"The Dragon Factory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maberry Jonathan)

Chapter Nine

The Deck

Saturday, August 28, 8:35 A.M.

Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 25 minutes E.S.T.

Otto and Cyrus strolled through the hallways of the Deck, smiling and nodding at the workers and technicians. Except for three scientists in the laboratory-all Indian-every face was white and every lineage could be traced back to Aryan origins. In some cases, because the worker was particularly valuable, allowances were made for indistinct bloodlines. In the end, as both men knew, it didn’t matter, because no one here, not the workers or lab staff, not the SAMs, and not even Otto and Cyrus themselves, was part of the future. They were the shoulders on which the next evolutionary level of mankind would stand. Otto and Cyrus were content and delighted with that; the others simply did not know.

“How are things going in Wilmington?” asked Cyrus as they stopped at a viewing stand built to look down on the zoo. There were forty separate cages, and the screams and calls of animals filled the air. The rich scent of earth and animal dung and musk clung to the water vapor in the humid biosphere. The zoo was a hundred yards below the Arizona desert, but it felt like a tropical rain forest.

“The Russians were able to get the information from the man Gilpin-the computer nerd who used to work for the Twins. He was able to confirm the content of the Haeckel records.”

“Is Gilpin alive?”

“I doubt it. The Russian team commander downloaded the information to us just a few minutes ago. However, Gilpin was able to confirm that the Haeckel records are at a storage facility called Deep Iron, near Denver.”

Cyrus looked pleased. “Who do we have in the area?”

“In Denver? No one, but I sent a team.”

“More Russians?”

Otto shrugged. “Better them than our own.”

They watched the animals. A juvenile mammoth was trumpeting and banging its massive shoulders against the sides of its cage. The air above them was filled with a flock of passenger pigeons. Cyrus leaned his forearms on the pipe rail and watched as handlers used winches and slings to carefully off-load a sedated dire wolf from an electric cart. The female had received in vitro fertilization but had miscarried twice already. The embryologist-one of the Indians-thought they’d solved the problem. A gene that was coding for the wrong hormone sequence.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Otto grunted. He had almost no interest in reclamation genetics. To him it was an expensive hobby that drained time and manpower from more important work, but for Cyrus it was a lifelong passion. To reclaim the past and then improve it so that what went forward was stronger and more evolved.

“This is how God must feel,” murmured Cyrus. It was something he said at least three or four times a week. Otto said nothing.

In the adjoining cage a saber-toothed cat sat and watched the handlers with icy patience. Even from here the cat reminded Cyrus of his daughter, Hecate. The same eyes, the same arctic patience.

He glanced at his watch, which was not set to real time but synchronized with the Extinction Clock. As the numbers ticked down, second by second, Cyrus felt a great happiness settle over him.