Meals were delivered periodically, and Desmond ate them with little concern. If his captors wanted to drug him, they could use the gas and then administer anything they wanted. And he needed to eat. He fell into a pattern: exercise, eat, answer questions, sleep, repeat. He lost all concept of time.
At some point, they began playing music, apparently hoping that would spur a memory. Desmond recognized the songs: “American Remains,” “Highwayman,” “Silver Stallion,” “Desperados Waiting for a Train,” “The Road Goes On Forever,” “Angels Love Bad Men,” and, playing currently, “The Last Cowboy Song.” The songs were performed by a band called The Highwaymen, a quartet consisting of Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Kris Kristofferson. Desmond could see their faces on the cover of an old cassette tape, one that he had played many times. The songs reminded him of Orville, but he would never tell Conner that.
He knew one thing for certain: Conner had started the outbreak. And if he was capable of that, he was capable of anything. If Conner needed something, Desmond would deny him. He would resist—until the very end.
The ship’s server room was deep below decks, and the command center was adjacent. Four guards sat at a folding table playing cards just outside the main door. They rose as Conner approached, and opened the hatch for him.
Conner had never been in the server command center. It was impressive. Flat panel screens ran from the long desk to the ceiling. Charts and graphs he didn’t recognize updated in real time. A few showed temperature readings. Progress bars crept toward 100%. On one screen, a TV show played Battlestar Galactica. The high-tech command center certainly reminded him of a spaceship, although one flown by slobs. Crunched cans of Red Bull and Mountain Dew littered the floor. Empty wrappers from microwavable snacks curled up and stuck together like ticker tape after a parade. Piles of cracker crumbs ringed the keyboards.
Four faces turned in unison to stare at Conner: a skinny Asian woman with dark greasy hair hanging past her shoulders, two overweight white guys who could have been twins, and an Indian man, a little older and much skinnier.
The Indian man stood, a puzzled look on his face. “Sir?”
“I need a programmer.”
“Ah.” He hesitated, then pointed at a hatch at the back of the room. “They’re in there, sir.”
“You’re not programmers?”
“No, sir. Sys and network admins.”
Conner surveyed the pigsty again. This pack of slobs is keeping all our information organized?
He shook his head. “Right. Carry on.”
“Sir… You might want to knock.”
Conner wondered what that meant. But he took their advice, rapping loudly at the hatch three times. No response.
He glanced back at the Indian sys admin, who merely shrugged as if saying, I guess you’ve got to go in.
Conner opened the hatch and peered inside. The cramped space made the server monitoring room look like a biocontainment clean room. Papers, wrappers, cans, and porno magazines covered the floor. Three guys in their twenties sat hunched over their laptops, headphones on, typing furiously, lines of white text on black screens in front of them. Every few seconds one of them would curse and lean back or throw his hands up. It was like a weird human whack-a-mole exhibit.
“Hey!” Conner shouted.
Headphones came off. Annoyed faces turned to him.
The closest programmer, a kid with dark hair and an Eastern European accent, said, “What the hell, dude?”
“I need you to hack something for me.”
“Can’t. Working on CDC.”
“Forget the CDC. I’ll take care of it. This is a priority.”
Another programmer spoke. “Look, talk to the bridge, man. They call the shots. And shut the door.”
“Listen to me, man. I give the bridge their orders. I call the shots. Don’t make me prove it.”
All three paused, eyes wide. “Oh,” the Eastern European guy said. “Uh, okay. What are we hacking?”
“Someone’s brain.”
In the situation room outside the ship’s bridge, an analyst handed Conner a report; it was still warm from the printer.
“The infection has hit the tipping point.”
“Good,” Conner said, scanning the figures.
“There’s something else. Alpha Site reports that southern Somalia is crawling with drone flyovers. They’re concerned the US will find the farm soon.”
“Fine. Transfer Shaw and the other woman here tonight.”
“We’ve suggested that. They want more money.”
Conner rolled his eyes. “Fine. Pay ’em.”
It didn’t matter. Money would be irrelevant in a matter of days.
Chapter 49
Peyton’s most recent escape attempt had been her best, but it had also resulted in her jailers being more cautious with her. The black-clad soldier now used a wooden stick to push the Styrofoam tray across the ground, past the bars, and into her cell. A car battery sat just out of reach; its cables ran to the closest metal bar, which buzzed with electricity.
She was starving. She wanted to resist eating, but she couldn’t hold out any longer. She crawled across the ground and began eating.
A few minutes later, Peyton slumped forward, out cold. The soldier disconnected the car battery, opened the cell, and hoisted the skinny woman up. She was a lot fiercer than she looked. They were glad to be getting rid of her.
Chapter 50
After the call with Elliott, Millen had presented his offer to the three villagers. Halima translated and talked mostly with the older woman, Dhamiria. They occasionally conversed with the six-year-old boy, Tian, as well.
Millen tried to imagine what the request was like for them. They had seen their family and friends die in a matter of days, and were left all alone. Now they were being asked to travel to a foreign land, where they’d be subjects in medical experiments—guinea pigs to find a cure. It must be terrifying, he thought.
Halima turned to Millen. “You are sure you’ll find a cure?”
“No. I’m not sure. But there’s a chance. I can’t promise you anything, but you three may be the key to saving a lot of people’s lives.”
“We will be free to come back here—you will return us when you are done?”
“You have my word.”