But we never imagined the problem could be this huge.
Now, as I look out over the highly developed landscape, it’s all making sense. The Reestablishment was never going to go down without a fight.
The problem was, we could never figure out how they’d recovered quickly enough to launch a covert war. How had they amassed a new arsenal of weapons? Established new surveillance tech? Rebuilt a spy network? How were they conducting research? What about farmland? A self-sustained system of agriculture? Airports? Medical facilities, research facilities, manufacturing capabilities?
The first cyberattack struck us only a few months after we took power. The first assassinations—of key scientists and engineers—happened a few months after that.
The hits never stopped coming.
It took us years to figure out that their plans for the island had predated their rise to power. The Reestablishment began building the Ark before they even launched the regime. Most of the founding members—my father included—had ties to the military industrial complex, having amassed their wealth as defense contractors. It turns out they used shell companies and private investment firms to buy up property on the island over many years,finally driving out the few remaining residents until the waterlocked land was entirely under their control. They began to lay the groundwork forthis—their hideout—a few years before they’d even begun campaigning for power.
That’s how sure they were of their plans.
My jaw tenses as I survey the scene a few more times. Anything I can share with the team will be worth a lot, and I commit as much as I can to memory. Only on my final scan of the island do I notice something strange: one of these things is not like the others.
I screen my eyes, squinting against the glare of morning sun to get a better look. There’s a cluster of small, nondescript buildings dotting a remote, abandoned valley in the far distance. The structures are so insignificant I nearly missed them, not only because they don’t draw attention to themselves, but because they’re planted in a region choked by wild forest on one side—and a steep cliff on the other. Their construction seems simple; from here, they appear to be made of wood, and they look almost like storage sheds. My first thought is that they might comprise a discreet weapons depot—except there appear to be curls of smoke lifting off the roofs, as if the rickety buildings might have smokestacks. Maybe they’re pseudo-industrial spaces? Surveillance headquarters? Secret warehouses for a collection of creepy baby dolls?
It’s hard to be sure. A pair of binoculars would be really helpful right now. Hell, the backpack they stole off my body would be really helpful right now.I had at least five protein bars in there.
All I can say for sure is that there’s an entire stretch of land isolated from the main political, business, and residential zones. A deep ravine physically segregates the properties from the heart of Ark Island, almost as if the area is intentionally difficult to access. No roads in or out. Very little supporting infrastructure nearby. Theymustbe hiding something.
Consider my interest piqued.
James
Chapter 12
“This is nice, isn’t it?” I ask, peering out the windshield. “Peaceful.”
Outside, the scenes blur only a little as we soar under the clouds. The land here is beautiful: jagged mountains biting into sky, lakes shining under the morning sun. The hum of the electric chopper isn’t too bad, either; I don’t have to strain my voice much when I say, “I’ve never been on one of these things before.”
My seatmate seems unimpressed, but he’s been dead for at least twenty minutes now, so no surprise there.
Right now we’re on our way to one of the warehouse-looking buildings that I chose at random on the map. According to the helpful screen displaying our current flight information, we should be landing in fifteen minutes.
Here I was, thinking I had to steal a jet, or a boat, or even rappel into the canals of hell on foot—and the world offered me up some kind of flying tricycle instead. I don’t know how else to describe it. No doors; two-seater; single cup holder; peppy motor; leatherish interior; minimal recline; built-in navigation; and, bonus: it’ll fly itself. Super bonus: it was just waiting for me. I made it back to the outskirts of civilization and the uniformed owner of this fine vehicle picked a fight with me immediately,and all because I asked to borrow his nifty little air-trike.
“Hey, how long do you think it’ll take before they realize you’re not the one flying this thing?” I ask, looking again at my seatmate. According to the ID I fished out of the cup holder, his name is Jeff Jefferson. Different Jeff with a side of Jeff. I can’t make this shit up. “Or do you think they already know you’re dead?”
Jeff says nothing, but I can tell what he’s thinking.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding as I return my eyes to the windshield. “They definitely know you’re dead.” Earlier I found a roll of mints, some kind of diet milkshake, and two chocolate bars taped together with a note that readYou’re better than thisin the glove box. I jam the remaining half of a chocolate bar in my mouth now, chewing thoughtfully.
I glance at Jeff.
“You were too hard on yourself, man. You didn’t eat the chocolate and now look at you—you’re dead.” I rip open the second chocolate bar, take a huge bite, then inspect the label on the diet milkshake. “What is this shit, Jeff? Why were you drinking this garbage?” The trike beeps angrily in response, demanding another round of biometric verification.
Shaking my head, I flatten Jeff’s limp hand to the corresponding screen. A moment later, it flashes green. It’s been demanding verification every other minute— probably because it’s pretty sure the pilot is dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if this thing tracked heart rates and bowel movements and impure thoughts, too. It started freaking out the moment I hopped on board.As if it could tell—before I’d even snapped the guy’s neck—that I was going to snap the guy’s neck. And then I did something to really piss off the machine: instead of going straight to the warehouses, I took a gamble and tried to fly home.
I knew it was a risk.
Not only are these things loaded with trackers and cameras, but they probably have enough data on Jeff to know his normal flight patterns. A random trip to The New Republic would definitely send an alert into the system.
Still, I figured I had to try.
But the minute I fed the navigation unauthorized coordinates, it put me on probation. Apparently people on Ark Island aren’t allowed to leave this place without high-level security clearance. Apparently anyone who tries to make a run for it is immediately reported to the authorities.
Now, in addition to emphasizing the target on my back, the trike has entered a limited-usage mode, which basically means I can’t take control of the steering wheel, the seat belts don’t work, the lights won’t stop flashing, and the aircraft won’t fly too high or too fast until the alert is cleared by official personnel.
