by M. L. Banner
CICADA
(A Stone Age World Novel)
The Cicada Series Book 1
by
M.L. Banner
Copyright © 2015 by M.L. Banner,
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-9908741-2-5 (Paperback)
ASIN: B0137R8018 (eBook)
First Edition: 8/2015
CICADA is an original work of fiction.
The characters and dialogs are the products of this author’s vivid imagination.
Most of the science and the historical incidents described in this novel are based on reality, and so are its warnings.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art: Damonza.com
Editor: Karen Conlin
Proofreader: Sara Jones
Formatting: Polgarus Studio
Published by
www.toesinthewaterpublishing.com
The Stone Age World
An apocalyptic solar storm takes the world into a new Stone Age
“A great apocalyptic story!”
Stone Age (Volume #1) – The Event caught all but a few by surprise
Download HERE
DESOLATION (Volume #2) – Survival is the only option during the new Stone Age
Download HERE
Stone Age Shorts
Short stories set in the Stone Age World
Max’s Epoch –Find out what happens to Stone Age’s favorite Character, Max Thompson
Download HERE for FREE
Time Slip – A scientist attempts to use a slip in time to save his wife, but ends up in a new Stone Age
Download HERE
The Cicada Series
Set in the Stone Age World.
Picks up where DESOLATION left off
CICADA: Book 1 – No safety in a post-apocalyptic world
REMNANTS: Book 2– Coming Fall 2015
Download HERE
NEW CICADA: Book 3 – Coming 2015/2016
Download HERE
For more on the Cicada Series, go to:
http://stoneageseries.com/cicada
Want more about the Stone Age World?
www.StoneAgeSeries.com
Stone Age World facts vs. fiction; what’s next; extra material not in the books; more
Prelude
Kuwait City, Kuwait
1991
The RPG’s explosion tore through the C130's wing, hitting it in the exact spot needed to disable the ailerons and send it helplessly to the ground. It was pure dumb luck that the bastards hit his plane, since most Iraqi soldiers couldn’t hit the broadside of one of Sadam’s palaces. This was his tenth time riding in the back of one of these big-bellied planes and lately, because the Iraqi troops were taking potshots at their aircraft with their AKs and RPGs, US pilots had adopted the custom of landing in a corkscrew pattern, making their moving target much more difficult to hit. This asshole scored a bullseye.
The side trip to Camp Doha in Kuwait was starting to look like a stupid idea. He was headed home in a few days and certainly didn’t need to see any more action, now that the war—if you could call the trouncing delivered by Operation Desert Storm a war—had ended almost as quickly as it started. But this was his own mission now, not the Army’s. And this mission would be far more important than any the Army could have sent him on: if this mission was successful, one day he would save the world.
Maxwell Thompson clutched the web-netting, bracing for the impact from their heavy landing—the insurgent who shot them down would tell his brothers it was a crash. Max wasn’t too worried, though, as these things rarely exploded and most injuries or deaths were from unsecured equipment crushing its passengers; theirs was empty but for him. Just in case, he mouthed the words to a well-rehearsed prayer to God. It was entirely up to Him and the pilot, what happened next.
A few hours later, Max found the man he was looking for sitting alone at a small table in the corner of the makeshift bar, nursing a brandy. The pub was serious, like most drinking establishments in Kuwait City; it had sprung up quietly, without signage or fanfare so as to not piss off the local Muslim clerics who took offense to such public activities.
It was a small place and one he had never visited before; he had tried many of the pubs in this industrial city back when he found his solace at the bottom of the bottle. This one was new, having just opened a few days ago. Yet it was packed with mostly off-duty officers and contractors, foreign and American. It was murky and boiling inside, with two shafts of light shooting through the only translucent areas of a single, dirty windowpane. Dust from the dirt floor filled the air, kicked up by the boots of the pub’s patrons.
Max quickly grabbed his order and the only unused chair and parked it and himself on the other side of the man’s table, not asking for permission. He took a sip of his Iraqi coffee. The bitterness of its grounds, many still floating on the black liquid’s surface, filled his senses instantly. His head started to pulse from the combo of the caffeine jolt and the bump he had sustained earlier in this morning’s hard landing. But he didn’t care; he found his man.
The man finally looked up from his brandy, still lost in thought and only slightly acknowledging his new guest. “Didn’t think anyone but the locals drank that shit. You got something against alcohol?” the man said and took a small sip from his glass.
“Both are bad habits; this is the one I didn’t give up. Are you Preston Tanner?”
Preston looked up again, this time scrutinizing the stranger, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared.
Max continued, “I’m Maxwell Thompson, and I’d like to offer you a job.”
PART I
“Cicada will be a new hope for humanity, combining the most robust scientific minds with the best technology and top-of-the-line security. Those living and working at Cicada will feel safe and enjoy an environment that will enable them to find solutions to the world’s problems when the apocalypse comes.”
- Maxwell Thompson 1989
An inscription marked on the capstone of Cicada’s north gate’s wall
1.
Cicada
One Year A.E.
“Welcome to Cicada!” Preston bellowed to the Kings, his voice a weak volley against the rapid gunfire's campaign being waged on the other side of the wall. He continued to grin, which seemed grossly disconnected from what was going on around them.
The guards retreated. Those on the wall refocused their attention outward perhaps on the next wave of oncoming squatters.
Bill King wrapped his mitts around Preston’s offered hand, clamping down like a vise grip and pumping vigorously. “We’re so glad to be here.”
Max thought Bill might puke right then. The strain of their gunfight outside the walls must have been catching up with him.
Bill continued, “Max told us about this place and said it was safe…” His voice vibrated with tension.
Lisa, with tears streaming down her checks, pushed past him and threw her arms around Preston. “Thank you for letting us in.” Realizing she was making a scene, she receded, wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to regain composure while looking back to Sally, perhaps hoping she was filled with similar relief.
“…and this is my daughter, Sally,” Bill said, his voice raspy, no doubt dried by another day of scorching heat.
A dying scream, although muffled by the wall, made them all stutter and gulp a mouthful of dusty air.
Sally remained stationary, silent and nearly motionless, staring past Preston.
Max’s heart weighed heavy, watching this. They had been through so much alrea
dy, and then he had convinced them to leave their other daughter, son-in-law and new grandson at a place they could have made a home, a safe place. The whole time in Mexico, then in New Mexico, and throughout their journey, he told them Cicada would be safe. Now even he was starting to doubt this after yet another gunfight, this time outside Cicada’s walls.
A series of pops—distinctive of a 9mm handgun—erupted behind the heavy gate they had just come through, making Sally and Lisa jerk.
“We’re going inside,” Max announced and pushed Lisa and Sally toward the entrance in the large fence line surrounding the entire compound, separating it from the rest of Cicada’s grounds. Bill followed close behind.
“Of course; let’s go into Comms, at least until this episode is over.” Preston’s voice was steady, as if he were proposing nothing more than a momentary break from the hot sun.
Max glanced back and caught Bill gawking, first at the structure towering above them then at the whole complex; only now would he get a sense of the sheer size of Cicada.
Confirming his thoughts, Bill sputtered, “Wow, this place is enormous!”
Max had told them several times that it looked like the Roman Coliseum, although the Coliseum would have looked very small by comparison. “It’s one hundred seventy-six acres and it’s two and one-half miles around the oval wall,” Max stated reflexively, like some bored tourist guide wanting to finish his tour and get home. It wasn’t boredom, but hypersensitivity about their security that caused Max to scrutinize every square inch of their surroundings as he pushed his friends closer to the fencing. He sensed someone watching them from above and waved at the top of the tower.
An arm thrust out over a railing at the highest point in Cicada and waved back.
“Was that Shingles on watch?” Max yelled back.
Preston caught up and passed them, chirping, “Yep.” He held open the single door in the thick metal barrier that bisected the guard tower, and they all walked through.
“How often are the attacks?”
“Two to three times a week.”
Additional volleys popped from the other side of the wall, more muted than those from moments ago. Perhaps this episode was almost over.
“The Squatts were first congregating at the east gate. We thought you were part of a group headed to the north gate.”
Max knew this was Preston offering his excuse of why they were almost shot because they were left waiting so long. His anger was boiling up, getting ready to explode. Safety first.
He steered the Kings into a T-intersection, past the tower and another large building called “Residences.” They turned toward the tower and through a door that read “Comms” and below that “Managers’ Offices.” It was a rather plain-looking, white, two-story structure separated from the tower and Operations underneath by a pea-gravel road. Max had always thought that for a building containing the brains of the whole complex, it should have looked more… complex.
Once they were all inside, Preston closed the door behind them.
“So what the hell’s with all the squatters on our land?” Max crossed his arms and glowered at his aide.
Preston walked by them, opened a mini-refrigerator, pulled out five bottles of water and handed them out.
“It’s cold!” Sally moaned, pressing it up against her sticky head.
Lisa gulped hers down as she noticed the room was air-conditioned. “Mmmm.”
“Where are the radios, and do they even work?” Bill took in the comfortable two-story space with welcoming sofas and inviting armchairs, worthy of an upscale doctor’s reception area and belied by the complex’s plain exterior.
“The Comms room and our offices are up the stairs behind me. This is the reception area, but I thought you would be more comfy here.”
“So, explain the squatters,” Max insisted.
“If you haven’t noticed, they have guns,” Preston answered sarcastically, apparently forgetting who was the boss and who the employee.
“That’s why we have the sonic weapons among the many defenses you designed into Cicada for everyone’s safety.”
Bill, now relaxing a little, sat down and watched the fireworks.
“Mr. Thompson”—Preston sank into one of the couches—“I’m afraid that none of our high-tech weapons are working. When we step out of our shielded environments, most of our electronics short out when we try to use them.”
“So shoot the bastards that come too close. Others will learn pretty damn quickly not to come close again.”
“There’s just too many of them to sit on top of the walls and shoot each one.”
“Okay, fine. So, what are you doing instead?”
“We’ve just let them be, hoping they would grow weary and finally go away.”
“How’s that working?” He was very close to losing his temper.
“Not very well, Mr. Thompson.” Preston looked down, feeling the full weight of his boss’ scorn.
Max realized he was losing control and all eyes were on him. He decided this was neither the time nor the place for this argument. “Who’s manning Comms now?”
“A young man, Sally’s age, named Webber. You wouldn’t know him. He came to us by solving the Cicada puzzle: a computer and electronics genius.”
Sally’s ears perked up; she was interested in this part of the conversation, and at the mention of something normal, her frayed nerves calmed a little.
“He usually works with a woman named Magdalena. She’s—”
“Magdalena Garcia’s here?” Max sang, his face instantly changing from irritated to gleeful. “Is she in Comms now?”
“That’s right; I forgot that you helped her with some trouble in Mexico.”
The Kings’ heads moved back and forth, watching the argumentative volleys like a verbal tennis match. The ball was now in Max’s court. Since none of them had heard this story, they watched expectantly for his next swing.
Max forfeited the match and was already mounting the stairs along the west wall to the Comms room.
“She’s not there right now. She had swing, and then was up late working on a project all last night. She’s probably asleep. Would you like her room number?” Preston didn’t even try to hold back a smirk.
Max snorted just a little. Truth was he would have loved to have seen Magdalena, just not in that way. “Hi Webber, I’m Maxwell Thompson.” Max was sincerely interested in meeting Webber—the man who solved the Cicada puzzle—knowing what a vital role he played at Cicada. Mostly, though, he wanted to get away from being the object of their attention. He just didn’t want to have to explain Magdalena. At this point, he was wondering about his feelings for a woman who was way too young for him.
Sally followed him through the door while her eyes took in all the equipment in the immediate room and beyond. Communications had a half-moon console desk at its center, bound by a dozen or so monitors, which looked out to another room separated by a floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas wall. This was where they kept the good stuff; it was a clean room, with probably the nicest equipment Sally had ever seen. And she had seen some nice gear, as she had often tested the latest gadgets with the most cutting-edge tech before anyone else. Back before the world ended.
Max felt sorry for her because until now, she had been out of place in this world without much technology.
“Holy shit, is that a Cray XK7?”
“I wish. It’s a CS though. Still pretty powerful,” Webber said, getting up from his desk chair to meet his boss and Cicada’s newest residents, especially the pretty one.
“I should say so, with an Rpeak of six petaflops… I’m just amazed to even see a working computer, much less what was among the ten fastest on the planet before the Event.”
“Mr. Thompson, I sure as hell hope she’s working with Mags and me,” said a beaming Webber. “Warren Webber.” He offered his hand enthusiastically.
“Sally. Sally King.” She shook quickly, a faint blush on her skin.
Preston was leaning
in the doorway. “Let’s give the Kings some time to get settled first, then maybe—”
The first bang sounded like a paper bag popping outside.
However, the second was a thundering boom that shook even the solid structure around them.
“What the hell?” Preston chirped, his head lifted, as he tried to get a sense of what and where the explosions came from.
“Preston, with me! The rest of you, stay here.”
Max jogged outside with Preston in tow. Sally and Lisa nervously looked at each other, then at Webber, but they didn’t see Bill, who had followed the other two.
Max ran toward the north gate, but Preston rushed ahead and veered off toward the nearest wall, using it for cover. One man stood on the top of each side of the gate, above them now, both firing their automatic weapons at the combatants on the other side. The massive gate was pitched slightly outward; the bottom was bent equally inward, one of its huge hinges twisted and mangled—the obvious focus of their blast. Max could see movement through an opening to the other side.
He started to follow Preston to a safe position out of the open, when he heard someone right behind him. Spinning around and seeing it was Bill, Max barked, “I told you to stay put in Comms.”
