Extinction Machine

Chapter Ninety-eight

VanMeer Castle

Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Sunday, October 20, 8:59 p.m.

They stood in a row, staring through the glass at the massive vehicle.

“Well,” said Aldo quietly, “now there’s something you don’t see every day.”

“Actually…,” said Howard, but let the rest hang.

“And it works?” breathed Aldo.

“Yes indeed.”

“But I thought there were all sorts of problems…”

“Ah,” said Howard, “you’ve been in the field too long, my boy. We are no longer throwing all of our efforts into trying to build a Device or a Truman Engine. We have built it. You see, we were doing things backward. We kept trying to assemble the ten components of the engine first and that always led to disaster. It didn’t appear to make sense. Then we stepped back and reevaluated the process of sympathetic gravity. When certain conditions are maintained the ten D-type components remain inert; but when they’re allowed to enter into close proximity, the engine assembles itself. It’s wonderful, almost magical if you didn’t know that it was science.”

“Right, but then it blows up.”

“Yes and no,” said Howard. “It only blows up if there is nothing to balance the energetic discharge at the precise moment when the components form the complete engine. We kept trying to do only that. Then we realized that this isn’t how the original builders of these craft did it. They clearly kept at least one part in stasis—much like you and Tull did with the miniatures today. Those parts needed to stay in stasis until the eleventh component was in place. Or … perhaps we should more appropriately say that we were aware of components one through nine and component eleven, but we never realized that there was a component missing from the complete engine. We kept trying to build it without that crucial tenth piece.”

Tull got it first, and he nodded.

“The pilot,” he said. “The pilot has to be in place before the engine can be allowed to complete itself.”

“Clever boy!” Howard cried out in delight and patted Tull on the cheek. “You were always the smartest one in your group. Yes, that is exactly what needs to happen. Once the pilot was in place, he could then allow the eleventh piece to slide into place, thus completing a true biomechanical engine.”

“Son of a bitch…,” Aldo said with real admiration. He grinned from ear to ear. His joy was so infectious that even Mr. Bones smiled. “So it doesn’t take a full alien to run these things.”

“We didn’t know that at first,” said Mr. Bones. “At first all we could determine is that a dead alien wouldn’t work. We tried that once and got the same big bang. That’s what really kicked the hybrid program into top gear. After some very costly and very, um, unfortunate tests, we managed to quantify how much of the organic material needs to be alien DNA and how much can be ordinary human. Turns out it’s not a lot—eighteen percent—but it has to be the right eighteen percent. That was thirty years’ worth of disasters, lab accidents, and collateral damage before we figured that out.”

“How many pilots do you guys have?”

“Oh, there are plenty,” said Howard, “but ‘pilot’ really isn’t the right word. Any hybrid can form the basis of the biomechanical engine matrix. That person does not have to be the one to fly the ship. So, in a pinch any hybrid will do, as long as there is a way for us to control the ship. Remote-control science is booming—the entire military drone program is a side effect of our research into remote control over these ships. And as for the hybrids … and there’s no shortage of the hybrids out there. We seeded them into the general population in the hopes that they’ll breed. The more the merrier, because we keep track and we can always grab what we need. They can’t really hide—they’re all too exceptional for that.”

Mr. Bones smirked. “The folks in the New Age community call them ‘indigo children,’ they think that the human race has suddenly taken an unexpected evolutionary jump. There are thousands of them out there now. Almost half a percent of all the children adopted in the United States since 1985 are hybrids. We know which ones are from which batch. Just as we know which ones are specials. Like our dear Erasmus Tull. Twenty-two percent of his brain is alien. Makes him special in a lot of ways. His IQ in unchartable, and he has so many nifty gifts.”

Tull glanced at him. “Do I know any of the real pilots?”

“Some. There are a few from your group, but most come from Group Eight.”

Tull made a face. He did not approve of the candidates from the groups that came after his. They were too emotional. Many of them were so unsuited to the Project that they were kept on the periphery, allowed to live because they were useful breeding stock, but kept in the dark about who they were or that they were part of anything besides a foster family. With Group Nine and beyond, the kids were raised in facilities that more closely approximated orphanages. Easier to cycle them into foster families that way. Fewer questions.

Technicians crawled all over the triangular machine, making adjustments, checking the fuselage for the tiniest imperfections.

“There are still openings in the pilot program,” mused Howard. “Not too late.”

“Don’t start that again.”

Aldo looked at him. “Really? You telling me you had a chance to fly one of these things and you passed? Are you out of your f*cking mind? I’d give my left nut to fly one.”

“Tull washed out of the program,” said Mr. Bones cattily.

“You’re shitting me,” said Aldo.

“Not at all. He was in one of the first groups of pilot candidates, but our Mr. Tull had a problem with the commitment to the program.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tull shook his head. “He’s screwing with me, Aldo. I quit the program because in order to fly the ship you have to let the ship do most of the work. It … reads you. It does all the work. You sit there like meat in a chair.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Howard. “The biomechanical interface requires—”

“Hey,” snapped Tull, “can we just drop it? I don’t want to be a pilot, not like that. We all know where I belong in the Majestic Project. I think I proved that this afternoon.”

Howard chuckled and patted him on the back. “Yes, you did, my boy, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

“And yet Junie Flynn is still out there with a complete copy of the Majestic Black Book,” said Mr. Bones dryly. “Probably memorized, considering her talents. Yes, your fellows killed a lot of the bad guys, but let’s not forget that the destruction of the DMS was intended as a distraction. I believe that prioritizing that over killing Junie Flynn was a poor strategic choice.”

Tull turned to him and smiled a killer’s smile. “You know, Bonesy, you’ve always been kind of a dick. Are you aware of that?”

“Hey now,” warned Howard. “Mr. Bones is a governor of—”

“I know exactly what he is, Howard,” said Tull. “He’s a toadie. Without you, he’d be nothing.”

“Attacking me doesn’t change the fact that you let Junie Flynn slip away,” said Mr. Bones, unperturbed.

“Did I?” He fished in his pocket and removed a small tracking device that was part of the Ghost Box unit. “I know exactly where she is.”

“What?” said Mr. Bones, startled.

“As soon as I took charge of this mission I sent a whole flock of the pigeon drones to Turkey Point. When Ledger’s team picked Junie and Ledger up, the drones clamped on to their Black Hawk. I’ve been getting continuous feeds all day. Right now they’re at a farm in Robinwood, Maryland. Guess who owns that farm?” Tull did not wait for them to reply. “John Allen Ledger, aka Jack Ledger, our boy’s uncle. And, according to satellite photos, the Black Hawk is parked behind the barn and there are three vehicles at the place. I think Ledger’s using the farm as a bolt-hole, gathering anyone we didn’t clip at the Warehouse. I’ll bet you Aldo’s right nut that Junie Flynn is right there. Safe, sound, and in our crosshairs any time we want her.”