Independence Day: Crucible (The Official Prequel) (12 page)

“I would love to strip them down,” Strain said, “but they can’t survive long without their suits.”

“You can’t recreate the conditions on their ships?”

“As far as we can tell, after a certain stage of maturity, they’re almost always in their exoskeletons,” the director explained. “All we know for sure is that if we take them off, they eventually die.”

“Why?” Bell asked.

David glanced at the monitors, which showed cell after cell of essentially motionless aliens.

“We don’t know that either,” David said. “I have a few ideas—”

“I don’t want ideas,” Bell said. “I want facts. Accomplishments. I want weapons that will blow anything that comes our way out of the sky.”

“Yeah,” David said. “It’s just that, you know, facts and accomplishments usually start out as ideas. Kind of the way it works.”

Bell’s only reply was a nasty look.

“I’ve seen enough,” he said. Then he turned and walked away.

Jake was underneath a ’92 Honda Civic when the boss called his name. He slid out, wiping his oily hands on his coveralls. The radio was blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird,” and it was a little hard to hear.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

His boss was named Sam Franklin, but everyone called him “Frank.” He was a big man, with a complexion almost as dark as the oil that streaked it. He was old enough to be Jake’s grandfather, but the years hadn’t slowed him down much, if at all. Jake doubted he could beat the old man in any form of physical contest.

“That’s enough for today, Jake,” Frank said. “You’ve hit the wall on your hours this week.”

“I don’t mind,” Jake said. “I could use the money.”

“We all could,” Frank replied. “I’d like to give you more, but you’re still in school, and there are laws about how much time you can spend on the clock—and before you say anything, let me tell you, you damn sure ain’t quitting school.”

“No, sir,” he said. “I’m not planning on it.” But he reflected that he might not have a choice—he’d failed the STEP academy entrance exam. He had one more shot at it, and then that dream was over. Then he might need the skills he’d picked up working in the garage, although he’d started the job for other reasons.

The orphanage was running in the red, and funds from the government were short. What funds there were had to be directed at the younger kids, so if you were seventeen and wanted new clothes more than once a year, you found a job. In his case, he was buying for two, because Charlie wasn’t old enough for real work yet. It also cost money to get the study materials he needed for the entrance exams.

Then there was the car.

“Is it okay if I tinker with the Mustang?” he asked.

“Sure,” Frank said. “That’s on your own time. Just so we’re clear, though—you’ve got a way to go before you pay that off.”

“I understand,” Jake said, “but when I do pay it off, I intend to be able to drive it out of here.”

“Fair enough,” Frank said. “So long as we’re on the same page.”

Jake worked another hour, tinkering with the Mustang, then washed up. He picked up a couple of burritos on the way back to the orphanage, and when he got to the room, he found it empty. So he settled in to do his homework, munching on the burrito.

Charlie came in a few minutes later, carrying something in a large paper bag.

“You’ve got a green chili special over on the table,” he told Charlie.

“Cool,” Charlie said. “I’m starving, and I heard dinner tonight was mystery meat casserole again. Last time I had the bubbles for two days.”

“I remember,” Jake said. “The bathroom was toxic. Hence the burritos.” He nodded at the bag. “Whatcha got there?”

Charlie couldn’t suppress a smile. “Happy birthday,” he said.

“My birthday isn’t until tomorrow,” Jake said.

“I know,” Charlie said. “I couldn’t wait.”

“Nice wrapping job,” Jake observed.

“Well, I did my best.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “Give it.”

Charlie laid the thing on the bed, and Jake took it out of the bag. For a minute he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Charlie, where did you get this?” he asked.

Charlie beamed at him. “I built it.”

“You’re ten, Charlie,” Jake said. “How does a ten-year-old build a laptop computer?”

“I’m a really smart ten-year-old,” Charlie said.

That was certainly true. Although several years younger than Jake, Charlie navigated his studies as well as he did, and in certain subjects—like math and electronics—Charlie actually outstripped him. It had ticked him off at first—just another joke from the Universe, with Jake Morrison as the butt. But without Charlie, he would be struggling a lot more than he was at calculus and trigonometry.

With a computer, his odds of passing the next test shot up. A lot.

“I found most of the parts here and there,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff people throw away or leave behind. Anyway, it doesn’t kick ass, or anything, but it can run some decent software. It’s got a word processor.”

“Nice,” Jake said.

“And all fifteen sample tests,” Charlie said. “You’re welcome.”

“Holy crap!” Jake said. “Where did you get those?”

“I found them on a website. They’re from two years ago, so they were free. Better than nothing.”

“Outstanding,” Jake said, and he set the computer on a table. “Okay, show me how to work this thing.” He frowned. “Is this the on–off switch?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“But it looks like—”

“One of the switches from your old fighter control panel?” Charlie said. “It is. I’ve been saving it for something useful.”

Jake was silent for a moment, remembering. Just a few days after he and Charlie met—after he had denied Doug and Edwardo their fun at Charlie’s expense—Jake found his “fighter jet” in ruins. They must have followed him, just looking for something, anything, any way to hurt him. Or maybe they’d been trying to get him alone, and just stumbled across it.

In any event, Jake said nothing, did nothing. When Edwardo taunted him, he pretended he didn’t have any idea what the bully was talking about.

“This is so fricken’ cool,” he said. “Thanks, Charlie.”

“I wish I could have gotten the current tests for you,” Charlie said, “but those are like two hundred dollars.”

“I know,” Jake said. “How do they expect us to get into the good schools if we can’t afford the practice tests?”

“That’s easy,” Charlie said. “Kids like us aren’t supposed to go to the good schools.”

“Maybe not,” Jake said, “but we’re going to—and like you said, old tests are better than none at all.”

Catherine Marceaux lit a cigarette and crossed her legs, watching a man row a shell along the Loire River, then glancing at the menu of the Bistro Aronnax. The air was damp and a little chilly, the sky a swirl with high, lacy clouds. The breath of the sea moved up the river and through the streets. Nantes was no Paris, but then no place was—or ever would be again. Still, it had its charms.

She was glancing at her watch as the waiter arrived and asked if he could get her something.

“I would like a glass of Muscadet,” she told him, “and some oysters, I believe.”

“Very good, mademoiselle,” he said.

She found that irritating. No, she wasn’t married, but she was twenty-eight. She had a Ph.D. She wasn’t a girl.

She finished the cigarette and was stubbing it out when Devin finally arrived, an apologetic look on his long, soft face.

“I thought I was about to be stood up,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “Can you believe it? The train was late.”

“I can believe it,” she said. “It’s okay.”

He hesitated, then bent down so they could kiss cheeks.

“Have you ordered yet?” he asked.

“Just now,” she said. “You aren’t that late. If you were French, I might even consider you on time. But for an Englishman, I must regard you as tardy.”

He smiled and pushed back his unruly chestnut hair. “It’s good to see you again, Catherine. I was surprised to get your message.”

“Well,” she said, “I saw you were on the program for the conference tomorrow. I thought things would be too busy then, and hoped you would be here early enough to get together beforehand.”

“I don’t suppose this is from any sort of romantic inclination?” he said.

“I’m afraid not,” she said.

“I thought not,” he said. “Disappointing.”

They made chitchat a bit, talked about some old schoolmates. Her oysters came, along with the accoutrements. Devin ordered the sole as Catherine tasted the surf of Bretagne on the half shell. After the meal, as they waited for coffee, she finally came around to what she wanted to discuss.

“I’ve been working with several patients,” she said. “I can’t name them, obviously, and it’s not important—but they were all involved in the fighting after the alien ships came down. I wonder if you’ve done any of the same.”

“Because I work for the Royal Air Force?” he asked.

“Just a shot in the dark,” she said.

“You must see well at night,” he said. “One of my patients was a pilot who was involved in that mess in the Middle East. I’ve one or two more. What you really want is a psychologist who works for Special Forces, though.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said, “but you’ll do for a start.”

“I’m always game for a start,” he said.

“These fellows you worked with,” she said. “Did they have anything in common? Anything striking?”

For the first time he looked a little uncomfortable. After a moment of silence he responded.

“They all had a form of post-traumatic stress disorder,” he said. “It’s not surprising, given the things they saw and did.”

“Half of the remaining population of our planet has PTSD,” she said. “I was wondering about something else, something… different.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “I had three patients. Two were more or less what you might expect—nightmares, depression, sensitivity to certain triggers. The one fellow, though—how shall I put this? He said he had things in his head. Shapes, symbols, images…”

She leaned forward, feeling a bit excited.

“Did he draw any of these things for you?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair.

“It’s why he came to me actually,” he said. “He had become rather compulsive about it.”

“What did he draw?” she asked.

“Symbols. Some of it looked like writing. And sketches of the aliens themselves, but the thing he was most obsessive about was just a circle with a line, or lines, through it.”

Catherine took out another cigarette, lit it, then flipped open her notebook.

“Like this?” she said. She held it up.

“Yes,” he said. “Remarkably similar.”

“And could he explain to you what it meant?”

“Only that it was something to fear,” he said.

She leaned back again and exhaled a long plume of gray smoke.

“Did you ever study mythology?” Catherine asked.

“The minimum,” he said, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “You aren’t about to go Jungian on me, are you?”

She smiled. “Not exactly. Do you know what animal is most universally considered magical or sacred across all mythologies, religions, and belief systems?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” he said. “And just as sure you’re about to tell me.”

“The snake,” she replied.

“I don’t follow.”

“Dragons in the mythology of Old Europe, the feathered serpent in Mesoamerica, the Naga in India, the Rainbow Serpent of the Australian Aborigines—in almost all cultures serpents or serpent monsters represent the sacred or the demonic or both. They are freighted with supernatural meaning. They symbolize natural forces, and yet most of our symbols, you would agree, are more arbitrary. The cross, the Star of David, the little fish Americans sometimes put on the backs of their autos. Language itself, for that matter, where sounds are made to stand in for objects, actions, thoughts.

“To understand any of these things you must know the symbolic language they are composed in. It’s not intuitive—it must be learned. But snakes—did you know that chimps have a specific call they make when they see a snake? It’s a warning to the others. A chimp raised in captivity, if shown a toy snake, will react exactly as a wild one would. He has no practical experience with snakes, doesn’t know what it is, hasn’t been taught about it—but he has a reaction.”

“I take it you’re saying primates are hard-wired to recognize a snake as something special?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to contain herself. “Yes, and in human cognition, the ‘specialness’ works out as something supernatural—a spirit, a god. It wakes up something very ancient inside of us when we see a slithering thing.”

“The fear of being eaten, I would think,” Devin said. “Small primates, living in trees—not a lot of tigers up there. But snakes—if you don’t figure out what they are when you see one coming along the limb, you don’t have baby primates.” He shrugged. “Okay, but what does this have to do with the circle?”

“Like your man, my patients—and I have four—equate this symbol with terror. Does it frighten you?” She took another drag on her Gauloise.

“Not at all,” he said. “It almost looks like a smiley face without eyes. Which could be creepy if you thought of it that way, I suppose. But really, it’s very puzzling.”

“Because it’s not hard-wired into you,” she said. “It is in my patients. Like the chimp and the toy snake, they don’t know what it is, but it frightens them—and all of them had direct mind-to-mind contact with aliens.”

“What do you think it means?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, “but I’m going to do my damnedest to find out.”

Patricia found Dylan waiting for her outside of the school gate, looking oddly uncomfortable.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

He shrugged. “Not a lot,” he said. “Where are you headed?”

She nodded toward the black sedan parked a block away. A Secret Service agent stood nearby, trying to appear as if he wasn’t watching them.

“Home,” she said.

“Oh,” he replied. He looked down.