“That’s one,” I agreed.
“We’re all together,” he said.
“Okay, two. You’re doing good. Go on.”
“I don’t have fleas.”
I was taken aback. “Uh, yep, I guess that’s true. That’s a good thing.” Couldn’t deny it.
Total looked pleased.
“I don’t have fleas,” said Iggy.
“Bet you do,” Gazzy said.
I sighed as the discussion dissolved into accusations and defenses. I would try again tomorrow. Sometimes this leader stuff was a huge pain in the butt.
20
Subterranean
The salt dome located a quarter of a mile below the earth’s surface could easily have held several football stadiums. Though salt domes occured naturally in many different places on the globe, this one happened to be beneath a certain country in middle Europe. During World Wars I and II, many national treasures had been stored here to avoid destruction by Allied bombs. Nowadays there was talk of turning this enormous network of caves and tunnels, most as wide as four-lane highways, into an impermeable storage center for radioactive waste.
“Since those fools keep producing nuclear power without having the slightest idea of what to do with its toxic by-products,” the Uber-Director muttered to himself. His small motorized chair wheeled silently over the smooth crystalline floors. Eventually, perhaps, this cavern would be sold, and the Uber-Director would have to relocate his base of operations. But for right now, this was a most acceptable, and unusually safe, headquarters.
Heavy lines of cable, some almost a foot in diameter, snaked down from the surface, bringing electricity, water, fresh air. In addition, mobile, self-contained air scrubbers hummed quietly as they scooted from room to room, trapping carbon dioxide and releasing oxygen. When they touched a barrier, they simply reversed and scooted off in another direction. The Uber-Director himself didn’t use that much oxygen — only 23 percent of his being required oxygen to function. But stale air was unpleasant.
The Uber-Director’s conference room was off the main tunnel. It adjoined his actual “office” and held an antique table whose top had been hewn from a single slab of rosewood. A bank of plasma screens, five wide and four high, covered most of one wall.
“Sir?”
A human assistant stood nearby, head lowered in respect.
“Have the arrangements been made?” asked the Uber-Director.
“Yes, sir. Everything is prepared. The auction preview can begin at your signal.”
“Excellent. Have all the parties accepted the invitation to attend?”
The assistant straightened proudly. “Yes, sir. All of them.”
“Then let’s begin.”
21
Subterranean
Electronic relays responded to the Uber-Director’s eye signals. The plasma screens popped on, each framing the leader of a different country or corporation. The men and women on the screens, aware that they were now live on camera, shifted in their seats and adjusted the minuscule microphones in front of them. If any of them were shocked by the Uber-Director’s unconventional, even grotesque, appearance, they showed no sign. They had been advised beforehand.
“Greetings,” said the Uber-Director in his odd, machinelike voice.
He interrupted the chorus of responses from his onscreen clients.
“To clarify what we’re doing here today, let me go over some salient points.” He turned his chair slightly and looked at another large screen to his right. It came on, showing a picture of six scruffy, scowling children. “These are the items up for auction. They come as a set. Though the set could be split up, it would not be wise, and would no doubt hamper the success of your mission.”
“Could you detail exactly what we’re looking at?” a dictator who had recently made CNN’s “Ten Worst Abusers of Human Rights” list broke in forcefully. “There have been rumors.”
“You are looking at six juvenile avian-human experiments in recombinant-DNA science. They are the most viable of any that have been produced. They can actually fly like birds.” The Uber-Director blinked twice, and the screen behind him showed a short video of six flying children. He was gratified by the gasps and murmurs coming from the viewers, but his “face” showed no expression. “They fly well,” he went on. “They have an uncanny sense of direction and superior regenerative and healing powers. They’re smart, wily, and relatively sturdy.”
“You sound as if you admire them.” A woman who had been nicknamed “the Iron Maiden of Silicon Valley” leaned forward.
“Admire?” said the Uber-Director. “No. Not at all. To me they are genetic accidents, mistakes.” No one dared mention his own form. “Nor am I so foolish as to underestimate them, as my predecessors have.”
There were a few seconds of silence, as the potential bidders contemplated the Uber-Director and the possibilities of his offered product. Then he blinked again, and the screen behind him went blank.
“You have received your packets of information,” he said. “I will answer no more questions. I will alert you as to when and where the bidding will take place. Please be aware that the opening bid is five hundred million dollars.”
More murmurs broke out from the wall of screens.
The Uber-Director permitted himself a slight smile. “After all, it is difficult to put a price on the ability to rule the world.”
22
Terranean
“The demonstration is ready, sir.” The assistant stood with head typically bowed, barely managing to avoid saying “My Lord” or even “Your Grace.” That was the trouble with old-fashioned humans. Too ruled by emotion, too easily cowed. There would be no place for them in the New Age.
With a blink, the Uber-Director gave permission to begin.
Ten yards above him, a slight shadow signaled an existing cave. His informants had told him the bird kids often rested in caves. He hoped this demonstration would be more successful than the last.
“Why hasn’t it beg —,” he started to ask, only to have a movement catch his eye and draw it upward. He looked directly at the rock wall but saw nothing. Then — there! The camouflage was excellent. Only a small patch of skin matrix was visible as the soldier moved sideways across the rock, like a crab. By focusing intently and increasing his internal zoom by 400 percent, the Uber-Director could now see a swarm of soldiers moving toward the opening in the rock face.
One of them had shot a fine, almost invisible net over the cave opening. The Uber-Director smiled. Even at this magnification, he had to concentrate hard to see the occasional patches of matrix. His assistant frowned and squinted at the rock wall. An ordinary human would have a great deal of trouble spotting these new soldiers.
With his mind, the Uber-Director turned on a channel that allowed him to listen in on the coded transmissions between the soldier units. This generation, Generation J, had been endowed with some intelligence and only rudimentary emotion, but they seemed to be using and channeling them more effectively than their predecessors.
They were much more controllable than either Erasers or their flying-machine replacements, and smart enough to make quick decisions and improvise.
Earlier versions had been smarter — too smart. Smart enough to question orders, to want to make their own decisions. Others had had only a machine’s ability to follow orders. Their ability to think on their feet, to make snap decisions, to adapt to changing circumstances, had been practically nonexistent.
Even more disastrous had been Generations D through G. Either they were so blood hungry that they couldn’t be controlled once they scented their prey, or their empathy was so heightened that they couldn’t bring themselves to actually kill anything.
The soldiers paused, patched into one impulse, one global command. Then they quickly detached the netting and sprang into the cave entrance. Moving as one, they left no space to escape.
Several of the units reappeared at the cave’s entrance. They tossed down mannequins filled w
ith hamburger, buzzing with flies. They had not eaten them. They had followed their orders and captured their prey. Now they raised their arms in victory.
The Uber-Director blinked at his assistant, who was gazing at the mannequins with dismay and revulsion.
“Yes, sir.” The assistant opened a small black suitcase. It contained a highly efficient electric generator.
The Uber-Director sent his soldiers the message, and instantly they swarmed down the rock wall like spiders, moving surely and easily over a surface with few ridges, no handholds.
The assistant was afraid of them but knew not to show it. The soldiers circled him, their faces expressionless.
“Here,” the assistant muttered nervously. One soldier stepped forward, his left shoulder turned to the assistant. Hands trembling slightly, the assistant hooked the generator to the soldier’s shoulder and turned it on. A quick burst of electricity made the soldier jolt and stiffen, then relax. His face smoothed. The next soldier stepped up.
A burst of electricity acted like a drug on this series, both exciting and calming them. The soldiers craved it, and it was a useful reward. When they didn’t get it, their behavior became unpredictable and violent. It was a drawback, a design flaw.
But one they were working on.
23
“WHERE ARE WE HEADED NEXT, MAX?” Nudge carefully turned her hot dog over the small open fire.
I had been thinking about just that all day. “Chili?” I stirred the open can, nestled among the burning embers, with a clean, peeled stick.
Gazzy held out his hot dog and I glopped some chili onto it. Not a tidy process.
“Let’s go back to France,” said Nudge. “I loved France.”
“Yeah, France was nice,” I agreed. “Except for the four Itex branches.”
Recently we’d done the Bird Kids’ Whirlwind Tour of Europe, focusing on various spots for imprisonment and abuse, run by madmen and madwomen under the guise of the Itexicon Corporation, mingled with pastry and trendy European fashion. Our lives were nothing if not eclectic.
“How about Canada?” Iggy suggested. “Seems cool.”
“Hm,” I said. To tell the truth, I hadn’t actually decided yet. Nowhere seemed far enough away from Itex minions or the School or the Institute or any of the other faceless entities that seemed bent on using or destroying us. I wanted to get far, far away from everyone.
Iggy felt for trash on the ground, stuffing it into a plastic grocery bag. I heard him mutter, “White. Tan. Ooh, clear, weird. Tan. Blue,” as he touched various things.
“Oh, guess what,” said Angel, taking a bite of hot dog. Hearing those words from Angel always made me tense up. “I have a new skill!”
Oh, great. Fang and I made appalled faces at each other over Angel’s head.
“You mean — besides the talking-to-fish stuff?” I asked cautiously.
She nodded.
Oh, holy mud, I thought, hoping she hadn’t suddenly developed the ability to shoot lightning out of her eyes. Or something.
“Um, what is it?” Please let me not freak out at the answer.
“Look.” She raised her head and looked up into my face. The whole flock leaned closer, watching her. I searched Angel’s face, praying that horns wouldn’t pop out of her forehead. I was about to ask what her skill was, when I saw it.
“See?” she said.
“Uh, yeah,” I answered, staring. Staring at her smooth, tan skin, dark brown eyes, her much straighter brown hair.
“I can change how I look!” she said unnecessarily.
“Uh-huh, yep, I see that,” I said.
“Show them bird girl,” said Total. “I love that one.”
Angel smiled. While we all waited, holding our breath, she began to change again. Two minutes later, we had a blue bird of paradise with Angel’s eyes. I mean, she still had a human shape. But her face and head were covered with fine turquoise feathers and she had two spectacular plumes. It was the weirdest freaking thing I’d ever seen, and believe me when I tell you, that’s saying something.
She held out slender feathery hands and wiggled her fingers.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Nudge. “That is so awesome.”
Angel smiled and, just as quickly, turned back into herself. “So far I can only do those two,” she said. “But I bet if I practice, I can do other stuff.”
“Uh-huh,” I said weakly.
“How come she can do that and I can’t?” the Gasman asked.
“You’re siblings, not twins,” I said, giving mental thanks.
“We’re all changing a lot,” said Nudge, sounding worried. “We’re changing in ways they didn’t plan, didn’t expect.”
“Yeah,” said Iggy. “By the end of the week, we’ll be tadpoles.”
“Iggy,” said Nudge, “I’m serious. We don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”
I looked at my flock. Fang was guarded; the rest looked varying degrees of anxious. Time to put on my leader hat.
“Listen up, guys,” I said, sounding calm and in charge. I should be on Broadway, I really should. “It’s true we’re changing, and in ways they didn’t program. And we have no idea what’s going to happen next. But you know what? No one else does either. It’s the one way that we’re like the rest of all the people out there.” I waved my arms to demonstrate “world.”
“No one ever knows what’s going to happen next,” I went on. “People change all the time, and they’re not sure how they’ll end up. They might be short or tall, able to play the piano or not; they might have their mom’s eyes or their dad’s nose or their uncle’s bald spot. It’s always a mystery. It’s the one constant, everywhere, with everyone. We’re just a little more exciting, a little cooler than most.”
Was I good or was I good?
My flock looked calmer, more cheerful. They nodded and smiled.
“Okay, now,” I said more briskly. “Time for bed.” I held my fist out. One by one, my flock stacked theirs on top, and then we headed up into the trees to sleep the sleep of the innocent.
Well, okay, maybe not so innocent. But the sleep of the much less guilty than others, for sure.
24
You are reading Fang’s Blog. Welcome!
You are visitor number: 98,345
Greetings, faithful readers. This site has had over 600,000 hits, which is unbelievable. It’s not like we’re here dropping Mentos into Coke bottles or anything. This is just us. But I’m glad you’ve tuned in.
The big news of today is that we’ve all decided to settle down and go to regular school and stuff, and Fox is going to make a reality TV series out of it, called Bird Kids in the House! They’ll have like a hundred cameras all over the place, and they can film Iggy cooking and Angel doing her weird stuff, and Total listening to his iPod.
They can film Max leading.
Nah, I’m just kidding. No reality series. Our lives are probably a little too real for most people, if you know what I’m saying. Although, hey, if anyone from Fox is reading this, make us an offer!
We’re not sure what’s going to happen next. After our weird meetings in DC, we’re craving more fresh air and fewer desk jockeys. But it’s starting to occur to me (forgive me if I’ve been a little slow) that maybe we, the flock, I mean, should be working toward something besides just trying to eat enough every day. For a long time, our goal was to find our parents. And look how well that turned out for us. Now we’re fresh out of goals, and you know what? It feels a little — tame. I mean, if we’re not out there butting heads with the buttheads that are destroying the world, then what are we doing? What’s our point? Why are we here?
Granted, our options are somewhat limited, given the number of people who want to kill us, or worse. Plus, I understand there are pesky child-labor laws that will get in our way. Frankly, though we can do all sorts of cool stuff, we’re not actually qualified for a lot of occupations. Like, any occupation that requires actual education. Which pretty much leaves the entertainment industry.
But I’ve been thinking . . . maybe we could become spokesmutants. For different causes. We could be the poster children for both animal and child abuse, for example.
If anyone has any answers, drop me a line.
— Fang out
Part Two
ICE PRINCES AND PRINCESSES
25
MAX. FLY TO THESE COORDINATES. I rubbed my eyes, hoping it had been a dream. Then a topographic map flashed into my brain, even as the Voice gave the directions. I groaned inwardly, hoping the Voice could hear it. So much for our bit of downtime. As I watched the flock slowly wake up, the Voice continued to give me instructions.
Then it said something amazing. Your mom is waiting for you.
“Okay, everyone up!” I said, clapping my hands. “Up and at ’em! It’s a whole new day!”
“I’m hungry,” said Nudge, yawning. “You know what would be good? Like, one of those sausage McHeart-Attack things. The biscuit things. I want about eight of ’em.” She stood up and balanced on her branch, brushing off jeans that had long since reached the “grimy” crisis point.
“We’ll eat on the way,” I said. “The Voice says we have to go someplace, meet my mom.”
“Could it be a trap?” Angel looked worried.
“It can always be a trap, sweetie,” I said, and jumped out into the air.
Trap, schmap. The glory of flying was still the glory of flying. This morning was crisp, cold, and drenched with sunlight. We flew above the clouds for almost an hour, making one fueling stop at a fast-food place. (If I were a bazillionaire, I’d start a chain of healthy fast-food restaurants, except stuff on the menu would actually taste good and people would want to eat it. Smoothies, little dumplings. I could go on.)
But this morning was so beautiful that we couldn’t worry about whether we were flying toward a trap or whether our clothes needed washing. This morning it was us plus air, and we soared and floated and played in updrafts, and it was as though all the jagged puzzle pieces of our weird lives had come together perfectly, here and now.
The Final Warning Page 5
