Текст книги "Dreamland"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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II

The hottest stick on the

patch

One year later …

Dreamland

7 October 1996, 1930

IN THE PINK LIGHT OF THE LATE FALL SUNSET, THE desert complex looked abandoned. Four large shedlike hangars stood off to the right, beyond the long, wide concrete runway that Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian and his F-16 were heading for. A lone Humvee sat near the access ramp; another vehicle, a station wagon or SUV, was parked next to one of the hangars. There was no tower building, and in fact the only structures that seemed inhabitable were one-story dormlike buildings made of yellow bricks near the double fence. A few scratch roads, barely visible from the sky, wound across the flat terrain toward an old boneyard, or plane cemetery, at the extreme western end of the fence. Two, perhaps three ramshackle shacks guarded the old metal hulks, whose skeletons glittered red with the reflected light, as if they were still burning with the desire to fly.

If there were more desolate posts on earth, few seemed so ordinary or bland. Dry lake beds spread out before the mountains in the distance, crisscrossed by strange shadows and shapes, marks on the earth that could have been left by a race of desert giants, long since vanquished by the coming of man.

These immense hieroglyphics were actually a clue that the restricted desert and airspace north of Nellis Air Force base in Nevada was special indeed. For the shadows were manmade concoctions designed to confuse optical satellites orbiting above. Despite appearances, the base at the corner of Groom Lake was one of the most secure on the planet. Colonel Bastian’s presence was being monitored not only by three different ground radars, but by two AWACS planes flying circuits around the restricted air corridors. And while nothing much might be happening on the surface of the desert, the bunkers and laboratories below were teeming with enough activity to shame a dozen ant colonies. There was indeed an air traffic control facility; it was equipped with state-of-the-art equipment, including a brand-new three-dimensional rendering system that projected Bastian’s F-16 in a holographic display for the controller. The high-tech “tower” was located underground—beneath enough cement to withstand a ten-megaton nuclear blast_ And so was the facility it connected to, with suites of some of the most sophisticated aeronautical and electronics research labs in the country. For Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian was approaching the Air Force High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, otherwise known as HAWC or, more colloquially, “Dreamland.” The four cavernous hangars—and the facilities connected by special elevators beneath them—contained some of the most advanced aircraft and weapons imaginable.

And a few that were unimaginable.

“Dream Tower, this is DCAF Flight One,” said Bastian after keying Dreamland’s frequency on his F-16’s radio.

“DCAF Flight One, squawk 2351 and ident,” responded the tower, asking the colonel to prod the electronic identifying equipment aboard his plane. Even though the controller’s sophisticated equipment had already independently ID’d the plane, Bastian moved quickly to comply; failing to do so could result in a no-questions-asked shoot-down by one of the MIM-23 I-HAWK batteries covered by desert camo netting just to the west of the base.

The controller did not verbally acknowledge the ID. Instead, he asked Bastian to give his security clearance. “Diamond-diamond-black,” replied the colonel.

There was a pause.

“Yes, sir,” replied the controller finally. “Welcome to Dreamland, Colonel Bastian. We, uh, weren’t expecting you today or in an F-16, sir.”

“I assume you’re not asking me to change planes,” Bastian snapped. He had already begun to line up for his final approach, although technically he had not yet received clearance.

“Sir, no, sir,” said the flustered controller, who immediately cleared Dreamland’s new commander for a landing on the main runway. He added in a final aside that the weather was “desert fine.”

The Block 1 F-16A Viper or Fighting Falcon Bastian flew was an old soldier. Dating from the very first production run of the versatile “light” fighter series, the plane had been scheduled to be “surplused” under the latest round of Pentagon budget slashings. Dog had managed to wangle it as a pilot-proficiency craft for his new command. It was his first victory over the bean counters; he hoped to hell it wouldn’t be his last.

The fighter chirped its wheels appreciatively as Dog touched down. A row of lights sprang to life from the tarmac in front of him as the plane trundled toward the access ramp; the lights blinked yellow, helping to guide him toward Hangar Four, which housed transport and auxiliary craft assigned to the base. As he approached, the hangar door began to open. All of these functions were being performed by a brand-new Automated Airport Assistance computer being tested by the HAWC wizards. When perfected, the system would be able to do much more than turn on a few lights and open some doors. With minimal human assistance, AAA and its Series S IBM mainframes would be able to run routine maintenance inspections after every flight, scanning physical flight surfaces as well as avionics equipment. The system would automate maintenance procedures and, probably in the not-too-distant future, accomplish some of the work itself. The engineers envisioned a day when combat-ready versions of AAA would do the work of a hundred or more maintenance pukes, keeping a squadron in the air around the clock.

Dog wasn’t necessarily sure he’d want to see that day. Not that he didn’t want the Air Force to get maximum use of its planes and people—”bang for the buck” was the order of the day. But in his opinion, machines could only do so much. Taking away human error and inefficiency also meant taking away human judgment and creativity. To his way of thinking judgment and creativity were what made the Air Force—any organization really—work.

As he approached the hangar, a regular welcome-wagon parade came out to join the half-dozen ground crewmen waiting for him: A trio of black security Hummers zipped out from behind Hangar One. Combat-dressed Air Force Special Operations troops poured out of the modern-day jeeps, M-16A3 laser-dot-targeted rifles in their paws.

A good sign, Dog thought to himself—it meant Captain Danny Freah had gotten to the base ahead of schedule.

Freah’s sourpuss face was the first to greet him when he climbed down the ladder.

“Colonel, welcome to Dreamland.” The captain snapped off an impressive salute. Dog had known him for a little more than a year;, in all that time, he’d never seen the twenty-three-year-old African American smile.

He liked that.

“Captain.” Dog gave the detail a quick once-over, nodding appreciatively. “We’ll be having a meeting for all officers and senior NCOs as soon as I’m squared away here. Set that up for me, will you, Danny? Let’s say thirty minutes. My office.”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” said a civilian, walking slowly from the hangar. His blue shirt was open at the collar, and while his blond hair was cropped military-style, he wore a tiny gold-post earring in his left ear. “You’ll never fit that many people in your office.”

“And you’re who?”

“I am Dr. Rubeo, senior scientist.” Rubeo heaved his shoulders back like a skinny cock preening before a fight. His oversized nose dominated his bony face; though at least six-two, he looked to weigh maybe 150 pounds.

“And what do you suggest, Doctor?”

“Frankly, I would suggest you postpone your meeting until tomorrow,” said Rubeo. “Assuming it’s necessary.”

Dog pitched his arms onto his hips. “Unacceptable.”

“Colonel, let me suggest Conference Room Two,” said Freah.

Dog locked eyes with Rubeo, then slowly turned to Freah and nodded.

“You’ll be looking for Major Thomas, sir,” Danny added. “I can take you over to him myself.”

“Very good,” said Dog.

“Life support this way, sir,” said a young staff sergeant, indicating where he could leave his flight gear. The sergeant pointed toward the F-16’s large travel pod, lashed to the side of the fuselage. “We’ll get your bags.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Bastian, starting toward the hangar.

“Excuse me, Colonel.” Rubeo said the word “colonel” as if it belonged to a foreign language.

“Yes?”

“You want staff at the meeting as well?”

“I want all senior scientists there, yes,” said Dog, snapping each word from his mouth. “I believe that would include staff.”

“I don’t know about that. Most aren’t even on the base at this hour. They could be—”

“Thirty minutes,” said Dog, setting off to get out of his speed suit.

DANNY FREAH HAD FIRST MET LIEUTENANT COLONEL Bastian during the planning session for a classified mission in Bosnia. Freah, then a lieutenant, had been tapped to help rescue a high-ranking Serbian defector, one of the Yugoslavian generals responsible for military planning during the Bosnian ethnic war. As originally drawn up, Freah’s job was minor; he was heading a security team on the second helo in the backup flight. But the primary helicopters had to be scrapped, and by the time the backups arrived at the pickup zone the insertion team was taking heavy fire. Freah and his men saved the day. Danny hoisted the wounded general on his shoulders, and ran through a minefield with him to the MH-60K Pave Hawk just as the craft lifted off. The exploit had earned Danny a promotion and the right to wear a fancy medal on his dress uniform. It also got him assigned to the Pentagon, where he’d stayed just long enough to know he never wanted to go back there again.

Bastian helped get him transferred into Special Operations—and then pulled some strings to get him out here just a few days ago.

A lot of guys pointed out that “Bastian” sounded like “bastard.” A lot of other guys pointed out that the colonel’s nickname—”Dog”—was “God” spelled backward. But in Freah’s opinion, the colonel was just a no-nonsense ballbuster who wanted things done right and fast. More importantly, the colonel had treated him fairly and respectfully from day one.

Though he’d only been at Dreamland for a few days, Freah already knew the base as well as anyone. Showing the colonel into Main Building One—they mockingly called the bland rectangle “The Taj”—he stepped quickly to the retina-scan device that stood in front of the elevator. Two of his men watched silently from a few feet away as the computer beeped clearances.

“Elevator won’t descend unless each passenger has gone through the device,” Freah told Bastian. “It’s brand-new. Installed after, uh, their problems.”

Bastian nodded. Like many pilots, Dog was barely average height, though his broad shoulders and squat legs betrayed the fact that he could probably out-bench Freah, who was no slouch himself. The forty-something colonel also ran five miles every morning, usually in just under thirty minutes.

The elevator arrived with a slow, pained hiss. It had never been exactly fast, but the addition of the security equipment made it excruciatingly slow. Having used the retina scan to identify them, the security system now reconfirmed its initial decision with an elaborate sensor array that measured fifteen physical attributes, from height to heartbeat. Any parameter that was out of line with recorded norms would cause an alert; the equipment was so sensitive that personnel were regularly briefed not to drink more than their usual allotment of coffee in the morning, for fear of pushing their heartbeat too high. In theory, the gear was supposed to make it impossible for an impostor to infiltrate the base. Freah was skeptical, to say the least.

“This thing taking us down, or what?” asked Bastian as they waited for the doors to close.

“Sorry, Colonel. The procedure takes a while.”

Bastian frowned as Freah explained how the device worked.

“We’ll have to find something better,” said Bastian as the doors finally closed. “With the amount of time this takes, people will be looking for shortcuts.”

“Yes, sir,” said Freah. He smiled—he had come to the same conclusion.

They had barely started downward when Bastian reached over to the panel and pulled out the stop button. The car halted immediately.

“How’s morale here, Danny?” asked the colonel.

“Colonel, I’ve only been here three days,” said Freah. He could tell from the way Bastian pursed his lips that wasn’t going to do.

“To be honest, I’d say they’re waiting to be nuked or closed down. They’d probably prefer to be nuked.”

Bastian nodded. He might have wanted more, but Freah had nothing more to add. He honestly couldn’t blame the men and women assigned here for feeling so dejected. While the scientists were a bit flaky, by and large everyone at Dreamland ranked in the top percentiles of intelligence and ability. They were the elite, charged with an elite mission—take cutting-edge ideas and turn them into usable hardware. But in the last few months, they’d seen their ability, work, and even loyalties questioned. A spy had been discovered in one of Dreamland’s top projects.

The spy hadn’t been just anyone. He’d been the top pilot on the top project at Dreamland: the XF-34A DreamStar next-generation interceptor and flight-control system. He’d stolen the plane, doing irreparable damage to the program and the careers of maybe a hundred people, including the three-star general who had run the place. As if the scandal and investigations weren’t enough, the budget cutters’ ax had arbitrarily slashed Dreamland’s funds so severely even toilet paper was in short supply. And things were bound to get worse. Rumor had it that Bastian had been tasked with slicing Dreamland’ s budget even further—and ultimately closing it down.

But it wasn’t Freah’s job to complain, nor was it his way. And while he’d actually majored in math for a while as a college undergraduate, he’d just as soon let someone else put the numbers in a row. So he merely stood at attention, waiting for his boss to reset the elevator.

“Hal Briggs says hello,” Bastian told him when he finally pushed the button. “I saw him in Washington last week.”

Freah nodded. Briggs had headed security at Dreamland until the spy scandal. It was an ironic twist. Briggs had mentored his career, and Freah felt more than a little awkward succeeding him.

Typical Briggs: He’d found out about the offer somehow and immediately called Freah to urge him to grab it. “Even if they close the base,” Briggs had told him, “it’s a plum assignment. Go for it.”

Briggs had somehow landed on his feet after the DreamStar debacle, getting an assignment so classified he couldn’t even hint about it. They kept in fairly constant touch—especially during football season, when they traded weekly and sometimes daily predictions about games. Briggs had sent him a secure e-mail message about Bastian just yesterday, detailing an account he’d heard from someone in Washington about how many arms Bastian had had to break to get his personal “pilot check” F16. It was thanks to that message that Freah was ready for the colonel’s early arrival.

“The major’s office will be this way,” Freah told them as the elevator stopped on Underground Level One, which was devoted to administration and support. “I’ll take you there, and then alert people about the meeting. Major’s a nice guy, but as you probably know, strictly a caretaker. He was about the only one left standing after the scandal and political BS, outside of the pilots and scientists.”

“Yes,” said Dog, stepping out.

* * *

“I EXPECT THAT A FEW OF YOU HAVE HEARD OF ME. I’M a pilot by avocation. A zipper suit. That means I don’t accept no for an answer. I have an engineering background, but I don’t pretend to be as scientifically adept as any of you. Frankly, that’s not my job.”

Dog took a step away from the podium, pausing for a moment to let his words sink in. Nearly two hundred men and women had crammed into the bowl-shaped lecture hall. Most had been either just going off duty or already at home, which in some cases meant Las Vegas, some miles to the southwest. A few looked like they had been sleeping. There were sharp divisions in the crowd, and not just between civilians and military. Air Force officers who had strictly administrative functions at the base were front-row-center. Two knots of senior noncoms filled the flanks, wearing respectful though perhaps slightly skeptical expressions. The scientists filled most of the middle and the back rows; their eyes betrayed a “now-what” attitude. That sentiment was common too among the senior officers standing along the back row. Unlike the civilians near them, they stood ramrod-straight—though Dog suspected this was more because they didn’t want to touch their neighbors than out of any respect toward him.

And then there were the pilots, sitting in the two rows nearest the door, barely concealing smirks, each undoubtedly teeming with wisecracks.

Dog gave them his most severe frown before continuing.

“You’ve taken a lot of shit here in the past six or seven months,” he said. “I know all about Maraklov—or Captain James, as he was calling himself.” Dog made sure to spit out the name of the traitor, who had wreaked so much havoc during his so-called Day of the Cheetah. “I’m not going to belabor the point. You’ve all had to put up with enough BS on that account. Dreamland is in trouble. You know it. I know it. People are talking about closing it down. Important people, including Congress. And including the President.”

The requisite jeers followed. Dog let them get them out of their system for a moment before putting his hand up.

“I can tell you right now, that’s not going to happen.”

The jeers turned to silence, and then something deeper, as if his words had created a black hole in the room, as if they had sucked every sound and every potential for sound away.

“I’m here to kick some ass,” Bastian said quickly. “And I’m going to put Dreamland back at the top of the agenda. Anyone who doesn’t want to be a part of that, leave now.” He waited a beat, then continued. “Good. At 0600 hours tomorrow, we’ll start mission-orientation flights. That means everybody—engineers, scientists, security, secretaries—hell, everybody, even the cleaning people—every last person on this base is going aboard an aircraft to see just exactly what the hell it is we do.”

Dog ignored the murmurs of approval from the staff people and turned to Major Thomas, who had been acting as base director of operations until his arrival. “Major Thomas will work with whoever needs to be worked with to make it go off smoothly.”

Thomas looked at him as if he’d just declared war on Canada. But Dog wasn’t about to get into a discussion.

“Dismissed,” he said, waving his hand. “I’ll see you on the tarmac in the morning.”

Dog hadn’t actually expected applause, but he took it in stride. The surprising thing was that it seemed to have started with the NCOs. He buttoned his mouth tight against a grin, gesturing to Thomas so he could explain what he had in mind while people started to file out of the room.

“No offense, Colonel,” said Thomas, whose forehead was dotted by beads of sweat, “but I would have appreciated, uh, maybe a heads-up?”

“You just got it,” Dog told him. Assuming Dreamland survived, Dog intended on picking his own staff and Thomas wasn’t going to make the cut. Still, he meant him no ill will. “There’s no problem with arranging flights, is there?” he said, trying to modulate his voice into something almost friendly.

“Well, we have to work around the spy satellites. And the pilots aren’t going to like it,” sputtered Thomas.

“I’ll take care of the pilots,” said Dog. He smiled. “I speak their language.”

“Yes, sir. But, uh, is it worth it? If we get the order to, uh, to, uh—”

“Abandon ship?” suggested Dog.

“Well, uh, no, I think they’ll keep us open. I mean, there’s so much invested here that it would be foolish, but, uh—”

“I didn’t come here to mothball Dreamland, Major. Yes, I’m aware that I’m replacing a three-star general. The political implications are not entirely lost on me,” added Dog in his most severe voice. The matter was more than merely one of prestige, since in effect it demoted Dreamland far down the command chain. “However, we will carry on. Maybe they’ll even promote me,” he added wryly.

“I’m sure, uh, yes, sir,” said Thomas, taking a step backward.

“Colonel, can I have a word?”

Dog couldn’t immediately place the voice, or the face that went with it.

“Mack Smith.” A tallish major grabbed his hand and began pumping. “You might remember me from the Gulf, Colonel. I was just a captain back then, flying CAP while you were at Black Hole. A lot of guys call me Knife.”

“Mack, of course. How the hell are you?” Dog mimicked the pilot’s aw-shucks routine, trying to put the name and face together.

“First Tactical Wing,” said Smith.

“Smith. Knife. You bagged a MiG,” said Dog, suddenly putting the name—and deed—to the face.

“Actually two,” said Smith. “Glad to have you with us. I heard you were coming in tomorrow.”

“I was restless.”

Smith gave him a puckish grin. “About those, what are we calling them, morale-booster flights?”

“Mission-orientation flights.” Dog grinned wider than Smith had. “Don’t make anybody throw up when you put them in the backseat.”

Smith lost his grin, but only for a second. “I’m lead pilot on the F-119 project, Colonel, the Joint Strike Fighter. I’ve had that assignment since DreamStar was canceled.”

“And?” Dog let just the hint of impatience creep into his voice. He remembered Smith pretty well now. He was a great pilot. And he had bagged two planes—except that the second was initially listed as unconfirmed, due to some problem on the AWACS covering the area. Smith had raised a fuss about getting credit, bypassing his squadron commander and complaining to Centcom about it as soon as he heard the kill was in doubt.

“The, uh, we have the prototype,” Smith continued, growing less sure of himself. “The F-119. I don’t know if you’re up to speed on it yet, Dog.”

If Dog was up to speed on anything, it was the F-119. And while ordinarily he didn’t mind another pilot using his handle, something about the way Smith said it bothered him.

“I realize it’s a one-seater,” said Bastian. “So unless you’re planning on strapping someone on the wing, Knife, I think we can leave it in the barn for these missions.” He paused just long enough to let Smith think he had wormed his way out of the morale flights. “But your combat record shows you’re the best Eagle pilot—by far—on the base. So obviously you ought to be the first one off the flight line. Hell, I insist on it. You’re top man; you get the most seat time. I believe there are two F-15Es here. You have one all day. Move up the starting time to 0500.”

Bastian started to step away from Smith when a bony hand grabbed his arm. He turned to see Rubeo, the scientist he’d met outside earlier.

“Colonel, do you really feel these airplane rides are necessary?” asked Rubeo.

Before Dog could reply, a squeaky voice piped up behind the scientist.

“Hell, I think it’s blastoff idea. About time the enlisteds got into the game.”

Dog peered around Rubeo—it wasn’t exactly difficult—and smiled at Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs. “Hey, Graybeard,” he said to the burly, gray-haired sergeant, who had adopted the falsetto to mock the scientist.

Not that Dog officially approved of that sort of thing.

“Colonel, what took you?” said the sergeant. “I’ve been here since lunchtime.”

“Then why weren’t you on the runway waiting?” Dog asked.

“Priorities, sir. Priorities.” If regulations allowed beards, Ax would look like Santa Claus after a year’s worth of Nautilus sessions. He’d served in various capacities with Dog over the past decade in a dozen commands. The colonel had asked him to come to Dreamland as his senior staff NCO; there was no one better at slicing red tape and tending to things that needed tending.

“Great speech, sir,” said Ax, elbowing Rubeo out of the way. “One of your best. Morale-boosting, us against the world, we’re all in it together. Nine on a ten scale.”

“Only nine?”

“You haven’t had supper, I’d bet.” Ax winked at him. “Sandwich waiting for you in your office.”

“You’re going to make somebody a fine wife someday, Ax.” Dog raised his eyes to scan the rest of the room. Smith and Rubeo had decided to retreat. There were only a few people left in the small auditorium. Two lieutenants and a captain, holdovers from the previous commander’s staff, were waiting respectfully a few feet away. Everyone else seemed to have someplace else to go.

Just as well.

“Every base needs a good wife,” said Ax. “Of course, we may be put out of business any minute. And if we’re not, there are half a dozen people with shiny stars on their shoulders who want your job. I’ve had three offers already.”

“That’s all?” Dog took a step toward the waiting officers, but Ax stopped him with a subtle raise of his hand.

“She’s over there by the door,” said the sergeant, gesturing behind him.

Dog turned and saw her, sandy brown hair that managed to look alluringly feminine despite the military cut, sleeves rolled up to reveal well-sculpted forearms, hands on trim hips, fierce green eyes.

Her mother’s eyes.

The rest—such as the captain’s bars and the hard gaze of a pilot old before her time—might be traced to her father.

Him.

Dog took a deep breath, then began walking toward her. She took a breath as well, obviously tense.

“Breanna,” he said.

“Daddy.”

They winced simultaneously. Dog started to lean toward her, intending to give her a peck on the cheek. He stopped. She leaned up, then stopped. For a moment, neither one spoke. Then they both spoke together.

“I didn’t—”

“I wanted—”

“Tell you what, Captain,” said Dog, “let me go first.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment he almost asked how her mother was. But he’d already decided that was out of bounds.

“You’ll be treated like any other officer on the base,” he told her.

“I would expect nothing less, sir.”

Dog nodded.

“I was hoping to introduce you to Jeff,” she said. He noticed that she lowered her gaze as well as her voice.

Dog didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t approved of the marriage.

He hadn’t disapproved either. He simply hadn’t been consulted.

“But Jeff’s not here yet,” said Breanna. “He wasn’t due until next week. But he’s coming tomorrow.”

“I see.”

Dog frowned, wondering if he shouldn’t have his daughter removed from his command. But that would undoubtedly hurt her career—she was among the Air Force’s top-rated test pilots. And if Dog took pride in the fact that he had never done anything to help her career, he also was loath to hurt it.

Everyone knew she was here when they offered him the assignment. Maybe they didn’t think it would be a problem.

More likely, they didn’t think Dreamland would last. “Orientation flights first thing in the morning?” she said.

“I expect you to be among the first pilots off the tarmac,” he said.

“I intend on it. Wait until you see the Megafortress. Even you’ll be impressed.” Her frown turned into an impish grin, something the typical young flier might betray at the thought of a good joke. Then it morphed into something else, something barely familiar—the grin of a three-year-old playing hide-and-seek the day after her birthday. “At some point, 1 expect to have some personal face time,” she told him. “Have you found an apartment yet?”

“I’ll be on base,” he snapped.

Breanna’s face changed back to stone, eyes focused on a blank spot in the distance.

“I understand, Colonel,” she said. “No favors, please.”

He didn’t want to be mad at her—hell, if she were anyone else, he’d be joking, taking her under his wing. She was one of the future’s bright stars, the kind of officer he wanted working for him. “We’ll have dinner, okay?” he said softly. “Once I’m oriented.”

Either his words were too low or she simply ignored him.

“It was a hell of a speech. We’re pulling for you,” she said, turning away.

“And I’m pulling for you, Bree,” he said.

Dreamland

8 October, 0530

THERE WAS NO PRISON LIKE THE HUMAN BODY. IT clamped bars stronger than titanium steel around your chest, your legs, your head. It held you every waking moment; it mocked you when you slept. It infected time itself, poisoning both past and future.

There was no future for Captain Jeff “Zen” Stockard; there was only now. He sat in his wheelchair, long fingers wrapped stiffly around the spokes of the wheels, hard rubber against his palms. He stared directly ahead, eyes fixed on the closed door of the HH-53 as the big helicopter skirted the fringes of Nellis Air Force Base, rumbling toward Dreamland. The helo’s crew chief sat on a narrow bench seat a few feet away, having given up his attempts at starting a conversation.

Zen hated conversations, especially with strangers. There was always pity in their voices. The only thing worse was conversations with friends. He preferred not to talk at all. He preferred to be left to himself. He wanted…

What he wanted was to be able to walk. He couldn’t have that, so he didn’t want anything else.

He’d worked tremendously hard the past eleven months—nine actually, since most of the first two were spent mostly under sedation, in and out of operations. He’d built up his arms and upper body. He’d been in reasonably good condition before the accident, but the workout routines were a revelation. Zen welcomed the pain; he drove himself into the stinging bite of exhaustion, as if weariness were a physical place. He pushed weights around. He learned to swim with his arms and chest and head. He discovered the different balance of a body that couldn’t use its legs.

The humiliation was the hard part. Needing someone to open a door for him. Needing someone to lift him into the cramped backseat of a van. Needing someone to help him with a thousand things he used to take for granted in the course of a day.

Getting past the humiliation had been his first goal. He hadn’t totally accepted it, but he had at least gotten used to it.

Getting back to Dreamland was his next goal. And here he was, seconds from touching down.