Desolation

^{September 2, 1991}

Cicada could be humanity’s last hope

When our world ends, and I believe it will soon, the surviving remnants of humanity will need a place of hope, where the best minds work together to find solutions to what ended the world. This is what my great-grandfather envisioned with his concept of Cicada. Unfortunately, he never brought it to fruition. I intend to pick up where he left off.

To make Cicada work, and because we don’t know the type of apocalypse that will ultimately befall us, we have to find the best minds in each scientific field, whose prescient work may provide early warning signs to that end. It is then my hope that these same scientists will also find the solutions to counter whatever apocalyptic calamity has ended our world, so as to help humanity rebuild the broken one with one even better.

To find these scientists, I decided that we would run tests to attract the brightest minds, to pursue those who are the top in their individual fields of study. Besides giving them funding for the work they are already doing, we will offer an insurance plan: a free ticket for them and their immediate family on the only ark available when the world ends.

To bring this vision to reality, I will build the Cicada complex on the same 900 acres of land south of Boulder, Colorado, that my great-grandfather Russell Thompson set aside for this. It will be completely unknown to the world, until the apocalypse, and then it will be known as a utopia or place of salvation.

54. Breaking Ground

20 Years B.E. (Before Event)

South of Boulder, Colorado

Maxwell J. Thompson stood on top of an expansive mesa surrounded by pine, juniper, and a grove of magnificent aspens, all looking upon a majestic green carpeted valley below. He regarded all of this land with a certain reverence. His great-grandfather had left it to his grandfather, who had left it to his father, who had left it to him. Originally, Russell P. Thompson III had envisioned this as a sanctuary for humanity, but that goal was never realized before his death; besides his dream and a few thoughts in a journal they shared, the only tangible remnant was a rock wall around the mesa’s circumference and a few buildings within, their walls buckling from age and nature’s advance. No one in his family had taken up the mantle of Russell’s dream, preferring instead to waste their portion of the inheritance. Max’s father was frugal with the land and reverent of the Cicada dream, leaving both to his only son, Max, along with a substantial portion of Russell’s sizable fortune. Upon his father’s death, Max had created a not-for-profit corporation whose overly general purpose was, “to create scientific breakthroughs that might benefit humanity,” and to which he had donated all of the rights to the land and a considerable amount of cash. For this, he received a half-billion-dollar deduction against his taxes, and more important, a guarantee that the land would not be sold to a housing developer and Cicada would outlive him.

His own stamp on this vision was about to be actualized.

“So, Mr. Thompson, what do you think?” asked Preston, his project manager, standing next to a broad table covered with the architectural plans, the curled corners held down by stones.

“You did a great job,” Max said scrutinizing each detail. “What about its defenses?”

“Top of the line, Mr. Thompson. We have the entire perimeter—”