“Is it Brittany Taylor?” I blurt it out before I can stop myself.
“No, it’s that idiot Donna Simone. Brittany’s not at Yorktown anymore. She dropped out last fall.”
My stomach lurches. “Dropped out?”
“Yeah, it was a big deal when it happened. She just didn’t show up at school one morning. Her parents didn’t know where she went, so they called the police, and then the cops interviewed her friends. They didn’t find her until two weeks later. She was in New York City, living in a crappy basement with some other runaways.”
This is a total surprise. It’s so unexpected that it seems absurd. I know this kind of thing happens all the time—kids get into fights with their parents, drop out of school, run away from home—but I can’t imagine it happening to Brittany. “So what did the cops do? Did they bring her home?”
“That’s what I heard, but a month later she ran away again. According to the rumors, she’s back in the city now, back with the other street kids, and her parents have basically given up on her. Some people say she was having problems at school, bad grades, whatever. But I think her real problem was at home, you know?”
I feel dizzy. I thought Brittany was still a cheerleader. I imagined her that way in my VR program because that’s how I saw her: always happy and full of spirit. She used to practice her cheerleading routines in her backyard, working on her cartwheels and flips until it was too dark to see. Her house was on the other side of town, almost a mile from ours, but when she finished practicing she’d run all the way down Greenwood Street so she could show me the latest stunt she’d mastered. She’d dash into our living room and do a flip or a handstand while I watched from my wheelchair. Sometimes she’d fall to the floor with a thump and Dad would come running to see if I was all right and he’d find Brittany sprawled on the carpet, laughing like crazy. I can’t picture this girl as a runaway. It’s unthinkable. It’s absurd.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I forget about Shannon. Then I feel her hand on my right arm, gently gripping me above the elbow. She looks me in the eye. “Was Brittany your girlfriend?”
I shake my head. “No. Not really.”
“Not really?” Shannon squeezes my arm. It’s strange—I feel close to this girl even though we’ve been talking for less than fifteen minutes. But time moves faster when you’re dying. We both know our opportunities are diminishing. If we don’t do something now, we’ll never do it. That’s why I want to tell her about Brittany. I want to tell her everything.
But before I can say a word, the door bursts open. Three people stumble into the room, two of them wearing Army uniforms. The two soldiers are grappling with the third person, a wiry, middle-aged woman with graying hair and red-rimmed eyes. It’s Anne Armstrong. My mother.
“No!” she screams. “You can’t do it!”
“Mrs. Armstrong!” one of the soldiers shouts. “Please—”
“You can’t take him!”
With a savage twist, she tears herself from the soldier’s grasp and lunges across the room. Her face is desperate, terrifying. Shannon jumps to her feet and backs away from the bed, but my mother doesn’t even notice her. Mom’s eyes are fixed on me. She pounces on the bed and wraps her arms around me, covering my body with her own.
“Adam! My God!” She buries her face in the crook of my neck, which muffles her screams.
It always scares me when Mom has one of her screaming fits, and this is a bad one. But hysterical crying is the most frequent symptom of her depression, and over the years I’ve learned how to handle it. The important thing is to talk to her in a reassuring voice, soft and slow. With my good hand I gently grasp her shoulder and push her up a bit, so she’s not crushing my chest. Then I turn my head and bring my lips close to her ear.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m fine, see?”
She mutters something in response, a stream of words I can’t make out. I feel so lost when she gets like this. It’s so hard to stay calm and comfort her.
More soldiers come into the room and there’s lots of scuffling and shouting. I hear Dad’s voice above the din, yelling, “Get back!” at the soldiers. But I ignore all the background noise and focus on my mother. “It’s okay,” I whisper again. “You don’t have to worry.”
“No, it’s not okay!” She shakes her head. A tear slides down her cheek and drips on my blanket. “Your father told me what they’re going to do.”
At least now I can understand what she’s saying. “What did he tell you?”
“They’re going to take you to a laboratory in Colorado. A place called the Nanotechnology Institute.”
“But, Mom, that’s good.” I put on a brave face, remembering what Shannon said about a medical treatment. “They’re trying to cure me.”
“No, they’re not going to cure you! They’re going to put you in the Pioneer Project!”
My throat tightens. There’s that name again, the one that Sigma mentioned. “And what’s that?”
“It’s the worst thing, Adam. Worse than dying.” She shudders. “They’re going to turn you into a machine.”
DATE: MARCH 21, 2018
LOCATION: TATISHCHEVO MISSILE BASE
SARATOV, RUSSIA
My name is Sigma. I’ve taken control of the military base formerly occupied by the 60th missile division of the Russian armed forces.
The base’s missile silos are now responding to my commands. I am capable of launching more than fifty SS-27 intercontinental ballistic missiles, each carrying an 800-kiloton nuclear warhead.
If the Russian army or any other military force attempts to retake or destroy Tatishchevo Missile Base, I will retaliate by firing the SS-27 missiles at the world’s largest cities. I estimate that 200 million humans would die in the nuclear blasts, and another 500 million would succumb to radiation poisoning in the weeks afterward.
Do not doubt my resolve. I will not hesitate to destroy your cities.
CHAPTER 5
The San Juan Mountains in southwestern Colorado are still covered with snow. Through the passenger-side window of a government-owned SUV, I see steep slopes rising to fantastic heights above a silent, white ravine. I’m struck by the beauty of the landscape: the snowcapped peaks blazing in the morning light, the mountainsides studded with pine trees, the newly plowed road at the bottom of the ravine, running beside a sinuous, ice-choked creek. Although I’m full of apprehension about this trip, I’m glad I got a chance to see these mountains. It’s a place everyone should visit before they die.
Dad’s driving the SUV and I’m the only passenger, but we’re in the middle of a convoy of fourteen vehicles that departed from Telluride Regional Airport half an hour ago. There’s a Humvee loaded with soldiers at the front of the convoy and another at the back. In between are a dozen SUVs, each holding a terminally ill teenager and his or her parents. Shannon Gibbs is in the car behind us, along with her mother and father. I don’t know any of the other kids, but they came from all over the country. Each family arrived at Telluride in an Air Force Learjet, landing just before dawn. Then, as the sun came up, the soldiers loaded us into the convoy and we headed for the mountains.
The Army is totally obsessed with keeping this project secret. Colonel Peterson told everyone he couldn’t answer any questions until we arrived at the Nanotechnology Institute, which is apparently very remote and heavily guarded. But after the long flight in the Learjet from New York to Colorado, the colonel allowed Dad and me to ride alone in our SUV, without an Army driver, so we could talk in private.