The Ark Plan (4 page)

“Tomorrow, then?” I asked.

“Sure.” He nodded. “We better get going. Your work detail starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” I said, getting to my feet and slinging my bag over my shoulder. Shawn shouldered his own bag and turned toward the tunnel that would take me home even though it was out of his way. After leaving the library, we turned left and walked for about five minutes before we came to a hub tunnel that split off in five different directions. Once upon a time there had been signs marking which way things were, but they had long ago broken and worn away and no one had bothered to fix them. These tunnels were our entire world, and we knew them well.

“See you tomorrow,” Shawn said, heading down the tunnel second to the left, while I took the tunnel straight ahead. “Be on time!” he called over his shoulder.

I broke into a jog and didn't slow down until I hit the entryway to the Guardian Wing. Unlike the habitation sector, the Guardian Wing was built in the part of the compound that had originally been the rock quarry; its walls and rooms were chiseled out of granite instead of crafted out of smooth man-made concrete. I still remembered that scary night five years ago when I'd first seen this section of the compound.

“This is your new home,” General Kennedy told my seven-year-old self after escorting me past the guardian on duty to a tiny room where a small bed and mattress sat along the back wall. “Lights go off at nine o'clock sharp, and you will be locked in at night.”

“Locked in?” I'd asked.

“The Guardian Wing is for those who don't have a place with the rest of the community. The doors are locked for safety purposes. Show some gratitude that the Noah allows you to stay here. You are a burden on our society.” He'd turned and walked out, locking the door behind him. I'd looked around the tiny room, and my chest had ached with homesickness for the little apartment in the seventh sector my dad and I had shared. And then the lights had gone out. I'd sat down on the icy floor, too exhausted to attempt to find the bed, and cried myself to sleep.

The sound of something scratching at my door had woken me, and I'd sat bolt upright in a panic. Before I could scream, my door opened, and a short, stocky boy was silhouetted in my doorway, an odd flashlight clutched in his hand. Holding a finger to his lips to keep me quiet, he'd eased the door shut behind him. He tiptoed over and looked down at me, sitting among the meager supplies Kennedy had given me, my bag
still slung over my shoulder.

“How did you get in?” I'd asked, blinking tear-swollen eyes.

“Lockpicks,” he'd said, holding up two small metal sticks. “I'm Shawn.”

“I'm Sky,” I'd said, wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my gray compound jumpsuit. “Why are you here?” I'd meant my room, but he misunderstood, plopping down to sit opposite me on the cold stone floor.

“Same reason you are,” he said. “Orphaned when my parents died in the tunnel collapse two months ago.”

I'd wrapped my arms protectively around myself, and felt my chin jut out defiantly. “My dad isn't dead.”

“Is so,” Shawn argued. “Otherwise you wouldn't be in the Guardian Wing.”

“Is not,” I said, swallowing a lump in my throat. “There is going to be a mandatory assembly about it tomorrow.”

That assembly had been awful.

His picture had been projected up on the wall while government officials explained how one person's selfishness could jeopardize the entire compound's survival. They'd itemized the list of things my dad had apparently stolen from the marines' barracks before he fled, explaining how the loss of those items put
the survival of every inhabitant of North Compound at risk. They'd called him a traitor to the human race, worse than a criminal. There had been rewards offered for information leading to his capture. I'd watched the entire thing from the front row, feeling the disapproving glare of every citizen of North Compound digging into my back. Guilt and confusion had gnawed at my guts, almost overshadowing the feeling of loss and betrayal that made it hard to breathe. Needless to say, after that assembly, sympathies for the recently orphaned Sky Mundy had hit a record low for everyone—everyone except Shawn Reilly.

“It's not so bad here,” Shawn promised. “You'll get used to it.”

“I hate it here.” I sniffed.

“Well,” Shawn had said, holding out a hand to pull me to my feet. “That's probably because you're sleeping on the floor.” And he'd helped me make my bed by the light of the flashlight. A flashlight I found out he'd made from broken pieces of machinery he found sorting trash during work details.

Shawn had made life bearable. For two years, we lived in the Guardian Wing, breaking into each other's rooms to talk and laugh. I told him about how I was determined to find out what really happened to my dad, and he told me how he felt guilty that his parents
had died in that cave-in. Apparently, he'd made them late that day, putting them in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes I thought he saw looking out for me as his way of making up for that, but I didn't mind. I needed a friend desperately.

I'd been almost happy. But then Shawn's aunt had been transferred to North Compound, and she'd insisted that he come to live with her. He'd wanted to refuse the offer, too worried about leaving me behind. But in the end he'd gone, while I remained with the handful of unwanted misfits our society didn't quite know what to do with.

Now I slowed my jog to a walk as River, the guardian on duty, narrowed her eyes at me in warning before going back to tapping on her port.

“Five minutes until work detail,” she said without looking up. “General Kennedy is on duty tonight.”

“He would be,” I muttered before hurrying back to my room. I threw open my door and let it slam behind me before peeling off the gray starch of my school uniform and pulling on loose gray coveralls. Everything in the compound was gray. The walls, the clothing, even the people were starting to look a little gray after so many years without sunlight. I yanked my hair out of its ponytail and jammed my hard hat on my head. I was about to bolt out my door when I spotted my
schoolbag. My heart squeezed painfully as I realized what I'd almost just done.

Grabbing it, I pulled out the scan plug and my journal. The metal springs of my bed groaned and creaked as I climbed onto it. Standing on my tiptoes, I stretched to reach the large recessed light in my ceiling. I usually avoided doing this when the lights were on, but I didn't have a choice. Using the sleeve of my jumpsuit to protect my skin from the hot bulb, I unscrewed the entire thing from the ceiling. The light canister hung down by its wires as I shoved my plug and journal inside. Shawn had shown me this trick shortly after I'd moved in. It had been too time-consuming for the compound engineers to drill through the solid rock of the original rock quarry to install lights, so they had created false ceilings instead in order to run their wires. It was the perfect hiding spot for things you didn't want found. I replaced the light and jumped off my bed just as the whistle blew to let me know I was late. I groaned and ran for the door.

I
dashed out of the Guardian Wing. Two minutes later I rounded the last corner and plowed full force into a body. My feet went out from under me, and I landed hard on my butt. I gazed up into the disapproving eyes of General Ron Kennedy.

“Late again?” he asked, pulling out his port to make a quick notation. “That makes the fourth time this month.” He glanced down at his port and then raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Maybe a full week of work detail will make you be more punctual.”

I just stood up silently and brushed myself off. The six other people standing behind Kennedy wore coveralls that matched mine and were studiously ignoring
me, although I saw one woman smirk. Most of the time, I was proud of being a member of North Compound. Even though I was held at arm's length by almost everyone, it didn't change the fact that we were survivors—the scrappiest and toughest of the human race. But at times like this, I wished there was somewhere else I could be. My mind flashed to the few minutes I'd spent topside just that morning: the way the sun had felt on my skin, the smell of earth and pine in the air. A traitorous part of me wondered what it would be like to leave the gray compound tunnels behind. But I shook off the thought. Life topside might seem wonderful, but I knew all too well that it was deadly. I wiped a hand across my face and discovered I'd gotten a bloody nose from the impact.

“Don't get blood on your coveralls,” Kennedy snapped. “Or you'll have work detail for the rest of the month.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. As he turned and walked up the tunnel, it took everything in me not to make a face at him. Instead, I followed as he led us toward our work assignment for that night. During the day, all the adults in North Compound reported to their various day tasks, tending the farming plots, fortifying the tunnels, cleaning the public areas, or teaching. In the evenings, those who had the misfortune of earning
work detail reported for duty.

Work detail could be assigned for anything—being late, not putting forth adequate effort at your job, offending a government official, being found with contraband in your apartment, not taking care of the compound resources. It usually lasted around three hours, and was led by one of the compound's marines. The job could be something simple, like delivering the mail that was dropped that morning, or searching one of your fellow citizen's quarters, or harder, like moving rock or chiseling out a new bench for public use. Everything was done for the common good. It was one of the things that Shawn and I both valued about compound life. It could be brutally hard, but everything was done to ensure that the human race survived another day.

For the last two weeks, my work detail had been rock removal. There had been a tunnel collapse in the southern corner of the compound, and all of the fallen rock needed to be carried up the tunnels to a removal site. I usually didn't mind work detail. It gave me time to think, to use my muscles, and I liked the feeling of accomplishment that came from a job well done. But I knew that with General Kennedy overseeing us, this particular detail would be anything but enjoyable.

I grabbed one of the wheelbarrows leaning against the wall and made my way over to the mound of rock
and rubble blocking the tunnel. Luckily, this one had been empty when it collapsed. Without the ceiling above, I was able to look up through three levels of tunnels. It was an eerie sight. This tunnel had been one of the newest additions to North Compound, chiseled out of the rock to create a shortcut from the business section to the residential tunnels. Unfortunately, many of the engineering skills for constructing tunnels like this had been lost over the years. Grabbing a rock the size of my fist, I threw it into my wheelbarrow. It rang hollowly against the metal, sending echoes up and down the tunnel. Mine was the first one filled, and I turned it around, careful not to bump into anyone, and began the arduous task of pushing it back up the tunnel.

“Hold it,” General Kennedy said, coming over to inspect the contents of my wheelbarrow. “That's only half full. Fill it the rest of the way before you head up to the drop site.”

I thought about telling him that if I filled it any more it would be too heavy to push. But I knew a hopeless case when I saw one. So instead, I rolled it back around and headed down to retrieve more rocks. I felt his eyes on me as I worked. General Kennedy had been the one who led the search of our apartment on the night my dad disappeared. I was the daughter of a
traitor, and he wasn't going to let me forget it.

When I returned to my room two hours later, my muscles burned and my hands were covered in broken and bleeding blisters. I was about to flop down on my bed when I noticed that it wasn't made. A prickle of unease raced up my spine as I looked around my room. My school uniform was no longer in a pile by the foot of my bed but rather shoved haphazardly into the corner. My dresser drawers stood open, their contents spilling out. Thankfully my light was still screwed tightly into the ceiling. Sighing in relief, I sank down onto my bed. I'd been searched, again. Just then the lights blinked out and the lock on my door clicked.

“Well,” I grumbled. “That's just perfect.” I spent the next half hour putting my things back where they belonged. Compound searches were done randomly, but I got the feeling my room was searched more often than most. No one trusted the offspring of a traitor. I finally climbed into bed, too exhausted to even change out of the work jumpsuit, and fell asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up the next morning, I stared at the ceiling of my room, trying to ignore the fact that every movement sent pain radiating down my arms and legs. I stood up and unscrewed my light. Pulling out my journal, I plunked back down on my bed. It was time
to finish updating my information on the deinonychus.

The journal had been a gift from my dad for my seventh birthday, three days before he had disappeared. I'd woken up that morning to the sound of him singing. He had this big booming voice that always seemed at odds with his tall, slim build. That morning, it had been a rendition of “Happy Birthday” in French. I'd smiled and rolled over, pretending to be asleep as he switched to singing “Happy Birthday” in Russian. My dad collected languages. In a society where we owned nothing and shared everything, knowledge was one of the few things left to collect. He spent all his free time away from the lab, where he worked as a technology expert, studying any language he could get his hands on. So far he was fluent in ten of them and knew five others well enough to sing “Happy Birthday.” A fact he demonstrated as he switched from Russian to Chinese. This was too much, and I giggled.

“Is the birthday girl awake?” he'd asked, and I felt the soft bristle of his beard brush my cheek as he bent to give me a kiss. I giggled, and he flung my covers onto the floor, laughing when I squealed in protest. “She can't sleep the day away! Up! Up! Or you won't have time to open your birthday present.” He started another round of “Happy Birthday” in German, and handed me a small package wrapped in
one of his gray lab coats.

“What is it?” I asked, sitting up.

“A gigantic spider,” he teased. “I found it wandering around the lab, and thought, I know who'd love this. Sky!”

I rolled my eyes. My dad knew how much I hated bugs. “What is it really?”

“Open it and find out.” He laughed.

I carefully unfolded each of the corners of the lab coat, revealing the soft leather cover of a book.

“But, Dad,” I said, stroking the cover reverently. “We aren't allowed to own books.”

“Which is why it's not a book.” He smiled, and lifted the cover to reveal thick ivory pages, each one blank. “It's a journal.”

“A journal.” I'd repeated the unfamiliar word, trying to hide my disappointment. I'd hoped it was a book. There was nothing better than the feel of a real book. It was so much better than a port screen, but North Compound had strict rules requiring that all books stay in the library for safekeeping. It made sense: just like everything else in the compound, we had no way to replace them, so we had to preserve and protect them.

“You must never show anyone that you have this,” my dad cautioned. “It's very valuable, and just like the books, individual citizens aren't allowed to own them.”

“Is it like your compass?” I asked.

“It's exactly like my compass,” my dad said, pulling it out of its hiding place inside his jacket. “We don't show anyone or tell anyone that we have it.” I looked down at the journal with newfound appreciation. I'd always been a little jealous of my dad's compass. It was broken, but it was his. Now I had something that was mine. I liked the feeling.

“How did you get it?” I asked.

“I have my ways.” He winked. “And it's even more valuable than a book in our library.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because it's going to contain the great and wonderful thoughts of Sky Mundy.” He smiled.

I studied it for a moment, flipping through its blank pages as though they might shatter if handled too roughly. “Thank you,” I said.

“Anything for you, my dear,” my dad said, hugging my shoulders. “Anything for you.”

Three days later, my dad disappeared. He'd tucked me into bed, and the next thing I knew I was waking up to the marines searching our apartment. One of them had grabbed my compound-issued backpack and stuffed some of my clothes into it before making me sit outside in the tunnel. I must have been a sorry sight: seven years old, terrified, and crying so hard my
eyes had practically swollen shut as everything in our apartment was confiscated. No one searched my bag, though. It went unnoticed in the chaos. If they had, they'd have found the journal, cleverly concealed within the lining at the bottom of the bag. My dad had managed to hide it for me, in the one place the marines wouldn't think to look or confiscate. It had been so well hidden that I hadn't found it until weeks later when I noticed that my bag was heavier than it should be. I could still remember how excited I'd been.

I'd opened the journal eagerly, expecting a letter from my dad explaining why he'd left the way he had, and when he was going to come back for me. But as I paged through and found it blank, my heart sank. He had left me nothing.

It wasn't until I reached the back half of the journal that I discovered its secret, and I gasped at what my dad had done to my birthday present. A rough circle had been cut out of the back half-inch of pages, creating the perfect hiding spot for his worn brass compass. I gingerly pulled it out of its paper nest, rubbing my fingers across the worn brass. The lid of the compass had long ago broken off and the small dial inside that was supposed to point north was stuck halfway between south and west. I'd flipped through the remaining pages, each with a gaping hole in its center, but every single one
was blank. No note. No explanation. What good were hundreds of blank pages if he couldn't even fill one?

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut, and for a moment, I almost believed the marines. Maybe my dad really was just a selfish criminal. Maybe he didn't have a reason for leaving the compound, and me, behind. I'd squeezed my eyes shut and let the pain and anger roar through me until all that was left was a hollow pinched feeling in my chest.

But then I'd opened my eyes, set the compass back inside the journal for safekeeping, and pushed away my doubts. Although I'd still been bitter that he'd had time to hide his precious compass but not to write even one word to me, I knew my dad. He wouldn't have left me unless he absolutely had to.

After that day, I'd begun researching dinosaurs and putting my findings onto those empty pages. We knew about the dinosaurs of a hundred and fifty years ago, but no one was brave enough to do any kind of extended study on the dinosaurs that roamed our world now. So I researched the few books we had in our library, trying to understand what my dad might have faced when he left the compound to survive topside.

Surviving topside. The statement alone was one of those oxymorons, like friendly takeover or loud whisper. No one could survive topside. The human race
was no longer at the top of the food chain. In fact, we were somewhere near the bottom these days. And after centuries of being the predator, we weren't very good at being the prey. The thought of what my dad had encountered up there terrified me. If I was brutally honest with myself, I knew the odds were against him surviving very long, but part of me was unwilling to give up the hope that he was out there somewhere. So while I waited underground, desperate for answers, I researched the creatures that made the topside world so deadly.

I opened my journal to the beginning and glanced at my early sketches. I couldn't help but notice that my drawing skills had really improved. The first dinosaur I'd drawn was weirdly disproportional, and a little froglike. The compound buzzer sounded, and I jumped guiltily. School, I'd forgotten all about school. I ran a hand through my disheveled curls, making them stand up and frizz out alarmingly. I was still wearing my grimy coveralls from the night before, and I looked awful and smelled worse. A shower was not optional this morning. Grabbing my towel, I threw open my door, and yelped in surprise to find Shawn standing there, his hand poised to knock.