Gray owed them both, and he certainly respected them. “I swear.”
With this promise extracted, priest and nun retreated.
“You’ll need this privacy,” Bailey said as he shut the door.
Gray shook his head and returned his attention to the gold reliquary. Still standing, he gently lifted the lid. It was lined with red velvet. A macabre object rested at its center. It was a disarticulated finger, clearly old, looking slightly burned, but otherwise showing no sign of decay. It was said relics of saints didn’t corrupt, didn’t rot.
Fearful that he shouldn’t touch it, he tilted his head.
Then crashed to his knees atop the cushioned bench.
Shock numbed him as he recognized the amulet—from the wires, the metal bone sticking out of the broken end.
It was Monk’s finger.
Discovered in 1611.
He pictured Monk rising out of the smoking door in the north transept, his prosthetic hand blown up in a cavern below, alongside a river that flowed out to the Cave of Witches.
Impossible.
Again, he felt that strange swirling of fate, a sense that had been plaguing him since Monk first tossed a quarter aloft in the Quarry House Tavern. It struck him so strongly now that the chapel spun. Dizzy, he placed his forehead down, as if in deep prayer.
He tried to justify how Monk’s finger could have been blown into the past. Eve’s Xénese device had a quantum engine at its core. Eve herself had transcended into a being beyond comprehension. Add in an explosion of C4 hidden in Monk’s prosthetic and who knows what might happen?
Still, Gray wasn’t accepting the randomness of where Monk’s finger had ended up, especially considering the chain of events that led to this moment. Had the finger been planted by Eve in that witch’s cave to draw attention? To help found the Key? To set everything in motion?
If so, there was still the paradox of it all.
It made his head hurt.
He remembered Mara’s explanation about AlphaGoZero’s ability to intuit and anticipate moves, how it could digest trillions upon trillions of variables to almost see into the future.
And Eve was a vastly superior program.
While Gray might not be able to wrap his head around this paradox, Eve undoubtedly could. If so, then the question became why.
Did Monk’s finger end up here by pure happenstance? Or was it a benevolent act, to save the world in the future? Or was it something more sinister, a centuries-long plot set in motion, so this AI could ultimately free itself? Or was it merely a teaching lesson, the equivalent of one of Mara’s subroutines, only we were the pupils, to show us the dangers of unchecked AI research?
Or was it some combination of all of that?
Gray’s head had begun to hurt again.
He would likely never know. He was foolish to even try to comprehend the intent behind an intelligence infinitely superior to his own, one immortal enough to plot over centuries of time.
He finally stood, closed the reliquary lid, and turned his back on this mystery, knowing he would never solve it—could never solve it.
Instead, he headed toward what made sense.
He pictured Seichan and a child waiting to be born.
They still did not know the sex.
Boy or girl?
At least, that’s one mystery I can solve.
///HELL
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding. Above the dark pines, the cold sky is full of stars, the moon a bright sickle. He had woken an hour ago, soaking wet outside the infernal witch’s cave. He remembered the explosion, being tossed high.
Must’ve landed in the river and been washed out of the mountain.
If there was ever proof that God loves him, this was it. He knows now more than ever that he was chosen to be His soldier. Though Todor had been thwarted, he is not defeated. He intends to seek out other sects of the Crucible and exact his revenge. He would spend his life making sure Inquisitor Guerra’s sacrifice was not in vain.
He searches ahead for lights, for a place to warm himself. The Pyrenees are pocked with farms and villages. His wet clothes have begun to freeze as the night grows colder, darker.
He knows he has to keep going.
Reaching the bottom of a dark valley, he halts and tries to get his bearings. He knows these mountains well. He needs to stop panicking and think.
Then he feels eyes staring out of the darkness.
A low growl to his left.
He swings around and crouches.
A shadow shifts, then another, and another.
More growls coming from every direction—then a ululating howl rises into the sky, drawing others, until a chorus fills the night.
Wolves.
It was his boyhood nightmare come to life.
He runs up the slope, his heart pounding. He hears the pad of paws, the slaver of heavy breaths, a grumble. He slips in the snow and slides back. He cries out in terror and leaps forward, now on his hands and knees.
Something snags his ankle, tearing flesh from bone.
He screams as fire explodes up his leg, muscles clench, his teeth gnash so hard he severs his tongue, blossoming fire there, too.
He writhes, not understanding.
Then more wolves fold out of the darkness, huge beasts with eyes shining in hunger, manes bristling with threat.
Terrified, he lifts an arm against them—which only goads them.
The leader lunges and snaps into his arm, breaking bones.
Fire explodes outward.
He is thrown to his back, his belly and throat bared.
The pack dives upon him, ripping and shredding, burrowing and tugging. He is gutted, his entrails strung and fought over. He writhes and screams, impossibly still alive.
And every second is fire.
He finally puts words to his suffering.
///pain, agony, torture . . .
But, wait—
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding. Above the dark pines, the cold sky is full of stars, the moon a bright sickle. He had woken an hour ago, soaking wet outside the infernal witch’s cave. He remembered the explosion, being tossed high.
Must’ve landed in the river and been washed out of the mountain.
If there was ever proof that God loved him, this was it. He knows . . .
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding. Above the dark pines, the cold sky is full of stars, the moon a bright sickle. He had woken an hour ago, soaking wet outside . . .
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding.
Made it out alive . . .
Made it out . . .
Made . . .
39
January 24, 2:19 P.M. CET
O Cebreiro, Spain
Carly rode next to Mara as their rental car climbed toward a small village sitting atop a high ridge. She was nervous, her toe tapping to an eighties band on the radio. She stared out at the countryside rolling past, a picturesque patchwork of tiny icy-blue lakes, snow-etched hilltops, and emerald valleys. It was like she had fallen into Middle Earth, and ahead lay the Shire itself—the village of O Cebreiro.
It was Mara’s hometown.
Off in the distance, sheep grazed in a field, searching for tufts of green grass amid the snow, looking like little clouds had fallen to the earth.
“Why did you ever leave here?” Carly asked.
Mara smiled back at her. “Lousy Internet.”
Carly gave her a sidelong exasperated look. The two had spent the past week together in Coimbra, returning order to Mara’s life and workspaces. After events last month, it had been the first time they had really been able to compare notes. Carly had missed all of the excitement in Spain, sitting bedside with Jason in a Paris hospital. She had been so im
pressed with what Mara had accomplished, the tragedy she had helped avoid. Her friend hardly looked like the same person who had left the catacombs. There was a seriousness to her eyes, a new steely steadiness, a bravery she suspected outshone even Carly’s own foolhardiness.
Still, Carly could not imagine her friend shooting Eliza Guerra.
Then again, Carly had been as shocked as anyone upon learning the librarian had not only orchestrated the murder of her mother and the other members of Bruxas, but had also been the mastermind behind all of this misery.
She reached across the seat and squeezed Mara’s hand in silent thanks.
They had hardly spent any time apart but were seldom alone. The past weeks were a blur of reports, interviews, debriefings, and much scolding by Carly’s father. Last night, with both of them exhausted and worn thin, Mara had suggested this trip to her home village, to take a breather and collect themselves. Plus, Mara owed her father a long-neglected visit.
Carly happily agreed, having never been here and wanting to know where Mara had come from.
Mara sighed next to her.
Carly shifted closer. “What is it?”
“I still don’t know why I can’t seem to re-create Eve.”
“I thought we were leaving that all behind at the lab.”
After hearing no peep from Eve, no indication she had survived, Mara had attempted to revive Eve again. She had replicated her Xénese device to exacting detail. But trial after trial failed to produce such a unique being. All her creations were smart, but a pale comparison to Eve.
“It makes me wonder,” Mara said, “if Eve somehow changed something fundamental, altered a quantum constant, so this path to an AI has been closed to us, to protect us from ourselves.”
“Like shutting the door behind her on the way out.”
Mara shrugged. “The core of my device is a quantum drive. And Eve had advanced to the point where she could play with probabilities and uncertainties that defy modern physics. I would not put it past her abilities to pull off such a stunt. Still, I don’t think that’s it.”
“Then what?”
“Eve 2.0—what helped us at the end—had always been learning faster than her first iteration. It was like a part of that old program had survived, a ghost in her quantum drive. So much remains unknown about what really goes on inside advanced computers’ algorithmic black boxes. Perhaps some remnant of the first version of Eve fused with what came next. It was that random and serendipitous combination of code and factors that grew to become Eve 2.0.”
“If so, it would be impossible to repeat those exact sets of circumstances.”
“Maybe that’s why I’ve been unable to reproduce Eve 2.0.”
“Or maybe your Eve simply developed a soul,” Carly said. “Something equally impossible to reproduce.”
Carly expected Mara to roll her eyes, but her friend considered this possibility. “I don’t think we’ll ever know.” She pointed ahead. “That’s the turn-off to my father’s farm. We’re almost there.”
Carly again felt nervousness rise up, fidgeting in her seat as Mara swung the rental sedan off the main road onto a dirt tract. The car bounced and shimmied higher into the hills surrounding the village.
To distract herself, Carly considered Mara’s musings. She hoped Mara was right about the exact set of circumstances being necessary to bring Eve 2.0 to all her glory. It meant that her mother’s death had not been in vain. Her death had led Mara to shutting down her first version of her program, opening the way for Eve 2.0 to be born, to save the world.
Carly liked to think that was true.
So she did.
“That’s the place ahead,” Mara said. “One of nine pallozas still standing, and the only one still used as a place to live. Most have become tourist attractions or museums.”
“But for you, this is home.”
Mara smiled and drew up near the front door to the ancient roundhouse, a circular stone building with a tall peaked thatched roof. Mara had told her how such structures dated back to Celtic times, some fifteen hundred years ago.
As an engineering student, Carly was already fascinated by the place.
They piled out and were promptly greeted by a pair of sheepdogs bounding out of the front door. A stiff-backed man followed, his skin leathery, his hair a slushy gray under a felt cap. He smiled hugely, opening his arms.
“Mara!”
She ran forward and flew into his arms, hugging him as if trying to squeeze all the years she had been away into that one embrace.
Carly smiled, her arms folded, feeling like she was intruding.
Father and daughter spoke rapidly, trying to say everything at once, smattering away in native Galego, the pigeon version of Spanish and Portuguese spoken here in the Galician region.
Mara had taught her the language, but these two spoke too quickly for Carly to fully follow.
Her father finally waved to the open door. “I made caldo galego. Come, come inside.”
Mara urged Carly over. “It’s a porridge of cabbage and potatoes and whatever happens to be left over.” She smiled, her eyes glinting. “My favorite.”
Carly shyly came forward, again feeling considerably less brave than this new iteration of her friend—Mara 2.0.
“Bos días,” she greeted Mara’s father in his native dialect.
His smile widened, clearly appreciating her attempt, and pulled her off her feet into a hug.
Okay.
Mara extracted her by grabbing her hand and drawing Carly next to her. “This is Carla Carson,” she said a bit more formally.
She squeezed Carly’s hand tightly, clearly discovering the nerve to speak at last what had been unspoken between them for too long.
“She’s my girlfriend.”
11:56 A.M. EST
In the rehab center at Georgetown University Hospital, Monk encouraged his wife, “You got it, hon. One more lap and it’s lunch.”
Kat glared at him. “Just stay there, so I can kick your ass.”
She used her arms to carry her weight atop a set of parallel bars, struggling to move one leg in front of the other. Sweat beaded her brow and swamped her armpits. He ached to see her struggle, doing his best to keep a positive demeanor. But it was better this than the alternative.
No one could fully explain what had happened to Kat, even with test after neurological test. Sigma was limiting the number of doctors and researchers who had access to her or even knowledge of what had happened. Dr. Templeton continued to fly in from Princeton to monitor the neural dust still glowing on its own, the particles somehow powered by both the energy in Kat’s brain and some fundamental Brownian motion that excited the piezoelectrical crystals and energized the little motes. Electron microscopes had shown the crystals had been altered at the atomic level, but no one knew how and any attempt to replicate them had failed.
Most mysterious of all were the ever-shifting fractal patterns that ran about Kat’s brain, keeping that little engine in her skull chugging.
Monk did not understand a fraction of it, but he knew who had been behind it.
I will honor your sacrifice.
Those had been Eve’s words to him.
He stared at Kat.
If this was a little parting gift from Eve, he couldn’t have asked for anything better.
Kat reached the end of the bars, and Monk helped her into her wheelchair. Every week she was making progress, getting stronger as her skull fracture healed. Doctors expected her to make a full recovery. Worst-case scenario, she might have to use a cane.
Monk got behind Kat. “I’ll drive.”
“Shut up.”
He pushed her toward the door, but before he could escape, the next patient came in with a rehab nurse. Jason hobbled inside, leaning on a cane. He was making even faster progress than Kat, but he had only suffered a flesh wound.
Still, Monk kept his head lowered and pushed past him.
“Kokkalis,” Jason said stiffly as he passed, making hi
s name sound like a curse.
Monk mumbled something, not even sure what he meant to say, then he was out the door.
Kat shifted around in her wheelchair and waved to Jason, who smiled and nodded. When Kat settled back to her seat, she sighed. “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually. Work this all out.”
“I sent him a get-well card.”
“Monk . . .”
“I know. I’ll make it up to him.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Right now, I got a lot on my plate.”
“Speaking of plate, you mentioned something about lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am. There are a couple young chefs who prepared a special home-cooked meal. Figured you could use a break from hospital food.”
He wound her back to her private suite in the neurology wing.
She was greeted by squeals, and a competition of chatter, each of their daughters trying to simultaneously explain how much they contributed to the spread of sandwiches, salads, and cherry pie, all laid out on a small folding table covered in a cloth.
In their desire to make their case heard, they climbed all over Kat, crawling onto her lap.
“Don’t break your mother,” he warned and pushed everything he loved toward the table.
He secretly smiled, indescribably happy.
Harriet and Penny were seeing counselors after their traumas and ordeals, but they both showed the resiliency of youth and seemed to be bouncing back well. Harriet still had nightmares, but even those were growing less frequent. She had even returned to sleeping in her own bed.
He noted the silver dragon pendant shining around her neck.
He suspected that helped, too.
His youngest daughter and Aunt Seichan continued to have a special bond, almost an unspoken communication shared with secret glances and half smiles. The pair had also committed a solemn act together. Shortly after Seichan had been released from the hospital, the two had gone into the backyard, stood hand in hand, and in an act of defiance, burned the family’s one and only copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Snow Queen.
If only getting rid of Valya were that easy . . .
The assault at the edge of the national park in West Virginia had resulted in the death of four of her men and the apprehension of two more. Only Valya was never found. Seichan had shot her twice, but it remained unknown if those wounds were mortal, if Valya’s dead body was buried in some snowbank in those hills.
Crucible Page 41
