she’s so damn serious all the time. And she doesn’t seem to realise these committees are for show. The decision on who wins the contract will happen at a much higher pay scale than theirs, so the trip is just a chance to junket it up and party-hearty for a few days.
The 737 swings onto the runway as the turbofans run up. They bite the air and jolt the Boeing down the runway. Severson pulls on his eye mask and clamps on his noise-cancelling headphones. He found that if he eliminated as much stimuli as possible it could almost make a plane trip bearable. Almost. That’s why he took so long in the bathroom before this flight. He’d misplaced his last Valium and had to empty out his carry-on to find the little bastard, which had somehow lodged itself in the headphone port of his iPad.
Unfortunately the pill doesn’t seem to be working yet.
The 737 gathers speed as it rushes down the runway. His collar feels even tighter than before; the hot prickly sweat on his neck back with a vengeance. As an added bonus, his stomach feels über-queasy. He takes a deep breath, grasps the side of his seat and squeezes. Ah, that’s better. It’s soft and comforting and, now he thinks about it, much too soft -
He pushes up his eye mask and glances down. He’s squeezing Rhonda’s thigh. She fixes him with a dark stare.
Severson instantly removes his hand as the 737’s nose tilts up and the jet rips into the iron-grey sky.
~ * ~
7
Crouched on a helipad in the middle of the five-hectare compound, the Tyrannosaur is hidden on all sides by a series of grey-rendered, two-storey buildings. When Bunsen built this place three years ago his priority, apart from making it earthquake-proof, was to locate it in a section of Santa Monica near the airport with no restrictions on helicopter use. He didn’t want neighbours complaining about the Tyrannosaur. After all, it’s the loudest helicopter to ever fly.
Bunsen and Enrico work at the centre of the Air-Crane. A large V-shaped tank rests in a cradle as they bolt it to the underside of the helicopter’s spindly airframe. The tank is specifically designed so the chopper can haul and drop large quantities of water on fires. It won’t be used to drop water today.
Kilroy Jones, the aging, ponytailed head of security, cuts across the helipad towards them, a frown on his crinkle-cut face. Bunsen looks up as he approaches. ‘What’s that expression? Everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ His Tennessee drawl is thick as molasses.
‘Then why do you look so annoyed?’
‘I’m not - I just need a word.’
‘Go on.’
‘Privately.’
Bunsen studies him for a moment then turns to Enrico. ‘Give me a sec.’ Enrico keeps working as Bunsen points Kilroy towards the open garage, which faces the heliport. Once they’re inside Bunsen raises his eyebrows, his cue for Kilroy to speak.
‘I think you need to release the video before we begin Phase Two. People need to know.’
Bunsen studies the old man with the long grey ponytail and sun-wrecked skin, a man he has known since he was four years old and loves more than the father who hired him. Kilroy’s the man who made sure Bunsen was fed and rested and clothed and on time for school, taught him baseball and football, played catch with him when he couldn’t sleep and talked to him about anything and everything for hours on end. ‘You know why that can’t happen.’
Kilroy exhales, frustrated. ‘It’s our city.’
‘This isn’t about one city. This is about - everything.’
Kilroy looks down, studies the ground.
‘And you know this because you were the one who taught it to me. About what’s right. For the future. Not our future, mankind’s future.’
‘I understand that, but - people will die.’
‘We all die in the end.’
‘Don’t be glib.’
‘It’s true, and I prefer that to the
The 737 swings onto the runway as the turbofans run up. They bite the air and jolt the Boeing down the runway. Severson pulls on his eye mask and clamps on his noise-cancelling headphones. He found that if he eliminated as much stimuli as possible it could almost make a plane trip bearable. Almost. That’s why he took so long in the bathroom before this flight. He’d misplaced his last Valium and had to empty out his carry-on to find the little bastard, which had somehow lodged itself in the headphone port of his iPad.
Unfortunately the pill doesn’t seem to be working yet.
The 737 gathers speed as it rushes down the runway. His collar feels even tighter than before; the hot prickly sweat on his neck back with a vengeance. As an added bonus, his stomach feels über-queasy. He takes a deep breath, grasps the side of his seat and squeezes. Ah, that’s better. It’s soft and comforting and, now he thinks about it, much too soft -
He pushes up his eye mask and glances down. He’s squeezing Rhonda’s thigh. She fixes him with a dark stare.
Severson instantly removes his hand as the 737’s nose tilts up and the jet rips into the iron-grey sky.
~ * ~
7
Crouched on a helipad in the middle of the five-hectare compound, the Tyrannosaur is hidden on all sides by a series of grey-rendered, two-storey buildings. When Bunsen built this place three years ago his priority, apart from making it earthquake-proof, was to locate it in a section of Santa Monica near the airport with no restrictions on helicopter use. He didn’t want neighbours complaining about the Tyrannosaur. After all, it’s the loudest helicopter to ever fly.
Bunsen and Enrico work at the centre of the Air-Crane. A large V-shaped tank rests in a cradle as they bolt it to the underside of the helicopter’s spindly airframe. The tank is specifically designed so the chopper can haul and drop large quantities of water on fires. It won’t be used to drop water today.
Kilroy Jones, the aging, ponytailed head of security, cuts across the helipad towards them, a frown on his crinkle-cut face. Bunsen looks up as he approaches. ‘What’s that expression? Everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ His Tennessee drawl is thick as molasses.
‘Then why do you look so annoyed?’
‘I’m not - I just need a word.’
‘Go on.’
‘Privately.’
Bunsen studies him for a moment then turns to Enrico. ‘Give me a sec.’ Enrico keeps working as Bunsen points Kilroy towards the open garage, which faces the heliport. Once they’re inside Bunsen raises his eyebrows, his cue for Kilroy to speak.
‘I think you need to release the video before we begin Phase Two. People need to know.’
Bunsen studies the old man with the long grey ponytail and sun-wrecked skin, a man he has known since he was four years old and loves more than the father who hired him. Kilroy’s the man who made sure Bunsen was fed and rested and clothed and on time for school, taught him baseball and football, played catch with him when he couldn’t sleep and talked to him about anything and everything for hours on end. ‘You know why that can’t happen.’
Kilroy exhales, frustrated. ‘It’s our city.’
‘This isn’t about one city. This is about - everything.’
Kilroy looks down, studies the ground.
‘And you know this because you were the one who taught it to me. About what’s right. For the future. Not our future, mankind’s future.’
‘I understand that, but - people will die.’
‘We all die in the end.’
‘Don’t be glib.’
‘It’s true, and I prefer that to the
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