by Mark Alpert
“Okay, hold on, I’m remembering something. Did you do an extra-credit report? On the nervous system?”
Her smile broadens. “Yep, that was me.”
“You made those clay models, right? Of the brain and the spinal cord?”
Shannon laughs. “Oh God, those models! I was up all night making them.”
“It was worth the effort. They were very realistic. Truly disgusting.”
“And wouldn’t you know it? That’s where I got my tumor. Right where the brain connects to the spinal cord. Ironic, huh?” She taps the back of her head, just above the neck. “The cancer messed up the nerves in my face, and the chemo made my hair fall out. That explains my lovely Frankenstein look.” She does a monster imitation, widening her eyes and flailing her arms. Then she points at me. “I remember your report too. Wasn’t it also about the brain?”
I nod. “The brain’s limbic system. Where all our emotions come from. The hippocampus, the amygdala, and the cingulate gyrus. The tangled tongue-twisters of hate and love.”
“Yeah, I remember you put a ton of jokes in the report. You were funny. Definitely the funniest guy in the class.”
That was my strategy back then, playing the class clown. I cracked jokes and drove my wheelchair at breakneck speed down the hallways and generally behaved like an idiot. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, so I acted as if I didn’t care. As if I wasn’t dying. “I was trying too hard. Your report was better.”
Shannon comes closer and sits down on the edge of my bed. It’s kind of a forward thing to do, especially after barging into my room uninvited. She smiles again. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna put the moves on you.”
I smile back at her. “That’s good. I can’t really start a long-term relationship right now.”
“Me neither.” She shakes her head. “My tumor is a pontine glioma. In plain English, that means ‘Good-bye, cruel world!’”
I can’t think of anything to say in response. Shannon’s dying too. We’re in the same boat. I’m not happy to hear it, but at least I understand her a little better. She’s dying and she wants to talk. Maybe she thinks I can give her some advice.
“I saw you when the paramedics brought you in yesterday,” she says. “My room is across the hall and my door was open. You were unconscious, but I caught a glimpse of you before they wheeled your gurney into your room.”
Her eyes are dark brown. Above them, the wispy remnants of her eyebrows look like apostrophes. As I stare at her, I remember what she looked like in biology class a year ago: a pretty fifteen-year-old with shoulder-length black hair and dimples in her cheeks. She’s still pretty now, despite her swollen eye and twisted mouth. I want to tell her this, but I’m too chicken. “It’s weird,” I say instead. “This is a weird coincidence, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, us being here on the same floor of the hospital.”
Shannon stops smiling. “It’s not a coincidence. Your dad arranged it.”
“Arranged what?”
“Wait a second. You seriously don’t know about this?”
I shake my head. I’m bewildered.
“Your dad got in touch with my parents through the high school and told them there was a new treatment we could try. It was experimental, something his research lab had developed for you, but he said it might also be useful for other teenagers with terminal illnesses. He said he was recruiting kids to test the treatment and would explain everything to us at the hospital.”
It doesn’t make sense. I never heard Dad say anything about a treatment he’d developed for me. I can’t even see how he’d be able to do it. He’s a computer scientist, not a medical researcher. “I’m sorry, but this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Shannon bites her lip. “Now I’m confused. Is there a treatment or not?”
Lowering her gaze, she looks down at the bed, which is covered with a thin, white blanket. Her eyes turn glassy, and for a second I think she’s going to cry. She’s clearly invested a lot of hope in whatever promises Dad made to her parents. It might be a long shot, but it’s all she has.
My chest aches. I don’t want Shannon to lose her last hope. I furrow my brow, trying to figure out what Dad is up to. I remember the conversation we had in his office before everything went haywire, and what Colonel Peterson said about Dad’s research. And something comes back to me. “You know what I think it is? It’s nanotechnology. That must be what Dad has in mind.”
She looks up, cocking her head. “Nanotechnology?”
“Yeah, the science of building very small things.”
“I know what nanotechnology is. I did an extra-credit report on that too.”
I use my right arm to roll onto my side. I feel like I need to sit up if I want Shannon to take me seriously. “Okay, my dad works with the Department of Defense, right? And yesterday he got a visit from this colonel in the U.S. Cyber Command. This guy mentioned a laboratory called the Nanotechnology Institute. He said they were doing some amazing work there.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “I did a ton of research for that report, and I never heard of that lab.”
“Well, this is classified government work. Very hush-hush. I’m probably breaking all kinds of laws by talking about it.” I manage to prop myself up to a sitting position, but the thin blanket falls down to my hips and I notice with dismay that I’m not wearing anything underneath. I quickly tuck the blanket around my waist. “Anyway, Colonel Peterson said this institute has developed microscopic probes that can be injected into the brain. And if they’ve already done that, who knows what else they can do? Maybe they also have nanoprobes that can repair genes. Or kill cancer cells.”
Shannon still looks doubtful. She rises to her feet and starts pacing across the room. “I read about nanoprobes for my report, and I don’t think the technology is that advanced yet. Scientists can make simple things, like tiny spheres or rods or tubes, but no one knows how to make microscopic killing machines.”
“Look, my dad can clear this up. I’m sure he’s in the hospital somewhere. He probably went to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. As soon as he comes back, we’ll talk to him.” I try to catch Shannon’s eye as she paces back and forth. “I’ll tell you one thing for sure—Dad lives up to his word. If he promised you something, he’ll definitely come through.”
She doesn’t respond at first. She keeps her head down while she paces, as if she’s looking for something she dropped on the floor. Then she lets out a sigh. “All right, fine. I’ll wait to hear what your dad says.” Without missing a step, she points at the door to my room. “That Colonel Peterson you mentioned? Is he somewhere in the hospital too?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“When I sneaked out of my room to come here, I noticed a few soldiers in the corridor. They were standing at attention near the elevators.”
This is news to me. And not good news either. Why are there soldiers at Westchester Medical Center? Is Peterson expecting another attack? Will Sigma track me down and try to kill me here?
While I worry over this, Shannon keeps pacing. I notice that she’s waddling a bit, lurching to the left. It reminds me of the way I used to walk before my legs stopped working. That’s another thing we have in common. “So are you still going to Yorktown?” I ask. “Or did you withdraw from school?”
She finally stops pacing and turns toward me. A bead of sweat trickles down her scalp. “My mom wanted to pull me out, but I said no. School keeps me sane. I’d go crazy if I did nothing but chemotherapy.”
“But don’t the drugs make you tired?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, it’s hard to concentrate sometimes. But I still get the highest grades in my class.”
I’m jealous. I wish I’d stood up to Dad and insisted on staying in school. I went along with him because he was so worried about
my breathing problems, and because he promised to let me use his computers at work whenever I wanted. But I didn’t realize how lonely it would be. Once I was out of school, no one stayed in touch. The emails and texts from my friends dwindled, then stopped. It was easier for them to forget about me. Even my best friends, the ones I’d known forever.
Shannon sits on the edge of my bed again. I swallow hard, preparing to ask her another question. I suspect the answer will be painful, but I need to hear it. “Do you know Ryan Boyd? He’s on the football team.”
She nods. “Sure, I know him. Big dude, good-looking. He hangs out with the other football jocks.”
“How’s he doing? I saw his name in the last issue of the school newspaper. He just won the Sportsmanship Award, right?”
Shannon leans closer, eyeing me carefully. “You were friends with him, weren’t you? Now that I think of it, I remember seeing you talking with him by the lockers every morning before first period.”
“Oh yeah, we go way back. But, you know, we haven’t talked in a while.”
She nods again, understanding. She knows how people avoid the dying. The same thing has probably happened to her. “Well, I can’t tell you much about Ryan because I don’t know him too well. When he’s not playing football he’s usually hanging out with the other jocks. And he spends a lot of time with this cheerleader he’s dating.”
“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 b
efore 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.
Dad announced at the start of the drive that he would tell me everything about the Pioneer Project, but so far he hasn’t said a word. And to be honest, I’m not so anxious for him to begin. I’m in no rush to hear the details that horrified my mother. After her fit at Westchester Medical Center, she went home and locked herself in her bedroom, where she chose to stay rather than come with us to Colorado.
After a while the road curves sharply to the north, climbing higher into the mountains. The convoy slows to about thirty miles per hour and Dad shifts the SUV to a lower gear. He shakes his head. “Look at all the snow on the ground. Hard to believe it’s almost April. I guess spring comes late around here, huh?”
He glances sideways at me, clearly hoping for a response. But I’m not interested in talking about the weather, so I say nothing.