by Rob Hart
He just wanted to keep it close. Carrying something that could hold so much power, it made him feel something. Good wasn’t the word. He didn’t know the word. He just knew the drive was heavier than it looked.
He put it on the desk, closer to him than to her. “What does it do?”
Ember leaned forward, as if to take it, but Paxton put his hand over it.
“It’s a virus,” she said. “It’ll fire thrusters on the Cloud satellites. Push them out of orbit, just a tiny bit. No one will notice, until a few weeks from now, when they break orbit and crash. Cloud grinds to a halt. Shipping data, drone navigation, employment systems, banking. It won’t be a fatal blow, but it’ll cripple them for a good long time. Maybe long enough something else can take root.”
“A lot of people would suffer,” Paxton said. “A lot of people would lose their jobs. Their homes.”
Ember put on her game face. Eyes narrow, mouth flat, some of the metal returning to her spine. “The system is broken. There’s only one way to fix it. Burn it down and start fresh. It’s not supposed to feel good.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
Ember betrayed a bit of a smile. “Then we tried. Isn’t that better than not?”
Paxton’s feet ached. His back, too. His stomach felt greasy and bloated from the CloudBurgers. The cherry taste would not go away. He didn’t even like cherries.
He pushed the drive toward her and she snatched it, then stuck it into the tablet. Tapped at the screen, which was locked. Paxton leaned across the desk and scanned his watch so it would turn on.
“Go ahead,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Ember tapped at the face of the tablet as Paxton sat there wishing the door would open, for Dobbs to walk in now, to see it, and he didn’t know if it was because he wanted someone to stop what they were doing or because he just wanted to be seen doing it.
Paxton watched. Minutes passed.
Finally, Ember sat back and exhaled hard.
“That’s it?” Paxton asked.
She smiled at him, a real smile, the smile of someone who felt a deep and meaningful emotion, and he wanted to bottle that smile up and carry it in his pocket. She said, “You’re a hero for doing this.”
“No,” he said quietly. But then he raised his voice. “No. I am not.”
“We can debate later, but now it’s time to go,” she said.
She stood, moved toward the door. Paxton followed. He didn’t know why, but he did. It felt right, in that moment, to follow. She knew he was following but didn’t stop him, allowing him to keep pace behind her, to the bank of elevators, where Paxton swiped his watch and they stood there waiting. Ember shifted from foot to foot, like she wanted to break into a run. Paxton kept an eye on the far end of the hallway, hoping nobody would come out and see him.
The doors opened and Dakota and Dobbs stepped off.
They stood there in their tan uniforms like two slabs of sandstone. They nodded to Paxton, almost in unison, and then turned to Ember, scanning her up and down, like she might be someone they recognized.
Paxton was struck dumb. He didn’t know what to say. He felt like he was looking at himself, standing there with Ember, and Dakota and Dobbs, they knew, just knew, what had happened.
The jig was up. Time to go. Follow in Zinnia’s footsteps.
Dakota went to say something but Paxton coughed, to force his throat to work again, and said, “New recruit. Got turned around. Escorting her back to the lobby.”
Dobbs nodded. “Come on back up when you’re done. Got something to talk to you about.”
Paxton nodded, holding his breath, and didn’t let it go until he and Ember stepped onto the elevator, and the doors closed, and they’d been delivered to the tram.
Standing in rainbow-colored crowds, Paxton felt like he’d been lit by a spotlight, like at any moment every gaze might swing toward him, but nothing happened. He was another shirt moving from one place to the next. Ember stood, staring hard, nearly vibrating, like she was willing herself to not be caught.
They got on the tram and rode it to Incoming and, Paxton being in blue, no one paid them any mind as they made their way toward the rectangle of white light, to the outside world, the heat rising in waves and warping the landscape as they got closer, until they reached the threshold between darkness and sunlight. It was August, easy to forget when you never went outside, so when the sun hit the exposed part of his forearm it baked his skin.
Behind him he felt the cool kiss of air drifting from inside the building, along with anything a person might ever need, available at the touch of a button.
A bed and a roof and a job for life.
Before him was the wide, flat expanse of the world, full of dead towns, no hope or promise of anything but dying of thirst on the long walk to something that might be nothing.
Maybe it was as simple as walking away. Maybe that was the first step. The match to light the fire, and with enough time and oxygen, the whole thing could be burned to the ground.
Could anything so big be so fragile?
Ember stood in the light and turned and fixed him with a stare. It was the kind of stare that made you feel bigger and smaller at the same time. It made you recognize the mistake you’d made but filled you with hope that there was still time to fix it.
Ember asked, “Are you coming?” but Paxton could barely hear it over Zinnia’s voice whispering in his ear.
FOR MARIA FERNANDES
Strap in. There are a lot of people to thank. First and foremost, my agent, Josh Getzler. This is the project that brought us together. He put his faith in me when I had nothing more than the first section and a scattershot pitch. His guidance has been incredible. Thanks are due as well to his brilliant assistant, Jonathan Cobb (who gave me my favorite note on the book), along with everyone at the HSG Agency, with a special shout-out to Soumeya Roberts, for her tireless efforts in selling this book around the world, and Ellen Goff, keeper of the foreign contracts.
Thank you to my editor, Julian Pavia, a master storytelling technician who pushed me past what the book was, and into what it could be. And his assistant, Angeline Rodriguez, who offered her own fantastic insight, on top of diligently handling the burden of all assistants—making sure everything gets done. I’m very lucky to be working with a team as talented and passionate as the one at Crown—huge thanks to Annsley Rosner, Rachel Rokicki, Julie Cepler, Kathleen Quinlan, and Sarah C. Breivogel. And while I am indebted to the agents and editors around the world who put their faith in this book, special thanks are due to Bill Scott-Kerr and the team at Transworld.
Cheers, too, to my film agent, Lucy Stille, for guiding me through a thrilling, head-spinning process. And to Ron Howard, Brian Grazer, and the entire team at Imagine Entertainment, for believing in this book, with special thanks to Katie Donahoe for her guidance and assistance.
Thanks to my parents and my in-laws. I cannot overstate how much their love and support—including hand-selling me to friends and relatives, and providing frequent child care—has aided me in pursuing my writing career.
Perhaps, most important, my wife deserves thanks at a level I fear I cannot express through earthly means. Amanda has offered her sharp mind and tireless support from day one, and she has made real sacrifices for my writing career. I remain, since the day I met her, in awe of her intelligence, her humor, and her grace.
Thank you to my daughter, who challenges me every single day to be a better person, to want a better world for her to inherit, and to write the kind of book that I hope nudges us in the right direction.
Finally, a brief note on the dedication: Maria Fernandes worked part time at three separate Dunkin’ Donuts locations in New Jersey, and in 2014, while sleeping in her car between shifts, accidentally suffocated on gas fumes. She was struggling to pay $550 a month
on her basement apartment. That same year, according to the Boston Globe, Dunkin’ Brands then CEO, Nigel Travis, earned $10.2 million. More than anyone or anything else, Maria’s story beats at the heart of this book.
ROB HART is the author of five novels and the short-story collection Take-Out. He lives in Staten Island, New York, with his wife and daughter.
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