Sleeping Giants

by Sylvain Neuvel

  —Less-than-total-evilness…OK. I’ll give you that. What will happen to them? The guards?

  —Nothing, I assume. They were all legally employed by a legitimate corporation, and most of them have done nothing illegal.

  —What about Alyssa?

  —Will she be punished for what she did to you?

  —To me? Yeah. To me, to Vincent. Whoever else she hurt.

  —Probably not. She would argue that her actions were sanctioned, if not ordered, by the governments involved. It would be…messy, for lack of a better word.

  —So they just let her go?

  —No one even saw her. She must have found a way to escape the compound before Mr. Mitchell took action.

  —Where would she go?

  —I do not know. The Marines looked for her at the airport. There were no women by that name on any of the passenger manifests for the day. They have calculated some possible routes. The most likely scenario is that she took a short flight to one of the neighboring islands. She may have hopped between a few islands before taking a flight to America or Europe.

  —So she gets away and we forget about the whole thing? I’m not that forgiving.

  —Me neither. I contacted the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina this morning. I provided them with some evidence. It might be enough for Sarajevo to ask for her extradition when she is found.

  —Evidence of what? What’d she do in Bosnia?

  —She was born there.

  —Papantoniou?

  —It is not her name. She never went back to her maiden name after her husband died.

  —So what’s the evidence?

  —There is a thirteen-month gap in her employment history. Yet, her financial records show little or no change in her spending patterns during that period.

  —Wow. Let me get this straight: you think she’s a criminal because she kept spending the same even though she had no job. Maybe she had enough savings. Maybe Mom and Dad helped.

  —Both her parents were dead. More to the point, that thirteen-month gap occurred right around the time of the Srebrenica massacre.

  —Srebren…You think she’s the doctor who tortured those poor people? Who forced Muslim women to…I…I can’t speak…

  —Take your time.

  —Is that why you sent me to find Fata?

  —I sent you there to find a potential witness. As I said, I have no hard evidence. She has a medical background. Her previous employment was in a hospital only ninety miles from Srebrenica, and she cannot account for her income during the time of the massacre.

  I did find a sympathetic ear with the Bosnian government. It would be a significant political victory to bring the Butcher of Srebrenica to justice, so they will look into the matter further. They will send an investigator to the village where you found Fata and show her some pictures.

  —Are you sure it was her? I mean, “really” sure?

  —I am about 98 percent certain that she had absolutely nothing to do with the events that occurred in Srebrenica. In all honesty, it is a terribly far-fetched interpretation of the facts. But, I have been proven wrong before. The Bosnian government might be able to build a case against her, whether or not she is guilty of that particular crime.

  —Remind me never to get on your bad side. When will we know?

  —I would say in about ten years.

  —Ten years! How long can it take to show a woman one picture? Or is that how long you think a trial would take?

  —I do not know how rapidly the wheels of justice move in Bosnia. What I do know is that a trial could not start until she is extradited, and she could not be extradited if she is serving a prison sentence for another crime.

  —What other crime? What else could she have done? Kill Kennedy?

  —She has done nothing yet. But if she lands in one of the major airports I have contacts in, she will be found in possession of several kilos of heroin, or some other illegal narcotic. That should considerably extend her stay, wherever that is. I would say for approximately ten years, based on the average sentence for drug trafficking.

  —You don’t mess around, do you?

  —I like to be thorough.

  —I don’t like to think of myself as vindictive, but…

  —But you are.

  —Exactly. So, thank you. She deserves it. How the hell did you end up picking Eva Braun to run this place anyway? Don’t answer that, I don’t really wanna know.

  —I can answer that very easily. She is the only person I did not choose myself. And people ask me why I micromanage everything…

  —So, can we go home now?

  —There is another matter I am afraid we must discuss before we depart. It concerns you and Mr. Couture personally.

  —Should I be worried?

  —How would you like to make history?

  —Whoa. Cheesy. Isn’t that what we’ve been doing all along?

  —Well, how would you like to serve in the Earth Defense Corps?

  —What the heck is that?

  —An armed branch of the United Nations dedicated to planetary defense. It will be the first ever military force maintained directly by the UN.

  —An army with soldiers from all over the world?

  —For now, personnel would mostly come from the United States and Canada.

  —It would just be me and Vincent…

  —Yes. The preliminary plan calls for a command and research center to be created within two years. It will need to be staffed. When that happens, you are correct: personnel will come from everywhere.

  —What will we do?

  —The primary focus of the organization will be research: exploring the capabilities of the device and using it as a springboard for the development of new technologies with planetary-defense applications.

  —I meant what will Vincent and I do?

  —Parades and photo opportunities, for the most part. Unless, of course, Earth is attacked by alien forces, in which case you will most likely die a quick and meaningless death at the hands of a superior enemy with overwhelming numbers.

  —You make everything sound so exciting. I’m psyched. And who will run this Earth Defense thing?

  —I do not know. I have been tasked with finding a suitable team leader. I promise to stay away from any candidate exhibiting sociopathic tendencies. What matters for now is that this project cannot go forward without you, and I would like to tell the UN that they can count on your continued involvement.

  —You want my answer now?

  —There is no time like the present.

  —…Sure. What am I gonna say? No, I don’t want to drive that awesome alien thing? I know Vincent wouldn’t give this up for the world. I sure won’t be the one to take it away from him.

  —I am very pleased to hear you say it. I felt it necessary to ask, given all that you have been through recently.

  —I know, you big softy. You act all tough, but really you’re all mush inside.

  —That reminds me, your mother would like to see you.

  —Mom? Where is she?

  —Guantanamo.

  —…Come on! Really? You put my mother in a cell to use her as leverage in case I said no?

  —While it is not unfathomable that I would use the presence of your loved ones as a means of persuasion, you should know I would never put your mother in a cell. I am, after all, all mush inside. She is at the base in Guantanamo, not the prison. Her plane had to drop some Marines along the way. She should be here within the hour. You can fly back to the United States together.

  —You’re an asshole. Vincent said you’d pull something like that.

  —How is Mr. Couture doing? I have not had the chance to see him yet.

  —He’s fine. He’s more than fine. He really likes that hero stuff. It’s scary.

  —Is that a bad thing?

  —I don’t know. I’m still mad at him.

  —What has he done now to deserve your ire? He has been, as you pointed out, fairly heroic these past few da
ys.

  —Exactly. How could he be stupid enough to come back for me?

  —Do you believe he had an ulterior motive?

  —No, he just cared. That’s the thing. You know how I don’t easily trust other people.

  —Is there anyone that does not know?

  —Well, how could I possibly not trust him now? You know what’ll happen, don’t you? I’ll let my guard down, I’ll say stupid things I’ll regret later, I’ll turn into a fifteen-year-old. At some point, he’ll ask me to marry him, and I’ll be too gaga to get myself out of it.

  —Mr. Couture does not seem like the marriage type to me.

  —Did you know he’s been shopping for a ring?

  —…

  —Yep, I was speechless too when I found out. I’ve been acting as caustic as I can under the circumstances. So far, I’ve managed to look ambivalent enough about my feelings to keep him from popping the question.

  —Perhaps, deep down inside that rugged shell of yours, there is a little girl desperately waiting for her Prince Charming to propose.

  —Of course there is. Only until now, I’d been pretty successful at keeping that little brat’s mouth shut.

  —What will your answer be if he asks?

  —You’re funny. He can’t ask. I’ll find a way to be bitchy enough for the next forty years so that perfect moment never comes.

  —You seem to have a good handle on that little girl after all.

  Goodbye, Ms. Resnik.

  FILE NO. 360

  INTERVIEW WITH UNKNOWN SUBJECT

  Location: Embassy of the United States, Dublin, Ireland

  —How are you feeling physically? Do you require medical attention?

  —I’m OK. Thank you.

  —Is there anything I can get you to make you more comfortable? You were exposed to the cold for quite some time.

  —I’m fine, really. They let me take a shower and gave me some warm clothes. Thank you.

  —Do you know who I am?

  —No, I’m sorry. I don’t know anyone in Ireland.

  —What are you doing in this country?

  —I’ve been kidnapped! Look, I’ve told you people a dozen times already. I don’t know how I ended up in Europe. A truck driver found me on the side of the road this morning—naked, for God’s sake.

  —You say you have been kidnapped. Can you tell me how it happened?

  —I was driving home from work when this van hit the brakes right in front of me. I crashed into it pretty hard. Someone dragged me out of my car. I must have fainted afterward.

  —Where is home?

  —I’m an American. I live in Chicago.

  —You fainted and you woke up on the side of the road near Dublin.

  —Yes…I…Yes, I did.

  —What is it?

  —I’m not sure. I think I was awake for a few seconds in between. I couldn’t see anything, but I heard some voices.

  —How many voices did you hear?

  —Four or five. I don’t know. I’m not even sure I didn’t dream the whole thing.

  —What were they saying?

  —I couldn’t tell. I don’t know what language they were speaking. It sounded like…I don’t know what it sounded like. Maybe Swedish, Lakota with a heavy German accent. I really don’t know. Something I’ve never heard before.

  —How do you know what Lakota sounds like?

  —I don’t really. Dances with Wolves? It’s the only Native American language I can think of. I was born in South Dakota. There are a few reservations around. Actually, the whole area where we lived used to be Lakota territory.

  —You have no papers, no identification of any kind. Is that correct?

  —I told you. I was completely naked when I woke up. I don’t know what happened to my bag.

  —You should know that the doctors who examined you found no signs of sexual activity.

  —Thank you. That’s a relief.

  —Can you think of anything that would help us confirm your identity?

  —No, not in Ireland. That’s not a crime, is it? If you get me home, you can talk to my friends, people I work with.

  —I would like to show you some photos.

  —Go ahead.

  —Do you recognize the woman in this picture?

  —No, I don’t know who that is. She’s pretty.

  —How about this man?

  —I don’t know him either. Who is he?

  —A linguist from Canada.

  —A lin…Do you think these are the people who abducted me?

  —I do not. In fact, I can tell you without hesitation that they are not.

  —Then why show me their pictures?

  —To see whether or not you recognized them.

  —Is there a reason I should? I can tell you I don’t have amnesia. Aside from the few hours I was unconscious, I remember everything very clearly.

  —Can I ask you one more personal question? How old are you?

  —I’m twenty-seven.

  —For the record, could you please state your name and occupation one more time?

  —My name is Rose Franklin. I’m a researcher at the University of Chicago.

  —Your DNA profile is indeed a match to that of Dr. Franklin.

  —You seem surprised. I know who I am. Can I please go home now? I haven’t fed my cat since I left for work yesterday.

  —…Ms. Franklin, from what I understand, that was more than four years ago.

  —Wh…That makes no sense. I was kidnapped. I wasn’t in a coma. It’s not like I slept for four years.

  —I believe you. Strange as it may seem, there is no accurate scientific method for determining the age of a living person. However, the results of your physical examination and dental X-rays are consistent with your being twenty-seven.

  —I know, I told you my age.

  —What I meant is that you are missing recent scars and some dental work that was done to Dr. Franklin after the age of twenty-seven.

  —I…I don’t understand.

  —Dr. Rose Franklin would be thirty-one years old by now.

  —What exactly do you mean by “would be”?

  —Please come with me, there is much we need to discuss…

  À Théodore.

  Maintenant, on va t’apprendre à lire…et l’anglais.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  (IN REVERSE CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER)

  A giant-robot-sized thank-you to my editor, Mark Tavani and everyone at Del Rey. Thank you, Mark, for giving this book a home, for your enthusiasm and guidance, and for coping with my semicolon addiction. Thank you, Seth Fishman, my winged agent; and Rebecca Gardner and Will Roberts at The Gernert Co. Seth, you rule. Thank you for putting me out of business as a publisher.

  I wouldn’t be writing any of this without my movie agent, Jon Cassir at CAA (I also couldn’t say things like “my movie agent”). Thank you Jon. That brings me to Josh Bratman. Josh, you know what you did. Thank you for changing my life.

  Many thanks to my beta readers, especially to Toby and Andrew. You guys are definitely alphas. Thank you, Barbara, for letting me ignore you for a few hours every night, though I strongly suspect you were just happy to have more time to read.

  Thank you, Theodore. You asked so many questions when I offered to make you a toy robot, I had to write a book about it. Thank you, Jean, for passing your love of language on to me. Thank you, Thérèse, for giving me the guts to try just about anything.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SYLVAIN NEUVEL dropped out of high school at age fifteen. Along the way, he has been a journalist, worked in soil decontamination, sold ice cream in California, and peddled furniture across Canada. He received a Ph.D. in linguistics from the University of Chicago. He taught linguistics in India and worked as a software engineer in Montreal. He is also a certified translator though he wishes he were an astronaut. He likes to tinker, dabbles in robotics, and is somewhat obsessed with Halloween. He absolutely loves toys; his girlfriend would have him believe that he ha
s too many, so he writes about aliens and giant robots as a blatant excuse to build action figures (for his son, of course).

  neuvel.net

  Facebook.com/​sylvainneuvel

  @neuvel

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