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  Her Zathcore contact had recruited her to make a scene at Chairman Alkott’s press conference several weeks back. It was a test, he said, and she passed with flying colors. He admired her audacity—flashing her middle fingers at the cameras—and he needed brave, dedicated people of like mind to ensure the mission’s success. So, she took a leave of absence from the Duncan & Stephenson law firm in New York City to help stop the missile from colliding with Black Ghost. And here she was, spying on the world’s most secretive and powerful agency.

  Imagine that.

  The House Speaker cleared his throat. “Now that Mr. Kronemeyer has been dealt with, shall we move on to other matters?” He handed the floor to the Global Sanctuary Director.

  “My staff has assembled a comprehensive plan that will move us toward ideal Sanctuary population within ten years,” the Global Sanctuary Director said as a holographic chart appeared in the center of the room. “Bell curve analysis clearly illustrates our current strategy will fail to reach our goal of a quarter-billion population reduction within that time span. Cancer fatalities this quarter displayed a three percent decrease due to privatized relief efforts.”

  “Why not close the Sanctuary hospitals and stop offering our charity? Wouldn’t that speed up the process?” someone said.

  “No, such a method lacks subtlety,” the Global Sanctuary Director said. “We must preserve the trust of our three billion Barrier residents, but also cover the growing needs of five billion Sanctuary residents. Many Barrier residents possess a strong moral code concerning the sanctity of life. It’s vital these residents not lose confidence in their leaders.”

  “He’s right,” someone added. “History has taught us that when our most productive citizens lose faith in their leaders, the result is civil unrest and economic collapse. I’m not sure what method of population control the Global Sanctuary Director has in mind, but it must be covert, and it must not be a publicized bloodbath.”

  “My staff is in full agreement,” the Global Sanctuary Director said. “I suggest we stage a series of revolts in a dozen of the world’s most secluded Sanctuaries, those which contribute little to Barrier infrastructure, or whose work assignments hardly cover the expense of their rations and overhead. Sanctuaries in remote areas of Africa, Asia, and South America. Places seldom visited by Barrier residents where we can test and conduct a proper statistical analysis before proceeding to similar Sanctuaries.”

  “And the purpose of these staged revolts?” the House Speaker asked.

  “To provide a viable reason to seal the borders indefinitely,” the Global Sanctuary Director said. “We can then gather the appropriate number of people to be euthanized in the hospitals. If we’re successful in these Sanctuaries, such measures will be carried out in other Sanctuaries over a ten-year span until our target population is reached.”

  Ashlyn couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How much longer could she keep her mouth shut? Like most aspiring trial lawyers, she was wired to speak up. The voice alteration chip implanted in her trachea would protect her from detection, right? Talking was a bizarre experience at first; her new voice had a lower, raspier timbre. The alteration was less than a week old, along with her hair, facial implants, and a new LifeTracker chip. The novelty had not yet worn off.

  Sneaking into the Session Chambers was far less difficult than she imagined. An altered LifeTracker chip fooled the scanners, and her new identity corresponded with a bogus name added to the thick database of personnel authorized to enter the Session Chambers, courtesy of one of Zathcore’s hackers. People here didn’t even know the names of the shadows seated to their right and left—all to her advantage. Only a central database knew—one that was maintained by administrators in distant locales who never attended the sessions. The Intergovernmental Congress had become so accustomed to its superior status, it had grown careless in its security procedures.

  She cleared her throat. “Are we certain such extreme measures are necessary?”

  All heads turned in her direction. She gulped. Her second session and she hadn’t said a word yet, nor was she supposed to. Her only task was to listen in the darkness and report back to her contact with Zathcore.

  “Of course these ‘extreme measures’ are necessary,” the Global Director of Agriculture said. “Our agriculture Barriers are at full capacity. We cannot continue to support the grain and vegetable requirements of both the Barrier cities and the Sanctuaries at the current rate of population growth.”

  Ashlyn prepared her next retort, enjoying the anonymity her new voice provided. “During my two years as Assistant Director of South American Sanctuaries, I’ve witnessed and reported dozens of illegal greenhouses. They’re fabricated with a special glass. And I’ve seen potatoes and corn grow in soil you claim can’t support vegetation. Perhaps these Sanctuary residents are on to something. Perhaps this is a scientific endeavor the Intergovernmental Congress should investigate further. Why not let Sanctuaries have their own greenhouses?”

  It was partially true. Ashlyn had never actually seen any Sanctuary greenhouses, but she had heard plenty of stories about them.

  “It appears some of our younger attendees need a history lesson,” the House Speaker said.

  Snickering followed.

  Ashlyn felt her face blush. Good thing she was only a shadow in the dimly lit room.

  The Director of Global Agriculture continued. “With all due respect, Assistant Director, we cannot allow these privatized greenhouses to exist for obvious reasons. A centrally managed food supply allows for a safe world—one we’ve preserved for forty years utilizing a system of efficiency. Do you recall what the world was like before The Great Reconstruction? Two-thirds of the planet’s food supply obliterated by the flares. Farmers slaughtered for their precious crops. Warlords running distribution channels. Entire cities decimated for control over grain supply. Whatever these privatized greenhouses are, they’re not worth the risk, and they’re certainly not worth our time or diminishing resources. Is that clear to you, Assistant Director?”

  Ashlyn swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She dared not say another word.

  Finally, the House Speaker spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Intergovernmental Congress, I’ve heard quite enough. This plan you’ve outlined is cumbersome and it will fail. Mr. Kronemeyer is right, we need a concentrated effort. We need to reduce the population in the Sanctuaries by a quarter-billion in one crushing blow. We must ‘trim the fat’ so to speak, and we must do so with one quick sweep of the knife. I have a proposal.”

  He paused and the room became eerily silent. Ashlyn could spot this type of dramatic behavior a mile away—law school had drilled into her that commanding a courtroom was a matter of inserting optimal pauses, pitch, volume and vocal inflections. The Russian-born House Speaker knew his stuff.

  “I propose we let Mother Nature do the dirty work,” the House Speaker continued.

  “What exactly are you proposing, House Speaker?” the Director of World Sanctuaries asked.

  “The next flare is predicted to hit the Southern and Northern hemispheres in roughly two weeks, and meteorologists are forecasting it to be of monumental intensity,” the House Speaker said. “Anyone not shielded by a Barrier or fallout shelter will find themselves bombarded with radiation like that of a nuclear bomb. As standard protocol, we’ll seal off Sanctuary borders three days prior to the strike, as well as satellites, drones, communications and hover-rail lines. We’ll use this small window of isolation to close all hospitals and fallout shelters in select Sanctuaries. Residents will have nowhere to go when the sky ignites two weeks from now.”

  The House Speaker paused. Ashlyn couldn’t make out the expression on his face in the semi-darkness, but she was certain he was grinning.

  “When the flare strikes,” he continued, “every man, woman, and child above ground will be annihilated instantaneously. There will be no survivors, nor any witnesses. Afterward, we’ll seal off these mass gravesites for several weeks while we
tidy things up.”

  “And how will we explain this outrageous catastrophe to the public?” the World Sanctuary Director asked.

  “We’ll bulldoze the corpses into the shelters and hospitals. Then we’ll reopen the borders to the media. They’ll report that even the shelters couldn’t shield these unfortunate souls from the monstrous flare’s radiation.”

  The World Sanctuary Director let out a scathing laugh. “And who will do this ‘tidying up’? Our military personnel? Many of these individuals have families in Sanctuaries and would never agree to such a thing.”

  “Of course not,” the House speaker said. “We have a number of private firms at our disposal, men who will do and agree to anything for a lucrative wage.”

  “And you think the public will believe this sham? A quarter-billion fatalities because the shelters had leaks?” a man with a French dialect asked.

  “Why not?” a British woman replied. “The shelters haven’t been updated in forty years. We’ve seen a growing number of post-flare contamination reports in many of the Sanctuaries. It’s conceivable such a calamity could occur under the right circumstances. And, as the House Speaker has noted, the next flare is predicted to be the largest and most severe yet.”

  “I concur,” stated an Indian man a few seats from Ashlyn. “This is a good plan indeed.”

  “I agree,” another man said. Then another and another.

  “Excellent,” the House Speaker said. “By a show of hands, have we reached a consensus?”

  Hands rose and fell around the table. Ashlyn hesitated, then followed suit, her heart dropping. The attendees went on to discuss specifics on which Sanctuaries would be selected. Over a hundred in total, mostly from Africa, South America, and the United States.

  Sanctuary 87 was on the list. Ashlyn’s Zathcore contact had mentioned that Sanctuary several times in passing. He had a family member there, she recalled.

  The House Speaker continued. “Shall we move to the next item on the agenda? Chairman Alkott, please brief the Intergovernmental Congress on the upcoming missile launch and the status of Black Ghost.”

  Chairman Alkott stood and cleared his throat.

  As he spoke, Ashlyn listened intently. The answer to one question in particular was of highest importance to her—the very reason she was here.

  Where was the world’s only deep space missile located?

  Reprogramming its course was imperative. After all, her mother, Jillian Catterton, was onboard Black Ghost.

  12

  Nathan set his duffle bag on the dock and gazed at the familiar sight of Lake Hood Seaplane Base. Rows of pontoon planes bobbed along the shoreline in the morning light, waiting to be flown to remote areas of the state. The strong odor of fish hung in the air. Seagulls squawked in the distance. Smells and sounds etched into his memory since childhood.

  Lake Hood was the only floatplane base left in the world, according to his father. And that made Alaska special. Here Barrier citizens could legally own and operate vintage airplanes restored from the bygone era of private aviation. At their own risk, of course—only ten percent of the state was protected by Barrier infrastructure. Sixty thousand square miles of shielded wilderness treated vacationers to a snapshot of planet Earth before the solar flares: pristine lakes, cooler temperatures, wildlife, lush green forests. His family came here every two years. During the off years, the Cessna and the cabin were rented to outfitters. This year was supposed to have been an off-year—until his father’s last-minute decision to make the trip by himself.

  Nathan cupped his eyes and looked up—crystalline blue in every direction. He strained and searched for the Anchorage Barrier. Seven times in his life he’d spotted the translucent ripple high above Lake Hood. He couldn’t see it today, but he would look for the Wilderness Barrier before the seaplane landed—a game he and his father had played since Nathan was twelve. “See if you can spot the Barrier over the cabin,” his father would say before they landed.

  Nathan picked up a flat stone and skipped it over the water near the spot where his father’s small yellow seaplane was normally docked. At least the weather was cooperating. Clear skies and above freezing temperatures just as the forecast predicted. A cool Pacific breeze brushed his cheeks.

  Bennie slid his gloves on and shivered. He was bundled head to toe like a school kid dressed by his mother after the first winter snow. “I can’t believe Aidan enjoys coming to this icebox.”

  “November’s the off-season,” Nathan reminded him. “We normally come in the summer months.”

  “Valid point. We’re certainly not here for R&R.”

  He followed Bennie to a maroon seaplane. A brawny man with a curled mustache and skull cap tossed a cigarette into the water and introduced himself as Giff. Bennie thanked him for agreeing to shuffle his schedule around and fly out on short notice. Apparently, Giff’s boss owed a few favors to one of Bennie’s friends who was an aircraft mechanic, and that friend owed Bennie a few favors.

  “I’ve got another run this afternoon. We need to get moving,” Giff said after pleasantries were exchanged. “Luggage?”

  Nathan handed him his duffle bag. Giff threw it into the rear storage compartment, then he grabbed Bennie’s massive black suitcase and grunted. “Pretty heavy, partner. You’re only staying one night, remember?”

  Bennie grinned sheepishly. “I’ll cover any extra fuel expenses.”

  “You got that right, partner…plus handling fees.”

  They boarded the plane and Giff fired up the engines. Bennie took the front seat and Nathan took the back.

  “Buckle up,” Giff shouted over the whine of the propeller. They coasted from the dock, plowed through the water and took off. Nathan pressed his face against the glass and watched Lake Hood and the rows of floating seaplanes gradually fade behind them. They would trail the shoreline of the Gompertz Channel for a hundred miles at low altitude, then another eighty over Kachemak Bay to his father’s cabin in the coastal town of Point Klawak off the Gulf of Alaska.

  After twenty minutes in the air, they passed through the Anchorage Barrier and entered the Wilderness Barrier. Nathan had spotted the intersection of the two Barriers when he was nineteen and made a mental note of the corresponding landmark below: an old cell phone tower at the tip of a small peninsula. He once asked his father how their plane was able to pass through Barriers without smacking the perimeters and crashing. His father had explained that Barriers were particle fields designed to allow physical matter to pass through while blocking the sun’s harmful heat and radiation. Nathan still didn’t understand the mechanics of it, nor did he care to. He’d always been more enthralled by his rare ability to see Barrier ripples with the naked eye. Bragging rights, his father had said.

  Nathan squinted and searched for the Wilderness Barrier.

  No luck.

  So much for bragging rights.

  His eyes followed the shoreline below and he wondered what they would find at the cabin that the authorities hadn’t. Besides an old seaplane where a local deputy discovered his father’s supposed remains, he hoped they would uncover at least one clue that would steer them in the right direction. Enough to make this trip worth it, at least in Sarah’s mind.

  He leaned against the window and whispered a prayer for his father, wherever he was.

  Then another one for Ian.

  _____

  Nathan awoke to the sound of water swooshing outside his window and Giff yelling, “Naptime’s over, fellas. Okay to dock on the other side of the old Cessna 172?”

  Nathan said that was fine as he looked out the window. There she was in all her faded-yellow glory. Swaying in the tide in front of the cabin. According to the Alaskan authorities, the decontamination crew had thoroughly scrubbed the interior of the plane of radioactive residue. The cockpit was probably cleaner than it had been in a decade and there was little chance they’d find any clues on what had really happened to his father. Still, it was worth a quick peek inside before they left. For
old times’ sake.

  Giff jumped onto the dock and tied his plane down. He reached into the back and tossed Nathan’s duffle bag onto the dock. Next came Bennie’s overstuffed suitcase. He grunted as he heaved it up beside Nathan’s. “That old Cessna 172 is one hell of a plane,” he said. “They don’t build em’ like that anymore.”

  Nathan sized up the condition of Big Bird—his father’s pet name for the Cessna for as long as he could remember. The yellow paint was chipped and discolored, and she was in dire need of a makeover. Nathan threw out the suggestion on the last family vacation. “I’ll get to it,” his father had muttered with greasy hands and a sweat-streaked forehead as he tinkered with the propeller.

  Appears you didn’t “get to it” dad.

  Nathan and Bennie stepped onto the dock. The old boards wobbled and creaked under their feet. They always did.

  Giff untied the plane and jumped back into the pilot seat, firing up the engine. The propeller whirred to life.

  “Gotta get going, fellas,” he shouted. “Stay safe and watch out for bears. I’ll be back tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp. Be ready.”

  Nathan and Bennie waved as Giff’s plane coasted and took off.

  Bennie scowled. “Was he serious about the bears?”

  “Sure—dad shot one once.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Forty years maybe? I was still in grade school.”

  “Is there still a gun in the cabin?”

  “Not anymore. Civilian-owned firearms haven’t been legal in Alaska for thirty-five years.”

  “Since when does Aidan care about the law?”

  “The authorities conduct periodic inspections of these cabins, Bennie. Even dad wouldn’t be crazy enough to risk forfeiting his favorite vacation spot over a gun.”

  Bennie set his suitcase on the dock and exhaled. “Slim chance we’d even need it, right?”

  Nathan grabbed his duffle bag. “Keep a safe distance from the woods and you’ll be fine.”

  Bennie’s eyes widened.