Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  It took him almost as much time and effort to get through the hole as it had to dig it. Gaping scrapes on his shoulders, arms, and thighs dripped bright blood as he finally pulled free of the stone shaft. He rolled over and propped himself against a small boulder, panting with exhaustion as he tied the elastic of his briefs back together. The sun had started to set in the distance. He could see no signs of civilization. His back ached and his head throbbed. He lay back against the boulder and closed his eyes. After dozing for a moment, a sound of rustling jolted him back to attention. He heard voices. He pushed to his feet. In the distance, he could see what looked like a camel caravan, winding slowly through the hills, heading away from him. He waved his arms, crying out, and then stopped abruptly. He had realized two things—first, he didn’t know who these people were, and second, he was mostly naked. True, he was covered in chalky white dust and blood, but that left him looking more like a ghost or zombie than like a human being.

  He stared frantically around, searching for a place to hide should the desert travelers prove hostile. The high sand ridge was practically barren, offering no good cover. He scrunched down as low as he could behind a flat boulder and watched.

  The caravan had indeed stopped, and a few of the camel riders had dismounted. He heard strains of heated argument and tried to place the language, but could not. After a few moments, the riders mounted their camels and the caravan continued. One lone camel turned back to head in his direction.

  “Okay,” James Arthur whispered aloud. “One camel is good.”

  He heard a sudden rustle from an outcrop of rock barely 30 feet away. As he turned, a figure, dressed like a Bedouin, came around the edge of a low boulder. The figure had long, flowing robes and a headdress that covered the face, head, and neck—everything except the eyes. It was a woman. When she saw him, she screamed and fell to her knees. James Arthur jumped back, glancing hurriedly behind him. What was the woman screaming about? Then he remembered he was mostly naked. He hurriedly snatched up one of the flat rocks he had wrenched free from the shaft wall and tried to use it to cover his nakedness, still looking around to see why the woman seemed so horrified. Then the thought struck him—perhaps the woman was terrified of him? Looking down, he saw how sickly he looked, caked with dust and blood, and he had just crawled out of a tomb.

  “Hey!” he cried in a scratchy tone. “Hey, no—this isn’t my tomb! You don’t think that—listen, I, I was robbed! Seriously, I’m not dead! This isn’t my tomb!” The woman had now risen from her knees and was inching forward, a pleading look in her eyes. He backed away, holding one hand up to stop her while still holding the rock with the other hand. Suddenly, he had an idea.

  “Halt!” he cried, puffing out his chest. “I am, at last, come! I have crossed the great divide and, uh, conquered the banks of that dark, most foul river—that torrent of damned souls!”

  The woman stopped, seeming unsure, her arms outstretched. She called out a name, over and over. The name sounded like Crorrose. She seemed to plead with him. He had no idea what she was saying, but she certainly seemed to be in considerable emotional distress. She was close enough now that he could make out that her skin was old and shriveled, even though her voice was velvety soft. He stepped back again, sucking in breath.

  “Weep not, good woman! I will set at naught the ills of thy good labor, but thou must halt!” James Arthur squared his shoulders and tried to find a more natural, purposeful way to hold his rock. He was still backing away, swaying slightly from side to side, when the woman threw her hands up in a sudden exclamation, reaching out to him and calling the name again. She poked forward and touched him. Her eyes suddenly widened with wonder and she held out her arms as if to rush forward and embrace him.

  Two things happened at that moment. First, James Arthur jumped back and saw too late that he had landed on the very edge of the sand ridge. One more inch would have sent him careening off into a chasm maybe fifteen feet deep. He tried to right himself, flinging out his arms, but then the second thing happened. The sand at the edge of the chasm began to crumble, sending him tumbling backward off the ledge. The rock he had been holding to cover himself flew up from his hand. It was flung straight up, twisting end-over-end as he plummeted backwards. He slammed hard against the sand floor of the chasm, the blow severe enough to knock the wind from him. Seconds later, the rock, still tumbling end over end, nailed him square in the groin. He felt his eyes bulge as he pushed it away and tried to groan. A wave of nausea swept over him and bile rose in his throat. He wheezed and gasped as the world spun around him.

  His wild eyes lit momentarily on the top of the ridge, where he saw the old woman peering down, still reaching out her arms to him. As he struggled to breathe, he thought he heard a crunching sound and felt the ground shudder. The dimming sky faded in and out of view. He forced himself onto his side and saw a pair of leather boots the size of trash bins approaching him. The boots were attached to baggy pantaloons, which were attached to a buttoned jacket, crisscrossed by gun belts that rested heavily on monstrous bulges. James Arthur gasped. This was no man. It was a woman!

  The giantess shook her ragged mop of hair back and grinned. She said something to a smaller, skinny man behind her. James Arthur squinted. The man stepped closer, carrying a shovel. There were hints of blood on its blade! The skinny man cocked his head and said something back. The two laughed, the giantess filling the air with her booming guffaw. James Arthur couldn’t tell if the giant woman planned to eat him, or just leave him there in the desert to die. Her huge boots disappeared a moment, and then she was back. Dr. J struggled to his knees, determined to somehow stand up. The huge woman threw a coarse blanket over him. She wrapped it tight, then bending slightly, snatched him up with a single sweep of her huge arm. She hefted him onto her shoulder like a sack of flour or a roll of carpet. He tried to protest, to break free, but the woman’s laughter boomed even louder as she pinned him easily with an arm whose muscles tightened under the skin like coils of an anaconda.

  28

  Bones of the Alchemist

  Despite a state of deep exhaustion, Willoughby did not sleep soundly. He woke several times, noting how the room dimmed by slow degrees as the afternoon waned and the evening came. A nurse came in around dinner time, but he sent her away. No, he didn’t want anything to eat. No, he didn’t want to listen to music or watch TV. He only wanted to be left alone. As the night fell, he chose to leave the room lights off. He spent his restless moments searching the shadows as they slowly lengthened and crept across the room. Finally, when the room was pitch-black, he allowed himself to fall into a deep sleep. If he dreamed at all, he wasn’t aware of it.

  He woke to the curtains being yanked back and bright sunlight streaming into the room. “Good morning,” a cheery voice said above the rattling sound of a breakfast trolley. Willoughby recognized the voice. “H.S.,” he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He saw that the nurse had opened the curtains, and H.S. was pushing the trolley. “Careful,” H.S. said, reaching the side of the bed. Willoughby had risen too suddenly and the room suddenly seemed to be spinning. He eased himself back down against the pillows. H.S. held a small cup up to his lips, allowing him to sip a little cool juice. He took the cup.

  “I can hold a cup just fine,” he said. He held it in his lap, waiting for the room to settle down. He pushed up further on his bed—slowly this time—and took another sip. The cobwebs cleared. He began to feel more coherent. He breathed in the smell of the hot breakfast. He found that he was ravenously hungry.

  “That’s all for me?” He asked, shakily, pointing at several dishes arranged across the top of the trolley.

  “Piping hot, and prepared by a consummate chef, namely, myself,” H.S. smiled. Willoughby reached out and took a steaming croissant. “I’m, uh,” he managed apologetically, his mouth partially full; “I’m really hungry.”

  H.S.’s smile tightened. “I know you’re angry with me, Willoug
hby. I don’t blame you. I’m angry with myself. The Captain and his crew were mostly hand-picked—by me. Losing them all in such a, a senseless, horrible event is inexcusable.”

  Willoughby looked over at the man, taking a moment to swallow. “What’s really going on, H.S.? Nothing makes sense to me. What have you not told us?”

  “I told you some of it,” H.S. said. “We had no idea they had infiltrated us so deeply.”

  “Who? The, the dark brotherhood or whatever you called them?”

  “Yes. They reprogrammed our security net, which should have been impossible. Evidently, they have some kind of technology we are completely unaware of. They hoodwinked us into believing that all was well on the ship. They were able to cloak the entire Absconditus and feed us false status reports and data. The only thing that saved us was they didn’t seem to know that we monitored life signs of all the team. When we began to see erratic readings, we tried to contact the ship and the ruse was over.

  “We tried to mount a rescue, but there was no time. You, Sydney, and Dr. O’Grady arrived within the hour. Our satellites soon confirmed a trail of corpses floating at various depths in the wake of the ship, and then James Arthur and Antonio disappeared from our scanners. At that point, there was nothing more to do but collect and identify the bodies and sink the ship.”

  Willoughby had stopped chewing. “Who are these guys really, H.S.? What are they after? I want the truth this time.”

  H.S. stared toward the open French door. “It’s a nice morning. If you take it very slowly, do you think we could move our discussion to the veranda? There’s a table there and you do have a beautiful view.”

  Willoughby took a deep breath. He did want to get out of the room, if only for a little while, and the thought of sunshine, fresh air, and a beautiful view lifted his spirits. He also sensed that H.S. wanted to be well clear of any potentially prying ears. He nodded. H.S. smiled and moved the breakfast out. He then came back in to help Willoughby, who had pushed to the edge of the bed by then. H.S. helped him put on a pair of slippers and stand. They slowly threaded his arm through the loose-fitting sleeve of his pajama shirt, being careful of the bandages. He could only button two buttons and looked a little like the hunchback of Notre Dame, but as H.S. helped him slowly to the wrought iron table outside, he decided it was well worth the few moments of pain and discomfort. The view was beautiful.

  Blinking from the bright sun, H.S. crossed the veranda. Standing at the rail looking out, he inhaled. Willoughby followed his gaze. They were three stories up in a white stucco complex at the top of a low cliff. Below the cliff, black rock jutted up out of pink sand, framed at the edges by tufts of thick green bushes and grass and swaying palm trees. The water was a vibrant turquoise-blue. He found the warm, yellow sunshine and the rhythmic crash of the waves intoxicating. For as far as he could see, brightly-colored houses, condos, and hotels dotted the cliff greenery with a variety of pastel hues. The white sails of schooners plied lazily in and out of the coves, and boats sat at anchor in the heart of a wide bay far to the left. He breathed in deeply, trying to memorize the smell and taste and feel of the fresh morning breeze.

  H.S. turned back toward him. “See? Better I think.”

  Willoughby had to work hard to tear himself away from the view. His shoulder was still unbearably tender, but he otherwise felt suddenly improved. H.S. had placed a pillow on the table for him to rest his arm on. The man wandered back to the table and inspected the polished silverware. He then moved the tray of food, cup of juice, and small saucer with one croissant left over to the table. Willoughby watched.

  “You say you cooked this yourself?”

  H.S. raised an eyebrow. “Eggs Benedict, dry toast, local fruit, and a special recipe oatmeal you’ll find nowhere else!”

  Willoughby picked up a spoon. He took a bite of the thick oatmeal concoction. His eyes widened with surprise. “It is good.”

  H.S. smiled. He placed his hands behind his back and stepped back over to the rail. Sounds of crashing surf seemed to rejuvenate him. He turned suddenly. “I am going to give you a string of numbers, Willoughby. I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to your mind: 92.12 (4,5,6,7,8,9) 7-G.” He waited a moment. “Does this number string mean anything to you?”

  Willoughby thought for a moment. The number sequence had an odd familiarity. It took several moments, but at last an answer popped to his consciousness. It came in the way of his father’s voice, spoken slowly and carefully as he showed Willoughby a new configuration of queens on the chessboard. He had been studying the Eight Queens Puzzle again. “Why are you moving them again?” Willoughby had asked. “It’s another solution,” his father had said. “Listen carefully—I want you to remember this: there are 92 ‘distinct’ solutions to the Eight Queens puzzle and 12 ‘fundamental’ ones.” The words had been repeated again to Willoughby on several other occasions. One night, several years after his father had disappeared, while he plotted Eight Queen solutions on his laptop, the words came suddenly back to him. He wrote them down in his math journal, and now H.S. was asking about them. Willoughby looked up, cocking his head with interest.

  “I have no idea what the numbers in parentheses could be, but 7G might designate a chessboard location. My father loved to work on a math exercise called the Eight Queens Puzzle. He would put eight different queens on a chessboard and try to place them so that no queen was able to take another. He told me there were 92 distinct solutions to the puzzle, and 12 fundamental ones. Put together… I don’t know, but he seemed adamant that I remember these numbers—92 distinct solutions and 12 fundamental ones. I’m sorry. Does that help?”

  “Yes,” H.S. said. “I guessed you would have an answer for me.”

  Willoughby waited for him to go on. He finished his oatmeal and buttered a piece of toast. Still, H.S. did not speak. “Why did you throw those numbers at me?” Willoughby finally asked, the slight breeze rustling his hair. A gull flew by, kiting on the breeze. “What are your suspicions? You still haven’t answered my first question. What does a number string have to do with two dozen people being brutally murdered? Why did the Absconditus have a titanium hull, lasers, and a nuclear generator? What kind of group could infiltrate your security technology so completely? Your technology is supposed to be light-years ahead of anybody else in this time. Who are these people? Are they even people? What were they after? Why weren’t we told about the gateway on the Absconditus? What kind of gateway is it?”

  H.S. raised a hand. “Do you plan to let me answer any of these questions, or will you keep throwing out questions until the sun sets?” He gave Willoughby a crooked smile. “Take a breath. Eat your oatmeal. I shall endeavor to dissect your barrage of questions.” The man pursed his lips and studied his shoes for a moment, as if trying to decide where to begin. When he looked up, his face was gravely serious.

  “The nuclear generator you refer to is inactive. You can rest assured that it is still intact, and though disabled, is safely contained. There will be no negative effect on the ocean and we will retrieve the ship as soon as possible. The salvage team is already on its way. We will reclaim the Absconditus soon after the ship is officially proclaimed lost by the authorities.

  “There is a gateway of sorts on the Absconditus. It’s different from the ones that lead to our observation decks. It is to be used by those with specific skill in navigating the time grid. I had planned to use it specifically to train you. You see, there is no attached destination deck to guide your path with this gateway. I told you in the orientation meeting that you would not be using a tethered hole on this mission. You weren’t told about the special gateway on the Absconditus because I wanted to keep your focus on Nostradamus first. If you remember, he was to be the focus of our trip to France. There is good reason for you to know all you can about this supposed seer, as I’m sure you gathered from the orientation, but yes, there is more that you don’t know.”

 
H.S. paused for a moment, watching a young woman walk her dog on the pink sand. He turned back to Willoughby. “How soon did you know about the lasers, the generator, and the titanium? Did you discover this on your own, or was it Antonio or one of the others that brought it to your attention? I thought we had hidden our toys quite cleverly.”

  “Not cleverly enough to get past Antonio. He told me about them. How did a gateway on the lowest deck of the ship operate a doorway in your closet? That was my contribution—I helped Sydney and Dr. O’Grady find the closet doorway.”

  “How?”

  “I saw numbers hovering for a moment on the air when Sydney first gave me a tour of the ship. They were equations like the ones I saw in the Certus Grove building.”

  H.S. narrowed his eyes. He seemed to want to pursue the numbers issue, but decided against it. He returned to the questions Willoughby had asked. “The closet in my room was designed to be at the exact apex of the power arc generated in the gateway. We used the titanium ribs of the ship to multiply and focus the effect. The gateway is not tied to a single hole, but was designed to continually tune itself in to the closest, strongest hole available from any given point where the ship may be. When close to a big hole, it can facilitate both the transfer across space only—a process we call ‘skimming’—as well as the transfer through time that you are already familiar with.