Chapter 66
The Echo of Others
Blue Bell Tunnel, Autumn 2045
Back in the tunnel, Soham stared for a moment at the pages of her notebook — Celia Ruiz’s name underlined, scribbled next to Frequency 74.2, Sylvestre, Angela Smith, Delta 9. Nothing was linear. Nothing fit together. She closed the notebook with a sharp motion.
They couldn’t start a war. Not against this.
The Anunnaki weren’t just a foreign force — they were the Deep State now. Invisible, but everywhere. Merged into systems, surveillance, security protocols, command chains. They had taken power without a sound, through progress. And now they ran the planet like software.
Against that, what did she have?
No army. No satellites. Just farmers. Women. Elders. Young people who had only ever known collapse.
And yet… there was something. In the reserves, in the fields, in the quiet moments under leaky roofs, a force moved. A calm refusal. A memory. The old world wasn’t completely dead yet.
Maybe that was enough to stay standing. Not to win. But to stay human.
She thought of the fragile alliances. The Indigenous nations who supported them, without illusions. Of old knowledge, nearly erased. They had stood too, unarmed. For a long time.
There was no guarantee they wouldn’t all be wiped out. But she knew one thing: as long as they remained visible, grounded, alive, they would leave a stain on the program.
She slipped the notebook into her jacket. They’d have to move forward with nothing. With everything they still were.
Lila wasn’t far, tucked in the driest corner of the Bluebell Tunnel. She was building a small house out of sticks, flat stones, and an old piece of wire, eating a lukewarm bowl of meat pasta between gestures. The bowl balanced on a slab. She chewed absentmindedly, focused on her moss-covered roof.
Soham watched her from her bedding, chin in hand. There was a familiar light in the girl. The same curiosity. The same tilt of the head when assembling something. She saw herself in Lila, years younger, before it all began.
“Do you think about them sometimes?” she asked gently. “Your parents.”
Lila didn’t look up. She tied a clumsy knot on the roof’s wooden slats.
“Yeah. Every day.”
“Do you cry?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
She shrugged.
“I try to keep the good memories. Not the mean ones.”
Soham frowned slightly.
“What mean ones?”
Lila stopped working. She set the roof beside the house, then said:
“Dad used to get angry. He’d yell at our neighbor, Mr. Hobbes. He wanted to cut down the old trees between our yards. Big trees. Really old. Dad would shout, say he’d press charges or put up a metal fence.”
“And your mom?”
“She said he got stupid when he yelled. That nothing would change like that. She had another idea.”
Lila stirred her pasta slowly.
“She said, What if you went and offered to cut two trees with him? Maybe he’ll leave the others alone. Dad grumbled. Then he went. They cut two trees together. And the others stayed.”
Soham stayed quiet a while. She smiled, thinking.
“Your mom was clever.”
Lila nodded. Then went back to her building.
Soham stepped closer.
“Pack your things, Lila. We’re moving. Somewhere safer.”
Lila looked up, surprised.
“Can I bring my house?”
Soham smiled and tossed her an empty bag.
“If it fits in there, it comes with us.”
Lila got to it immediately, packing her project with care, her empty bowl, some flat stones, and an old half-working solar lamp.
Leaving the tunnel was always risky. Soham glanced at Barnes on her computer screen. He gave a short nod, one eye on his screen, the other scanning the terrain through his mini drones. He signaled: all clear.
Outside, the air was sharp. Tim’s pickup was waiting, engine off, half a kilometer from the hidden exit. Lila climbed into the back without a word. Soham sat up front, eyes sweeping the dark woods.
They drove in silence, windows slightly open to catch any unnatural sound.
Their destination was hidden behind a half-swallowed junkyard in Sisson Ridge. They stopped near an old rusted trailer truck. From the outside: a tomb of steel. Inside: a hidden entrance, undetectable by satellites or thermal cameras.
Gaël was waiting. Julie too, alert as always. Élise stood near a power block, smiling softly in loose jeans and a white shirt. Steady hands in the dark.
Soham took Lila’s hand.
Their shelter, built thanks to discreet patrons and anonymous digital donations, was surprisingly spacious. An old underground warehouse turned into a modern sanctuary: computers, solar panels, beds, electromagnetic shields. Nothing in excess. Everything necessary.
Lila looked around, wide-eyed. Élise crouched beside her, warm smile at the corner of her lips.
“You’re the one who builds houses?” she asked.
Lila nodded, shy. They exchanged a few quiet words, then sat by an old monitor. Julie brewed coffee.
Gaël stepped forward. He said nothing. Neither did Soham. She hugged him tight. For a long time. Like hugging a tree before the storm.
Then she stepped back.
“We’ve got a lot of work in the months ahead,” she said.
Silence. Then nods. Several.
And already, in the faint glow of machinery, the first outlines of the plan were taking shape.
Gaël walked over, hands still dusty from a panel he’d just fixed. He gave Lila a conspiratorial look, then turned to Soham.
“This is Élise,” he said warmly. “She’s been with us a few weeks. Manages energy, logistics—and cooks better than I do.”
Élise raised her eyebrows with a small laugh.
“That’s not hard.”
Lila held out her hand, a bit nervous. Élise shook it with warmth.
“You can show me your house whenever you like,” she said gently.
Soham watched the exchange for a moment, then straightened her back. Her voice dropped into something steadier.
“You’re up to speed on Follow?”
They nodded, partially.
“He gave us intel. Real stuff. Jan and Billy are alive, at Delta 9 camp in Maine. Forced labor, isolation. But there might be a contact on-site. A woman named Celia Ruiz.”
Silence.
“We know the crack in the system: the service tunnel, the low-activity window between 2 and 4 a.m., the supply convoy. We can get them out. But it’ll take people. Gear. And a couple miracles.”
No one answered right away. Not out of fear. Out of focus.
She added:
“There’s also Angela Smith. She’s pulling the strings with Sylvestre. Maybe a clone, maybe worse. But if we move, we keep her in the crosshairs. She doesn’t blink.”
Julie crossed her arms.
“There’s a window. It won’t stay open long.”
Soham nodded.
“We start tonight.”
Gaël handed her an old thermos, still warm.
“Welcome home.”
Soham took a sip, her eyes drifting to the back of the room, where a dusty monitor blinked slowly in the dark.
“One more thing,” she said.
Everyone turned to her.
“We’ll need to approach all of this with a different mindset. Spiritual. Not religious—but rooted. If we don’t, we won’t make it. They want us to forget who we are. That’s where the real fight is.”
A heavy silence, like held breath.
“If we want to survive, we’ll have to think differently. Stay standing—but not just with weapons.”
She looked at Lila. Then Élise. Then her son.
“To be continued.”