Thunder (8 page)

Normally she'd have to be right on top of the pig farm before she knew to veer off to the right to find the stream, but the stench reached her nose long before the large oaks, apple orchard, and curing sheds told her to turn.

There were several Boroughs raising and eating pigs. Pork was one meat that Mother would not let her eat. She said pigs didn't sweat, so any impurities they ate were kept in their meat. But Selah loved the smell of cooking slab bacon. The heavenly aroma caused her stomach to rumble with hunger . . . until the day Father came home from a Borough meeting
and told Mother the farmer they usually bought apples from had died while feeding his hogs, and the animals ate him as an extension of their meal.

Selah forever gagged at the smell of cooking pork, thinking about the poor man becoming part of the meat. The tale haunted her to this day. She was glad to give wide berth around the farm without seeing any animals.

The clear, swift-moving stream was a welcome break after less than an hour of travel. She'd gotten here much faster than normal but suffered no fatigue—in fact, she felt invigorated as though she could run for hours. Strange. Selah plopped to the ground at the edge of the water, pulled off her pack, and shimmied on her belly to the edge. A few handfuls of the clear, cold water refreshed her. She wandered to a nearby apple tree, plucked a huge, dark red specimen, and bit into it.

She could afford to rest for fifteen minutes. She stooped beside the stream as she ate. The sky was beautifully clear and the sun warm. It felt good considering it could have been a rainy, damp day, forcing her to travel wet. She amused herself watching the minnows dart in little side pools where the current stayed at bay. A hawk played chicken with a group of three tiny birds, swooping and diving as the three annoyed little ones tried to chase him away.

Maybe she wouldn't linger here. She'd never noticed the pig smell to be this strong near the stream. Usually it was only this rank near the fields being plowed and rooted by the swine herd, and those fields were easy to spot by the turned-over clumps of root, no grass, dark soil, and fallen trees. She sniffed the air again.

Off to the left and behind her, a twig snapped. It came from
a safe distance away, but Selah rose, spit out the apple seeds, and leisurely picked up her pack. Her heartbeat started its ramp-up to a pounding. She began walking north away from the sound. The place shallow enough to cross to the other side was still about a half mile upstream.

The bushes in front of her rustled. Selah took a deep breath. A free-range sow weighing at least two hundred pounds plowed through the brush and grunted her displeasure. Selah stopped in her tracks. On her right came the playful grunts of a litter of piglets in the high brush near the stream. She was between the sow and her babies, which never ended well. Her legs began to tremble but she forced herself to back up. Getting out of the middle would improve the situation.

Selah darted back the way she'd come. A boar ran from the tree line, considerably larger than the sow and bearing four tusks that looked five inches long and sharp enough to poke holes in her that a fist could pass through. She skidded to another stop. A wall of pork hurtled at her.

Trapped between the two, she swung her backpack. The boar impaled it on a tusk and tried to jerk it from her hand. Selah yanked back. For a moment, a virtual tug-of-war ensued. He dropped his head and the bag slid free. In the process of trying to pull it back, Selah lost her balance and stumbled backward. She recovered just as the boar charged again.

Selah took her only option. She clutched her pack to her chest and flung herself into the stream, landing in a crouch. Water covered her head and sharp rocks on the bottom tore at her knees and elbows. Struggling to her feet in the slow current, Selah coughed and spit out water invading her lungs. She swung around. The boar looked uninterested in climb
ing down the embankment. Selah exhaled a huge sigh and coughed up more water as she slogged to the other side and scrambled her way up the slippery bank. Her feet squished in water-logged travel shoes as she headed off across the field. She really hated pigs now.

Selah raised her hand to shade her eyes and peered at the sun in the afternoon sky. She had run twenty miles. In her usual regimen she would gain a second wind, as her mother liked to say. The endorphins would kick in and flood her body with happy juice, making it easy to push on. But today . . . was it her imagination, or could she have traveled another twenty miles? Whatever she felt, there was no need to go farther today. The travel station sat less than a hundred yards away.

She crossed the field to the road, followed it around the bend, and jerked to a stop. A Company AirStream sat on the landing pad in front of the building. Its occupants were coming out of the station.

Selah muttered to herself and backed into the bend. She'd beaten her brothers here and now would be bested by a stupid Company transport.

While she ranted to herself about her misfortune, the officers climbed back into the vehicle and lifted off. Selah dashed into the protective cover of the tree line. With a soft hum, the AirStream rose above the road and disappeared around the bend.

“Yes!” Selah charged toward the station. She peered in the window. Empty room. She quickly entered, the cool interior of the rocrete and stone composite building offering wel
come relief from the sweltering heat. Her clothes had dried at least an hour ago, so heat was no longer being drawn off her body. She'd sit here for a few minutes before setting up a hiding place.

Selah dropped her backpack on a bench along the far wall and spied a poster on the Company bulletin board.

Attention: By the order of the Company, bounty on Lander subjects shall be raised by 25 percent. Total bounty will be paid as follows: 25 percent in credit, 75 percent in energy.

Her stomach lurched. Selah wanted to tear the poster to bits. She reached out.

“What do you think you're doing?” a male voice said.

S
elah spun to face the door.

The man straightened after picking up a small case leaning against the open doorway. He wore the uniform of Company security. Behind him she saw the AirStream on the landing pad.

“I-I'm just trying to read what it says,” Selah said with a wide smile. She could feel her face getting red but hoped he didn't notice in the low light. The transport, nearly silent, had returned without her hearing it. She needed to learn to stay alert.

The man sauntered forward. He looked around the empty room and gave her a sideways glance. “You wouldn't be trying to steal the notice so no one else sees the new bounty, would you?”

Selah shook her head. “No, sir. I'd never do that.”

The officer motioned her forward. Selah froze. He unhooked the small biometric scanner from his utility belt.

“What is your name, young lady?” The officer held out the scanner.

Selah hesitated. Was her stepfather looking for her already? Unfortunately, the hesitation put the officer on alert. His expression went from friendly to stony. He cocked a finger, beckoning her forward.

Selah swallowed hard and slowly walked toward him. There was nowhere to run. If she got out the door, the other officer sat in the AirStream. She held out her arm.

“I asked for your name,” the officer said as he scanned her arm.

“Selah Rishon Chavez,” she said in a barely audible voice, as though the quieter she said it, the less it would register.

The officer raised an eyebrow as he ran a finger over several spots on the scanner. Selah tried to keep her breathing in check. Seconds seemed like minutes. He looked up. Her heart skipped.

“Okay, you appear clear. No run-ins with the Mountain is a good record for a citizen.”

Selah started to give a smart remark. Outside the station the panel on the waiting AirStream began to lift.

“Did you find the case?” the officer piloting the transport asked.

The officer continued to stare at Selah. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Let's go! We still have at least an hour's travel time before we get close enough to the Mountain to get duty updates. I'm really hoping to be in my own bed tonight,” the pilot said.

The officer turned on his heels without so much as a goodbye, climbed into the transport, and it disappeared from sight.

Selah let out a huge huff of air and ran to the doorway.
The AirStream rounded the bend for the second time. This time Selah watched for them to return. Several minutes went by before she was satisfied they were gone for good.

She scanned the trees surrounding the station for the most advantageous spot. It wouldn't do to get caught here, not after she'd skirted two potential problems today. She knew where the boys would bed the team for the night and where they'd set up camp. She'd stopped at this station before when the boys accompanied her and Mother to sell her woven linens.

Rather than climb a tree, she stayed at ground level because heights were not among her favorite things. Although she was on the road to self-discovery, she didn't feel the need to accomplish it all at once. She searched out a spot with good cover beside a couple of large trees surrounded by lush bushes. Plopping her bag to the ground, Selah dug out her water cylinder and navigated across the road and through the dense foliage behind the station to the stream on the other side of the tree line. They'd get water for the horses from here.

This stream had already become her friend, both saving and refreshing her today. She filled her container and drank deep, noticing that on this side of the bend the streambed widened and deepened, looking more like a little river. The liquid cooled her from the inside out and refreshed her resolve.

Her confidence had grown in her travels today. Mother's voice audibly played over and over in her head. So many times she'd wondered why Mother drilled such lessons as self-reliance into her and in secret even taught her how to hunt animals. Those curious bonding instances were now perfectly clear examples of Mother preparing her for this future.

As if on cue, thunder rolled across her chest. The anxiety
of these strange vibrations and unsettling fears had passed in a few hours. She felt different after each rumble, as though new connections were coming together inside her. It gave her an odd sense of confidence. Her fears of being on her own . . . they weren't the normal things she'd expected from being pushed out of the nest like a baby bird learning to fly. Selah pressed on the spot, rubbing her hand over the impression. Instead, she felt comfort, like she wasn't alone.

She filled the cylinder again and headed back to her hiding spot to eat some jerky Mother had packed. With her hunger and thirst satisfied, Selah leaned back against the tree, lulling herself with the sounds around her. Birds flitted among the trees. Quick little breaths sounded like rabbits, the chatter like squirrels.

Selah needed to rest her eyes for a few minutes. The last thing she noticed was how dark the insides of her eyelids could be in the daytime.

The Mountain

Stemple ran through the rain to retrieve a chart Everling had left in Bethany's hospital room. He never understood why Mountain weather needed to mimic the outside world since everyone knew they were faux weather simulations. He grabbed a deflector, pulling the covering over his shoulders and raising the hood as he traipsed through the lobby and out into the street.

Stemple jerked at a flash of lightning and rumble of thunder. He slogged across the wet road, avoiding the tiny streams running down both sides, where the water diverted to the irrigation system for the farming section.

The hospital door slid open and Stemple shook himself from the covering. He felt a surge of excitement at getting an opportunity to look at Bethany close up. He'd found a serum plan about an hour ago that led him to believe Everling was
conducting experiments on her. Why would the man risk his wife? Had he gone rogue? What result was he expecting?

Stemple approached the door to Bethany's room. He stopped, took a deep breath, and pushed the door pad. The door slid out of the way with a slight whoosh. Stemple stepped inside, turned to the left, and froze.

Bethany's bed was empty. The covers were pulled back, disheveled. The machinery keeping her alive was turned off. Stemple glanced around the room. Where was she? Everling hadn't mentioned her being moved. If she had succumbed, he surely would know by now.

Stemple spotted the chart. He grabbed it up as though it would protect him from Everling when he asked about Bethany. Maybe they'd taken her for some kind of testing. He faded into thoughts of what had happened and didn't hear the door open behind him. A hand came to rest on his shoulder.

Stemple jumped at the touch, spun around, and backed into the bed. His mouth fell open as the chart clattered from his hand.

“How are you, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Stemple's chest constricted tightly enough to cut off his air. This couldn't be possible. He was looking at a very animated and awake Bethany Everling. His mouth opened. What came out resembled babbling more than English.

“Mrs. Everling, er, uh, Bethany. When did you wake up?
How
did you wake up?” Stemple took in her appearance. She looked ten years younger than she had mere hours ago. Maybe it was a trick of the lighting or he hadn't looked close enough when he was here this morning.

“It's simply astounding, isn't it?” a male voice said. “I'm sorry I sent you over here, but I couldn't resist seeing the surprise on your face.”

Stemple swung around. Everling stood in the doorway, grinning.

Bethany waltzed to Everling's side and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Hello, my darling.”

“Surprise? A Birth Remembrance party is a surprise. This is . . .” Stemple couldn't think of appropriate words.

Everling nodded. “You could say this is a party of sorts. We're getting younger by the hour.”

“I-I don't understand. How is this possible?” Stemple bent and picked up the chart. There were no cancer cures that could promote this kind of cell regeneration.

Everling closed the doorway and strolled to Stemple. He slapped him on the back. “I did it, my boy. I broke the code.”

“The code for what?” Stemple could only think of her cancer. It wouldn't explain the age regression. All this time he'd thought he was Everling's confidant. Their work together had never touched anything so far-reaching.

“Longevity. I've discovered the fountain of youth using Lander DNA,” Everling said. He gently cupped a hand under Bethany's chin and turned her face side to side. “Isn't she lovely?”

“You're also looking quite well, my dear.” Bethany gazed into Everling's eyes.

Stemple searched Everling's face. Wrinkles and signs of aging were gone. His hair had started filling in the thin spots. The skin had tightened like that of a man ten years his junior.

“How did you do this? Our experiments never progressed
this far. In fact, none of our work was even directed—” Stemple cut himself off as the thought took hold. Treva was right after all. She'd called this and he'd ignored her talk as foolishness.

Everling nodded. “True, but I was doing experiments of my own. I didn't want any deliberations on whether I should be using myself as a test sample for the injections.”

Stemple jerked up straight. “We need controlled studies of long-term effects you've obviously ignored. Experimenting on yourself . . . have you lost your mind?”

Everling narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. “I'm going to forget you said that to me.”

Stemple refused to remain silent. Fear emboldened him. “This is absurd. You don't know what might happen. There could be cell collapse, organ failure, or a hundred other maladies.”

“I can see the results on my wife and myself. They get better by the hour.”

“What? It's continuing? Are you still taking the drugs?” Stemple started to pace.

Everling cast his eyes downward. “No . . . I stopped both of our injections when Bethany awoke.”

Stemple glanced at Bethany. He would have to temper his questions now that Everling's wife was back in the picture. She had always presented herself as a friendly woman when she wanted something, but an authoritarian taskmaster as a boss, and she didn't like having her judgment or her husband's questioned.

“Was there a control on this to stop or slow the process when you reached a certain stage?” Stemple said, treading lightly with the questions.

“At the time that wasn't my goal. I just wanted to stop Bethany's cancer.”

“Has it stopped the cancer?”

“I took needle biopsies. The tumors are shrinking.” Everling looked hopeful.

Stemple ran a hand through his hair. “We need to start monitoring this. Do you have anything to slow or stop the process?”

“That was not my immediate objective. I was going to tell you we'd start the next phase forthwith. But as it stands now, I've achieved my goal.” Everling wrapped an arm around Bethany's waist and pulled her close to nuzzle her neck.

“How do I get access to the samples?” Stemple asked. “The damage could be fatal.”

“There will be plenty of time. Right now I want you to start dismantling the Lander project. I no longer need test subjects,” Everling said without looking away from his wife.

“Dismantle the project? Doctor . . . this has been going on for years. Why would you shut it down?”

“I've gotten everything I need. And getting rid of them will give the Board one less thing to harp on about going forward.”

Stemple watched his reaction closely. “You couldn't care less about what the Board thinks. What's the real motivation here?”

Everling looked at the floor again. His jaw clenched.

Bethany motioned with her thumb and forefinger. “We're this close to discovering immortality. Maybe he used the wrong word saying
dismantle
. Let's say we're revamping the program to the next phase.”

“Are you still getting rid of the Landers?” Stemple asked.

“Yes,” Everling said.

Stemple got the feeling this wasn't Everling's idea.

Bethany held up a hand. “I'd like to do one more set of experiments on the test set we have now. But we need to get the gene-splicing started right away.”

Everling turned to Bethany. “I've sent a team to retrieve the child.”

“The Lander child? I never asked how you obtained the information.” Stemple gritted his teeth. Using children for experiments . . . This was not what he had signed on to do.

“I know where Glade Rishon's family has lived all these years. Leaving them alone was the condition of his cooperation. Now it's time to break the deal. I need his child. He would never cooperate if he knew I was bringing her here, so he needs to go,” Everling said.

“What do you want us to do with Glade and the rest of the prime project? Let them go?”

Bethany spun around to face Stemple. “Are you crazy? You can't release those . . . subjects into the world. They're dangerous. It could come back to haunt us. They're a violent sort, if you remember the riots a decade before the drug therapy began. Destroy them.”

Everling turned away from the conversation with his head down.

“Excuse me, Doctor. I don't think I understand what you're saying,” Stemple said, numb with shock. He refused to address Bethany on something this important.

Everling's shoulders squared and he turned back. “The Landers are no longer useful. I want them all destroyed. They're my property.”

“They are not your property! These are living, breathing people.” Stemple's voice rose even though he was trying to control himself. He couldn't be a party to murder. Already his mind had shifted to possible scenarios for getting the people to safety.

Everling peered over the edge of his glasses. “When did you turn into such a bleeding heart?”

“What's a bleeding heart?”

Everling raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Just a phrase from before you were born. But anyhow, this is business. Their destruction is an acceptable loss.”

“How do you possibly think you could spin people's lives into a business loss?”

When had Everling become so indifferent to killing?

“We have everything a society could want. We've eliminated poverty, most disease, war, famine, and every other imaginable friction to everyday living. Only lack of longevity remains as a deterrent to happiness, and now we've solved it,” Bethany said.

Stemple stared at her. He knew continued questions would put him in dangerous territory with her, but he had to understand. “You used Lander DNA to create this longevity. Why do you need to involve their children now?”

He could see trouble coming.

Bethany's eyes narrowed and her lips pinched before she spoke. “I—we—don't owe you an explanation since you are merely an employee, but since you have been loyal to this point, I will humor your curiosity. The gene-splice to create longevity did not require a progression to make it work. It was just a code insertion. Where we want to go now requires
a step from our DNA to theirs. A child who is a product of them and us carries that progression.”

Charles Ganston III sat behind the antique oak desk, rubbing his finger in the groove worn smooth in the weathered surface near his right hand. Generations of Ganston men had spent their time pondering at this same spot.

He stared at the large expanse of halo-screen on the far wall displaying an image of the outside with sunshine and trees, and he imagined the fresh air. Not this recycled air inside the Mountain, scrubbed and infused with psychologically calming compounds. There was just enough substance to keep the populace from going stir-crazy but not enough to affect performance. Over the years the drugs had become a normal part of Mountain reality.

Ganston, while in his forties, had discovered what effect the drugs had on the people's DNA—high mortality of newborns . . . now accepted as a fact of life.

The Mountain's dirty little secret.

Neither the life of relative ease, the lack of poverty and adversity, or the absence of disease could coerce a growing faction of the younger generations to remain inside. They wanted out of the Mountain.

His intercom sounded. He waved a hand across the panel. “Yes.”

“They're ready in the conference room,” his assistant Jax said.

Ganston passed his hand over the link. He practiced patience and plodding in his plan, so as to miss no details. The
3-D machinery was procured to erect the buildings. Food and animal herds were sequestered. And he even added his own element of insurance.

He moved through the side door and took a seat at the head of the slate-gray conference table. The polished stone surface lay bare except for the tray in the center containing a clear flask of drinking water and a group of empty glasses. Flanked by his three trusted Politicos, Ganston pushed back the nagging doubt of a major misstep in his personal vendetta against Everling. He planned to rectify it very soon and just hoped no other anomalies cropped up because of it. He felt enough guilt over Bethany Everling's cancer. He pushed aside self-recrimination that he was no better than Everling and thumbed through the day's agenda.