was a lesson that no book taught. It was a spy-cam straight into the human soul. Everyone flinched when they saw her, that was to be expected, that was inevitable. How could they not? The human mind was prepared to see certain things and not others. So it wasnt the shocked looks that fascinated 2Face, rather it was what came next: the pity, the avoidance, the anger, the poor attempts to conceal disgust, the dishonesty, the bending over backward to pretend it wasnt there, and the outright ridicule and anger.

  The anger was most interesting. People were outraged that she would dare to show them something ugly. It was a social sin. Her existence forced people to confront the uncertainty of life. And of course the irony disturbed people most of all: the pretty girl turned ugly. Like they would have understood if shed been ugly to begin with. But a beauty turned hideous? What kind of rotten trick was that?

  Her birth name was Essence Hwang. Before the fire shed been called either SE for Essie, or WaterBaby, depending on whether it was a family member or someone from school. But once the bandages were unwrapped she knew she had to either hide from the truth or get right up in its face. She changed her name to 2Face. People thought it was rude, like she was forcing them to look.

  Maybe so, maybe it was rude. But she had learned a lot, most of it not encouraging. She almost welcomed the whole thing, except for the hideous pain shed endured earlier.

  Almost.

  She was stabilized, her health had been rebuilt, her scarred lungs were fully functional again. She was ready to start the series of reconstructive surgeries in exactly twenty-two days.

  A year from now the doctors said shed have her old face back, all of it, all of the eye-catching loveliness.

  Shed wondered if she should refuse the surgery. That old face felt like a mask now. Maybe she should go through life as 2Face, proud, defiant, a living reproach to superficiality.

  No, she told the mirror sadly. Youre not that brave.

  She headed downstairs intending to go running. She ran four miles a day. She hated it, but it was part of staying strong for the trauma of the operations. Part of strengthening her lungs. She would have preferred to swim, shed been on the swim team back in the before, but chlorine burned her still-too-tender scar tissue in places.

  She wore a running shark suit, skintight black from neck to ankles. She twisted her pouch around to the rear position, then pinned her link in place; the earpiece had a tendency to slip off. Heavy-use athletic links usually rested on two ears and she only had the one.

  She paused at the top of the stairs and stretched, using the stairs themselves to lengthen leg muscles. Then down the stairs at a quick trot, a nod to her dad in the kitchen, and past him toward the front door.

  Essie! he called.

  She paused, trotting in place to warm up and to demonstrate her impatience to be gone. What?

  Her father walked over to her and clumsily put his arms around her, hugging her tight. Her dad was old-country Chinese, though hed been a U.S. citizen for fifteen years; not a hugger, definitely not a hugger.

  2Face pulled off her link and gently pushed her father back. Whats the matter, Daddy? Is it Mom? Is something the matter with Mom?

  No, no, your mom is fine. Shes on her way home. She ran out to get a few things. Listen, something is happening. Something very bad is happening.

  He was agitated. Overwhelmed even. All 2Face could think was that it was her mother. What else would make her dad this upset?

  The fire. Hed learned about the fire. He knew.

  No, that was impossible. She couldnt start getting jumpy now.

  Daddy, tell me the truth: Has something happened to Mommy?

  He shook his head and drew her with him into the living room. It was the most formal room in the house: spare to the point of austerity. Three big flatscreens showed art that changed with the time of day. The furniture was low-slung, elongated, modern. Uncomfortable.

  2Face sat perched beside her father, turned toward him. She consciously sat this way so her undamaged side was facing him. She didnt mind provoking strangers, but her pain had been felt too deeply by her father.

  I have the biggest story of my life, he said. The biggest story of anyones life.

  A story? This was about some story? Her father was a producer for ABC news here in Miami. He worked closely with the networks investigative reporter, Carl Ramirez. Youre scaring me half to death over some work thing?

  She said it in a teasing tone, but her fathers scared, serious expression didnt flicker.

  Just then the door opened. 2Faces mother, Dawn Schulz-Hwang, came rushing in carrying two bags from the drugstore. Her mother said, I got the toothbrushes. Q-Tips. Deodorant. Travel-pack sizes, except for your migraine pills, Shy.

  She was agitated. 2Faces worry deepened. Why was her mother running out to buy travel-size toothpaste at this hour of the morning?

  Itll be okay, hon, Shy Hwang said. He turned back to his daughter. Weve had this story we were trying to get a grip on. We thought it was probably nothing. Rumor. Crazy stuff. But I told Carl I wanted to stay on it, I had a feeling about it. I didnt think it would be true, and it wasnt, not exactly. The story was that NASA had developed human hibernation technology and was going to use the technology to pull off a manned mission to Europa. You know, a moon of Jupiter.

  Yes, I know the moons of Jupiter, 2Face said impatiently.

  But that wasnt it. I reached this source, this guy who owed me a favor. He wouldnt talk except to give me a name: Mayflower. I used that name in a couple of places and all of a sudden word is coming down from on high to lay off. Then I reached out to the right person. She gave me chapter and verse. Chapter and verse and documentation.

  About a mission to Europa? 2Face asked.


  No. Thats a cover story. Mayflower is not about a mission to Europa. Mayflower is about a shuttle theyre rigging up with hibernation berths for eighty people. Actually seventy-eight people plus two crew.

  Why on Earth would they be doing that? his daughter asked.

  Because in three days an asteroid twice the size of Long Island is going to impact Earth, he said. It will be the dinosaurs all over again. Its possible that the planet may literally break apart. No one may survive.

  There was a long silence.

  Some other guys got parts of the story a couple days ago, ran with it, but they had no proof, so the storys dead. Me, I had the proof. But I spiked the story, Shy Hwang said.

  What? People have a right to know, 2Face said.

  He shook his head. No. If I had run with the story NASA would be mobbed with people trying to get on that shuttle. I killed the story in exchange for their agreement.

  What agreement?

  I buried the story, and we go on that shuttle. Three berths. For the three of us.

  What? When? How soon? 2Face asked, and unconsciously touched her marred cheek.

  Soon, her father said, unable to meet her gaze. Too soon.

  There was a knock at the front door and 2Faces mother spilled the drugstore bag.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE GOING?

  They didnt kick the door down; they were more polite than that. But when Special Agent Boxer, with two other FBI agents and two DSA agents in tow arrived at the Andreeson home, they were the Mongol hordes showing up for breakfast unannounced.

  Maam, FBI, Boxer said, and promptly pushed past Jobss mother, who was still chewing a toaster strudel and still in her bathrobe. The agents wore dark business suits, not the FBI logo windbreakers that Old Navy had begun to copy and sell for forty-two dollars.

  The Data Security Agency agents wore office-casual clothes that was their look.

  The FBI agents, two men and one woman, went through the house, polite but relentless, gathering up papers, floppies, nubs, links, and the schoolbooks of Jobs and his brother. The DSA agents plopped themselves down in front of Jennifer Andreesons computer and Jobss computer. His moms computer was networked with the house systems and all the other machines except for Jobss own, which he had firewalled.

  Edward was six, so he didnt burst out crying, but he did run to his mother and hug her knee, while she went hobbling after the agents saying, Is this really necessary? Isnt this awfully early? I assumed youd be here at a civilized hour. What are you doing? Put that down this instant.

  Jobs was interested to observe that his mothers or else! voice did not work on FBI agents.

  Tony Andreeson, Jobss dad, was still asleep when an FBI woman hit the lights and announced herself.

  Uh-huh. Could you do it more quietly? Jobss dad grumbled. He was a software aestheticist and had the sort of job where no one expected you to show up early. Or at all.

  Sir, you need to get up and get dressed. You have thirty minutes. Pack a small bag, like carry-on luggage size. No electronics of any type. If you need more we can send for it later.

  Where exactly are we going?

  That information is unavailable, the agent said with a bland smile.

  Jobs had already stuffed a few T-shirts into a bag and now he stood watching as the DSA guy searched his computer files and his Web files.

  Pretty good encryption on some of these, the DSA agent said.

  Thanks. Not good enough, obviously.

  The DSA man tapped away on the keyboard. He frowned. Looked back at Jobs, who kept his face carefully expressionless.

  Very cute: ghost files. I could hack in, but you could save me the time.

  Ghost files were files hidden within regular files. They used the regular file as camouflage. Jobs leaned over and used the calculator for a moment, then typed in a number-letter code.

  Pi to six places divided by yesterdays date I get, the agent said. What were the interposed letters?

  A girls name, Jobs said, hoping he sounded cool, not pathetic. Cordelia.

  Uh. The girl from last night. Shes a babe, huh?

  The ghost file opened. It contained the file hed stolen from Cordelias computer. It was video from a pinhole camera. Shed been wearing a pinhole cam on the night theyd kissed. That was where shed gotten the scared close-up of him.

  But it wasnt like that, hed realized, after viewing the data the first time. Cordelia had been hired to do video of the dance for the schools zine. Shed been wearing a privacy warning button. It had come off during her angry encounter with her now ex-boyfriend. She probably didnt know that. Anyway, Jobs was prepared to believe she didnt know. Maybe didnt even know she was still shooting.

  The DSA agent speed-scanned the video for a few seconds, got to the hideous moment when a sped-up Jobs leaned close for the great kiss that now seemed more comic than romantic, then closed the file without comment.

  She . . . Cordelia was . . . Jobs started to explain.

  The DSA agent shook his head. He was young for an agent, maybe fifteen years older than Jobs himself, though mostly bald. Dont worry, kid, you got nothing here thats going to shock me. She pinholed you, you swiped the file. Fair enough, right?

  No, that wasnt the way it was, Jobs wanted to say. But of course thats exactly how it was, at least on the surface. The kiss had meant everything to him when it lived only in memory. He should not have had to see it again. He should not have had to share it with a stranger. It should not be electronically stored data.

  From the living room came his mothers cry, What about the cats? I cant just leave them.

  Theyll be taken care of, maam. A lie. Jobs knew it was a lie clear in the other room. Of course his mother did, too, but she broke down crying at that point, and Edward hugged her.

  Tony Andreeson said, For Gods sake, Jen, you dont even like the cats.

  Let me put food out for them. Let me at least do that. Oh, Digits already so fat, if I leave out all this food . . . the vet will . . .

  Jobs met the DSA agents gaze. You know what all this is about, sir? Jobs asked.

  The agent said, Officially, no.

  Jobs nodded. He tried to think of something pithy to say, maybe something about the irony of his mother crying over a pair of cats when the whole world was coming to an end. But all he managed was, Its kind of disturbing.

  Yeah, the DSA guy said. And then he unhooked his link from his belt, tapped the screen, and showed Jobs a picture of three kids, all young, ranging maybe from two to six. The agent seemed about to say something, then lost focus as he gazed at the softly glowing photo.

  Jobs considered whether he should reveal the encrypted files hed programmed to transfer into the DSA agents decryption program. They were harmless files, not viruses, created only to prove he could do it, not to cause damage.

  No. It would hurt the guys feelings. No adult liked being outwitted by a teenager. And the guy had enough on his mind. He would be dead soon. Him, his wife, his three kids, everyone he cared about.

  I better go see if I can help my mom and dad, Jobs said. There was nothing he could say to this man. Nothing the maybe survivor could possibly say to the surely dead.

  Yeah. Then the agent shook himself free of the picture and said, Hey, you have some writing in here, looks like poems. You want a printout to take with you?

  Jobs shook his head. No. None of its any good. Besides . . . He let the thought hang, unable to find any way to explain the deep sense that the one way, the only way to do this was with a clean break. A bright clear line between a past already suffused with nostalgic golden light, and a terrible, desperate future. No. Thanks.

  Forty-five minutes after the FBI agents arrived, the Andreeson family was bundled into a dark-colored Suburban with black-out windows accompanied by a dark sedan and a windowless white van.

  They drove down familiar streets. Jobs looked out the window and knew beyond any doubting that he would never see this home, this street, this place again.

&nb
sp; Two blocks away they passed MoSteels house. A black Suburban, a black sedan, and a white van were parked in the front. Inside MoSteels house, in his room, some DSA agent would be going through his computer, unable to believe the nearly untouched, pristine emptiness of the thing.

  What do you mean you dont have any personal files? None? Have you ever even turned this thing on?

  That thought brought a smile to Jobss face.

  Edward was playing with a pair of action figures, making soft boosh, boosh explosion sounds.

  Where would the Rock hit? Would it hit far out in the ocean and send a wave to wash this idyllic place into the sea like a sand castle with the tide coming in?

  Would the Rock hit far across the planet and break the world apart, sending unimaginably huge wedges spinning off into space? Would this place, his place, still be intact when the sea boiled away, when the atmosphere ghosted away leaving the few still-living creatures to gasp in vacuum?

  Maybe the Rock would hit right here, boom, right on top of them. Maybe it would come ripping through the puffy clouds, scattering the fog, a hurricane wind rushing before it. Slam right here into this very place.

  He thought of asking his mother. She was in the seat in front of him. She would know, if anyone would. But she was crying softly. Jobs reached to put his hand on her shoulder. And once again, words failed him.

  He thought too much about what he ought to say, he knew that. He looked too long for the perfect words and ended up saying nothing at all. But what did you say at the end of the world?

  CHAPTER NINE

  YOU HAVE TO ASSUME THOSE TWO KIDS ARE ARMED AND DANGEROUS.

  A private jet took the Andreeson and Gonzalez families, Jobs and MoSteel, their respective parents, plus Edward, from the tiny Monterey Airport to a refueling stop in the middle of nowhere west Texas, then on to Cape Canaveral, Florida.

  A limousine hauled 2Face and her family from Miami, up the coast past blazing white beaches and sun-roasted tourists.

  In San Jose and Austin and Houston and Seattle, in Boston and Washington and New York, the FBI and DSA descended suddenly and swept up their charges and hustled them aboard the unmarked jets borrowed from the Defense Department.