Part 5 (1/2)

Everett frowned. ”We're full up on three of the shuttles already, and one of the shuttles needs to carry the terraforming machines.”

”Lucas needs to check if those are still in working order. It's been a few hundred years since they were taken apart and stored.”

”Tell him to hurry it up then. We need to know in order to calculate volume and weight.”

Jason shrugged and teleported away, carrying Everett's concerns with him. Lucas didn't even look up from the datapad in his hands as Jason finished reporting. ”Everything will fit. If we need to make s.p.a.ce for the weight, we'll leave people behind.”

Jason stared at him. ”You said we couldn't risk leaving any evidence of our pa.s.sage.”

”No one will think to look for bodies in the water. Get back to transporting these things to the shuttles. Matron has a stack ready for you in the second vault.”

Jason left. He knew better than to argue with the man who still had an iron grip on their lives.

It took hours of nonstop cataloguing, transferring, and pure grunt work to get the job done. Seeds were infinitesimal in weight, but with the amount they were transporting, it quickly added up. Toward the end, they ripped open boxes, taking just one or two packets of the remaining seeds, or just one vial of DNA, one stored embryo. For the more important items-such as algae and countless tree seeds and grains-the amounts were never reduced.

Only when the last cargo door closed and everyone was settled in for the flight did Lucas strap himself into the navigator's seat in Alpha shuttle. Matron was piloting again, and Threnody was laid out between them, unconscious and liable to remain that way for hours. The flight deck was set at a higher temperature to accommodate her.

Matron yawned through the preflight procedure. After the fifth yawn, she picked up a hypospray nearby and pressed it against her throat, dosing herself with a shot of adrenaline. A minute or so later, Lucas could feel the engines start up through the soles of his boots.

”Didn't think we'd make it this far,” Matron said as she settled her hands on the stick and activated the vertical takeoff and landing.

”Get us in the air,” Lucas said.

Matron did as she was told in silence, launching the shuttle and feeling the weight of the cargo in the jerk of the stick. They had a heavy load in the shuttle's belly, one more precious than anything her scavengers had ever discovered in the broken, abandoned cities of America. For all the credit that the government issued, for all the elite perks that one could have by gaining entrance into the Registry, clean DNA wasn't worth anything compared to what nine shuttles ferried out of Spitsbergen one late-August morning.

Behind them, its doors shut but not locked, the Svalbard Global Seed and Gene Bank was just as silent, just as cold as it had been for centuries.

They flew north, climbing over the Arctic Ocean, heading for the Pacific. The midnight sun guided their way, a constant bright circle beyond the clouds.

PART TWO.

Cognizance.

SESSION DATE: 2128.03.18.

LOCATION: Inst.i.tute of Psionics Research.

CLEARANCE ID: Dr. Amy Bennett.

SUBJECT: 2581.

FILE NUMBER: 251.

The doctor watches Aisling play with a deck of cards. The child's small hands spread the plain, white rectangles across the table in a shapeless mess. She picks cards at random and lays them before her in a line.

”You never ask how I do it,” Aisling says as she pushes the cards together. ”Why?”

”Would you tell us if we did?” the doctor replies.

The girl tucks a piece of dark hair behind one small ear, studying the cards. ”No.”

”That's why, Aisling.”

”But you're a doctor. Doctors should ask questions.”

”We do.”

”Not the right ones.” Aisling smiles as she flips over a card, revealing a crimson red square on its face and nothing else. ”Pick a card, any card. I can tell you the future.”

”Would it be the right one?” The doctor leans forward to catch the child's gaze with her own. ”Would you help us survive?”

Aisling flips more cards over, one at a time, until a line of shapes and symbols lie before her. She picks a card seemingly at random, holding it up beside her bleached-out violet eyes, the color of the shape a deep, dark blue. ”My brother has eyes like this.”

”Where is Matthew, Aisling?”

Aisling scoots the card as far across the table as her small arm will stretch. ”You can't have him.”

SIX.

AUGUST 2379.

THE HAGUE, THE NETHERLANDS.

Beneath the Peace Palace lay a city of underground tunnels and bunkers. Its protective warrens once housed thousands of people during the Border Wars and still held their descendants today. The most well-guarded bunkers were reserved for those who served on the World Court. The business of ruling, however, was always conducted aboveground.

Sharra Gervais was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and gorgeous, human down to her very registered DNA. She was Erik's wife, his perfect piece of femininity; a woman who spent the majority of her time raising a daughter that he rarely saw or interacted with unless for a public event. The world press adored those family moments; Sharra hated the lie she was living. But she knew her role and played it well, portraying the good wife the world expected her to be. She sat in the area reserved for the families of those serving on the World Court, hands clasped in her lap, looking at her husband as he stood before the cameras of the world press.

He still wore his robes of office, the black synthfabric soaking up the glare from the cameras. Beneath the robe, Sharra knew he wore a perfectly tailored business suit in charcoal gray and pinstripes, the crisp whiteness of his hidden s.h.i.+rt a match for her dress. She smoothed her hands over the synthfabric resting against her thighs. White was such an expensive color to keep clean.

”I admire your husband's resolve when it comes to the safety of society,” Fatima Omar said softly. The much younger woman sitting to Sharra's left wore a far less fas.h.i.+onable outfit, one that covered nearly every centimeter of her body. The long skirt and blouse were modestly cut, her hijab a demure black with little adornment save for a tiny amount of embroidery along the edges. Her husband, Mohammad, was a justice who stood in solid support of Erik.

”Yes,” Sharra said absently, her attention focused on the spectacle before her. The reporters took up much of the area inside the renovated pressroom, with its small stage and guarded section for families and dignitaries who didn't merit a place before the microphones of the world press.

”-cannot condone what happened in Buffalo,” Erik said. ”The families of those who lost their lives during the cowardly attacks by rogue psions will be compensated, as is the law. The Strykers Syndicate is reviewing how they organize and initiate their missions. This will not happen again. Punishment has been administered to those responsible for the break in the chain of command.”

Killing dogs makes people happy, Sharra thought, feeling the corner of her mouth tick minutely upward. But it doesn't solve the problem, Erik.