of the first phase.
Thinking about it made Cyrus want to scream, to run and shout with joy.
“We should close up,” advised Otto.
“I know; I know.” Cyrus waved his hand peevishly. “It’s just that I hate to do it.”
“We can’t let the Twins see—”
Cyrus silenced him with a look.
“They probably won’t even come in here.” However, Cyrus knew that Otto was quite right. Taking chances was never good at the best of times, but with the Extinction Wave so close—so wonderfully, delightfully close—nothing could be left to chance. And neither of them trusted the Twins.
“I wish we could bring them in,” said Cyrus.
Otto turned away so Cyrus wouldn’t see him roll his eyes. This was an argument that had started before the Twins had hit puberty, and he and Cyrus had come at it from every possible angle too many times to count.
“Everything in their psych profiles suggests that they would oppose the Wave.”
“I know.”
“Their ideologies are too—”
“I know.”
Otto pursed his lips.
“Mr. Cyrus, their plane is touching down as we speak.”
Cyrus sighed. “Very well, damn it.” He flapped his hand and turned away.
He walked slowly away, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed thoughtfully. At the door he paused and turned to watch as steel panels slid slowly into place to hide the rooms below. Heavy hydraulics kicked in and Cyrus glanced up as shutters rolled into place to hide nearly 80 percent of the technicians. A faux wall rose up to cover a half-mile-long corridor that connected the Deck to the viral storage facility buried under the hot Arizona sands. The whole process took less than three minutes, and when it was completed the room looked small, almost quaint. High-tech to be sure, but on a scale suited only for research rather than mass production. Cyrus sighed again. It depressed him tohave to hide this from his own children. Just as it depressed him that his children were such serious disappointments.
“I’ll be in the garden,” he said to Otto. “Bring them to me there.”
Otto bowed and watched him go.
Chapter Eighteen
The Deck
Saturday, August 28, 10:22 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 38 minutes E.S.T.
Paris’s cell rang as their plane was rolling to a stop on the tarmac.
“Yes?” he answered in a musical voice.
“It’s me,” said J. P. Sunderland.
“And—”
“It’s a wash. We hit all of the DMS bases likely to have a Mind-Reader substation, but without an Executive Order to shoot, the best we could manage was a standoff. Actually, kiddo,” Sunderland said, “we have several agents in the hospital and ears are up in local and regional law coast to coast. The Vice President is probably going to get his ass dragged before a subcommittee for this.”
“So,” Paris said with ice, “basically you fucked it up.”
“Basically, yes.”
“You could at least sound contrite.”
“Blow me, snowball,” said Sunderland. There was no heat in his voice; there never was. He was too practiced a game player to let any bad hand of cards, or even a bad run of cards, fracture his cool. “This was a fifty-fifty at best and we all knew that going in. You and your sister called this play. I was against it from the start as you well know. It’s a waste of resources that could have been better used further down the road.”
“We need that system. Without MindReader the money train’s going to slow to a halt, J.P.”
“I’ll practice singing the blues later. Right now it looks like the NSA will be stalled long enough for the power to shift back to the President. And, like I said, we may lose the Vice President over this.”
“What a pity,” drawled Paris. “That would bring the free world to its knees.”
“Okay, fair enough, who cares if he sinks? Point is, the NSA ploy would have had more pop to it if we’d used it when the big man was dead.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think?”
Paris laughed. “What are you saying?
Thinking about it made Cyrus want to scream, to run and shout with joy.
“We should close up,” advised Otto.
“I know; I know.” Cyrus waved his hand peevishly. “It’s just that I hate to do it.”
“We can’t let the Twins see—”
Cyrus silenced him with a look.
“They probably won’t even come in here.” However, Cyrus knew that Otto was quite right. Taking chances was never good at the best of times, but with the Extinction Wave so close—so wonderfully, delightfully close—nothing could be left to chance. And neither of them trusted the Twins.
“I wish we could bring them in,” said Cyrus.
Otto turned away so Cyrus wouldn’t see him roll his eyes. This was an argument that had started before the Twins had hit puberty, and he and Cyrus had come at it from every possible angle too many times to count.
“Everything in their psych profiles suggests that they would oppose the Wave.”
“I know.”
“Their ideologies are too—”
“I know.”
Otto pursed his lips.
“Mr. Cyrus, their plane is touching down as we speak.”
Cyrus sighed. “Very well, damn it.” He flapped his hand and turned away.
He walked slowly away, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed thoughtfully. At the door he paused and turned to watch as steel panels slid slowly into place to hide the rooms below. Heavy hydraulics kicked in and Cyrus glanced up as shutters rolled into place to hide nearly 80 percent of the technicians. A faux wall rose up to cover a half-mile-long corridor that connected the Deck to the viral storage facility buried under the hot Arizona sands. The whole process took less than three minutes, and when it was completed the room looked small, almost quaint. High-tech to be sure, but on a scale suited only for research rather than mass production. Cyrus sighed again. It depressed him tohave to hide this from his own children. Just as it depressed him that his children were such serious disappointments.
“I’ll be in the garden,” he said to Otto. “Bring them to me there.”
Otto bowed and watched him go.
Chapter Eighteen
The Deck
Saturday, August 28, 10:22 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 38 minutes E.S.T.
Paris’s cell rang as their plane was rolling to a stop on the tarmac.
“Yes?” he answered in a musical voice.
“It’s me,” said J. P. Sunderland.
“And—”
“It’s a wash. We hit all of the DMS bases likely to have a Mind-Reader substation, but without an Executive Order to shoot, the best we could manage was a standoff. Actually, kiddo,” Sunderland said, “we have several agents in the hospital and ears are up in local and regional law coast to coast. The Vice President is probably going to get his ass dragged before a subcommittee for this.”
“So,” Paris said with ice, “basically you fucked it up.”
“Basically, yes.”
“You could at least sound contrite.”
“Blow me, snowball,” said Sunderland. There was no heat in his voice; there never was. He was too practiced a game player to let any bad hand of cards, or even a bad run of cards, fracture his cool. “This was a fifty-fifty at best and we all knew that going in. You and your sister called this play. I was against it from the start as you well know. It’s a waste of resources that could have been better used further down the road.”
“We need that system. Without MindReader the money train’s going to slow to a halt, J.P.”
“I’ll practice singing the blues later. Right now it looks like the NSA will be stalled long enough for the power to shift back to the President. And, like I said, we may lose the Vice President over this.”
“What a pity,” drawled Paris. “That would bring the free world to its knees.”
“Okay, fair enough, who cares if he sinks? Point is, the NSA ploy would have had more pop to it if we’d used it when the big man was dead.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think?”
Paris laughed. “What are you saying?
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