Codename- Ubiquity

by Wendy Devore

  Chapter 31

  Kate

  November 20

  It was dark and tranquil in the expansive reading room in Stanford’s Green Library because it was three thirty in the morning and the building was utterly deserted. Alone in the shadows, for the first time since Michelle departed, I felt the possibility that there could be a way out of this mess.

  I knew I had only minutes alone before they would send Andrew in after me.

  I fumbled my way through the darkness until I reached an upholstered chair next to an end table and flipped the switch on a graceful copper and mica Dirk van Erp table lamp. I slipped his note from my skirt pocket and unfolded it on the side table, gently running my hand over the surface of the paper to smooth the creases. He wrote in a neat hand—in block letters that were as precise as if they had been printed by a draftsman. The page was small and the printing was dense. My lips pursed as I reread his carefully chosen words.

  Kathryn—

  I am so sorry—I can’t even begin to apologize for the danger, torment, and sorrow that I have brought into your life. I know now that you were not trapped in Andric Breckinridge’s inescapable grasp by circumstance; you were forced into it by my actions. Perhaps they were equally as perverse as his. I thought I could protect you, but his avarice runs deeper than I ever imagined. You and I and the whole of humanity are nothing more than pawns in his never-ending quest for influence and power. I know that now.

  If my father was ever a good or just man, there is no hope of reaching his better angels now.

  I know that the directive he has given you is unachievable. Yet I propose a counter-plan. He can monitor me, but he can’t control me—not when I’m here, with you. There is one way we can end this. One way that I can set things right. But I need your help.

  Everything spun out of control when I created the Bug.

  If you have gained any hint of mastery over your ability, do all you can to avoid the CereLink slice. Our presence there runs the risk of worsening the pandemic. Then find us a world where the Bug could never exist. Without it, there is no slicing. Without it, there would be no ecological ruin, no Luzon Flu. Without it, perhaps your sister would have lived.

  I know that in this, as in so many things, I am asking too much of you. I also know that of all people, you are perhaps the only one who can succeed.

  I remain yours—

  Andrew

  The clamor at the far end of the room let me know he’d arrived, and I whisked away the note.

  “Over here,” I called.

  “Outstanding!” came his muffled reply. “I’ve always loved the Bender Reading Room. There are no computers in here, but what do you say we find one and determine where we’ve landed?”

  It took only a few web searches to determine that this slice wasn’t going to cut it.

  Neither would the next five.

  With each attempt that missed the CereLink slice, I’d wake up to the hovering specter of Andric Breckenridge, who grew increasingly enraged. With each attempt that eluded Andrew’s requirements, he became ever more determined.

  I was simply exhausted, which frankly made slipping into REM sleep easier and easier.

  It was just after six a.m. and we were back in the Green Library. I sat at the computer, typing furiously and reading as quickly as I could while Andrew stared out the window at the shifting gray predawn clouds in the early morning sky.

  His voice was strained. “Have you found anything yet?”

  “Actually,” I said, chewing on a nail as I scrolled and scanned. “Nothing. I’m finding nothing. Except—” I stopped, uncertain. Passing him information without alerting the brute squad monitoring his brain was an infuriating conundrum.

  He massaged his temples and glanced to the ceiling but avoided looking at me or at the computer. “What?”

  “Uh…” I grimaced. “You know what? We’re just going to have to go there.”

  I grabbed a square of scrap paper and a stub of a pencil from the caddy near the computer and scratched out an address.

  The sun peeked over the horizon, casting a majestic golden glow on the exquisite dove-gray facade of the nineteenth-century Victorian mansion standing before us.

  “My father is going to be furious,” Andrew said.

  “Then you know this place?” I asked, studying the expansive portico supported by elegant Ionian columns. The graceful balcony that ran the entirety of the second floor protected symmetrical bow windows, flanking a pediment graced with a circle of stained glass depicting a stylized medieval centaur.

  “My mother spent twenty years restoring this estate,” he murmured, mounting the wide stone steps. At the porch, he lay a hand protectively on a thick white column. “She loved this home, and so did I. He put it on the market the day she died.”

  I bit my lower lip. If it had been possible to prepare him for what would come next, I would have done it. Instead, I marched to the door and rang the bell.

  The petite, trim woman who answered had a tidy graying blonde bob and held a coffee cup in her hands. She had obviously been interrupted in the middle of her breakfast. When she spoke, low and sonorous, she revealed a slight accent that I couldn’t quite place.

  “Good morning, can I help you?” she inquired, her smile polite but guarded. Then she looked over my shoulder and glimpsed Andrew. Her coffee cup fell to the ground and shattered on the vividly colored checkerboard tiles. She grasped my shoulder tightly for support as her eyes grew round with shock.

  Behind me arose a plaintive cry. “Mom?”

  In an instant, the woman pushed past me. She threw her arms around Andrew and nearly knocked him off the patio with the intensity of her embrace.

  Isabel shepherded us into her elegant, perfectly restored drawing room. Even as we sat, Andrew kept a protective arm around his mother. Isabel leaned into her son, still pale and visibly shaken.

  “I don’t understand how this is possible,” she stammered, for the third time. “You died during a guerrilla raid when I took you on that stupid, selfish trip to Uganda to photograph the silverbacks. I buried you thirteen years ago.”

  Andrew smiled ruefully. “And I buried you eleven years ago. You succumbed to stomach cancer right after I graduated from Cal.”

  Isabel took her son’s face in her hands and stared intently into his eyes. Her thumbs caressed his cheeks. I squirmed uncomfortably on the satiny, cream-colored cushion. Watching their reunion felt like an intrusion.

  “If it’s okay with you,” I interrupted, “I think I’m going to find the kitchen and make a cup of tea.”

  “Oh, how rude of me, I can get that…” Isabel insisted, but before she could rise from her seat, I had already excused myself.

  I wandered through the hallway and peeked into adjacent rooms, feeling as if I’d been transported back in time to the 1800s. I absentmindedly considered the joy my mother would feel roaming through these beautifully restored rooms, all with appropriate period fixtures and furniture. Thinking about Mom made me think about Michelle, and a jolt of fresh heartbreak struck me like a gut punch. I placed a hand against a doorjamb to steady myself and leaned against the wall. We had found a slice where Andrew never invented the Bug. If he was right—if we stayed here long enough—perhaps it would bend our reality just enough to prevent the Bug from ever existing. I wondered again whether this plan would work; and if it did, what that would mean for him, for me—for all of us.

  Isabel prepared homemade chicken orzo soup and turkey sandwiches for lunch, which we shared outside on the rear veranda, overlooking her picturesque garden landscaped in native plants. I was shocked that such large parcels of land even existed in the middle of urban Silicon Valley. Andrew continued answering her litany of questions—about his life, about his work. About the improbable set of circumstances that brought him back to her. I kept drifting back to the Big Sur coast, imagining how much my sister would have enjoyed the crashing waves against the endless blue horizon when something Isabel said startled me ba
ck to attention.

  “He must be stopped!” she cried vehemently, pounding her fist onto the heavy wrought iron tabletop.

  For a moment, I thought, Who must be stopped? But in an instant, I knew. Andric Breckinridge. Panic rose like bile in my throat. I shuddered, remembering that he was watching as all of this unfolded.

  “Where is he now?” I blurted.

  Isabel frowned and shook her head. “Rotting away in prison, I expect,” she responded dryly. “After the divorce, there was an investigation into his accounting practices.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. In this slice, I wouldn’t be subjected to his brooding intimidation.

  Isabel’s spirited outburst was just the reassurance that Andrew needed. “Our plan was to find a way to prevent the creation of the technology that is causing all this calamity, and I’m sure we’ve just found it. With your permission, we’d like to stay here for a couple of days.”

  Isabel’s smile was beatific. She took her son’s hand between her own and beamed. “My dear—you can stay as long as you like. I’d be content to keep you with me forever!”

  Chapter 32

  Andric

  November 21

  In the crowded, stuffy fMRI control room, Amir, Janine, and the rest of the bleary-eyed Brain Trust eyed Andric Breckinridge warily.

  The initial appearance of his dead wife, rendered as if she had been painted by Renoir, had cast him into uncharacteristic silence. He’d wandered out of the room in a daze and had been absent for nearly an hour.

  When he returned, he was more irritable than ever. He impatiently scanned his son’s visual log and demanded a transcript of everything Andrew had seen.

  When he finished reviewing the data, he was fuming.

  “This was not the plan. He is supposed to be gathering data about the CereLink. He’s not even in the right slice!” Breckinridge snarled.

  While most of the staff cowered in the periphery, Janine Mori stood fast.

  “We are days away from releasing a vaccine that can halt this budding flu pandemic before it becomes a near-extinction event,” she said. “You know he believed returning to that slice would only exacerbate the spread of the virus.”

  Breckinridge’s terrible pause as he glared at Janine seemed to make the very air tremble. His reply was low and threatening.

  “I have weighed the risks and deemed them acceptable. He should not defy me.”

  Janine turned in frustration so he couldn’t hear her mutter, “At least someone is willing to stand up for what’s right.”

  Hours passed, and the two bodies in the twilight of the fMRI suite remained comatose.

  “There is no choice. We must force his return,” Andric insisted.

  Janine shook her head. “You know it’s too risky.”

  His cold eyes flashed as he stared down at her. “It’s my project, my call.”

  “She never would have let you go this far,” Janine retorted, meeting his icy gaze.

  “She has been dead for over a decade. Administer the propofol, now. Or I will relieve you and find someone who will,” the CEO demanded.

  In the end, Janine relented. She administered the drug to Andrew’s IV, and the entire team monitored the readings from the CereLink expectantly.

  Thirty minutes passed, then an hour. The images from Andrew’s visual cortex degraded, but he did not awaken.

  Andric was not deterred. “Increase the dosage!”

  To her credit, Janine refused. She pulled Andric aside.

  “Andric, I cannot, in good faith, continue to administer this medication to my patient. What you’re asking me to do will kill him.”

  Andric’s eyes bulged. “He’s destroying everything!”

  “He’s your son,” she reminded him.

  Breckinridge’s black scowl cast an oppressive pall over the entire room, but to Janine’s immense relief, he did not order the dose again.

  At the twelve-hour mark, Janine and the nurses in residence unclothed the two patients and gowned them to make it easier to institute the supportive care regimen of IV drips and feeding tubes and catheters. She carefully folded each garment as it was removed, storing their clothing neatly away in a corner. If she found an errant note in Andrew’s pocket, she didn’t share that information.

  Andric remained in the control room, monitoring his son’s unfolding experiences. He ate infrequently and refused to sleep. With each passing hour, his ire only increased.

  By morning, Andric had reached the limit of his patience. Before the Brain Trust had arrived, he cornered Amir in the fMRI room and thrust a third Bug against his chest.

  “You! You work for my son. You will assist me. Sync this device and apply it, immediately.”

  Amir clutched the Bug and stared at Breckinridge with a look of incomprehension. “Uh, what now? Apply the device to who? And where did you find our backup?”

  Fire flashed behind the man’s cold blue eyes. “Apply it to me, you imbecile! Since no one else seems able to solve this problem, I will do so myself.”

  Amir glanced nervously around the room, desperately hoping that Janine would make a miraculous appearance to dissuade his boss from undertaking this lunatic course of action.

  “Stop looking about like a ninny,” Breckinridge snapped. He waved impatiently at the Bug in Amir’s hand. “I know you can sync multiple devices. Just make it work.”

  Amir shrugged; he attached the device to a console, pulled out the keyboard’s retractable tray, and slowly typed a cascade of commands.

  Despite the fact that Amir stalled for as long as he could, the synchronization sequence had been completed. Amir unplugged the Bug, which hummed and emitted a triplet of digital beeps.

  “Sir, this is a very bad idea,” Amir implored, hesitating. “The side effects can be serious, or even lethal. We’ve never tested you, and sending you to such a divergent slice for your first trial is an unacceptable risk.”

  “For the love of all that is holy, would you please stop second-guessing me and turn on that blasted device?” Breckinridge hissed.

  Amir took a deep breath and shored up his shoulders. Complying could mean he was handing the man a death sentence.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but I can’t in good conscience allow you to take this risk.”

  In one frightening moment, Breckinridge’s face contorted into a mask of rage. With astonishing speed, his desiccated, clawlike hand shot forward and snatched the device from Amir’s cradled palm and jammed its spindly legs against his right hand. The Bug’s sharp probe descended nearly instantaneously.

  Amir’s eyes grew wide, and for one terrible moment, he was paralyzed in his tracks.

  Andric Breckinridge collapsed to the floor, and his eyes rolled back into his skull. His entire body began to writhe and convulse.

  “Oh, shit, oh, shit…oh, shit!” Amir stammered. He stared in horror as a slick of white foam oozed from the corner of the man’s mouth. Finally shaken from frozen indecision, Amir dashed toward the control room, scrambled for the phone, and punched in the extension for Janine and the medics.

  Chapter 33

  Kate

  November 21

  My favorite room in Isabel’s extraordinary home was the classic Victorian conservatory. The expansive space was filled with lush tropical greenery and orchids of every size, shape, and color in pots, planters, and even on vines dangling from the white-painted rafters. Strategically placed fountains provided peaceful ambience as well as the humidity the tropical plants required.

  Comfortable wicker furniture was scattered thoughtfully throughout the room, and I’d appropriated a cushion from the footrest of one of the chairs to serve as my meditation mat. I slowly opened my eyes and contemplated the intricate folds of a nearby purple-and-white spray of flowers. After another marathon multihour session of practice, I reveled in the calm and contentment.

  Through the massive panes of glass facing the back garden, I noted the creeping gradient of pale blue-gray—the dawning of another morning
. I stretched my stiff arms toward the windows overhead, then turned toward the slightest rustling behind me.

  “I’m very sorry, my dear, have I interrupted you?” Isabel asked from the frame of the doorway. She was carrying a pair of steaming mugs; the aroma of mint tea wafted across the room.

  I smiled languidly. “Of course not.”

  She crossed the threshold and moved gracefully through the room, handing me one of the mugs. Isabel settled herself into the nearest wicker armchair. “Sleepless night?”

  I nodded. “But on the upside, the meditation can replace most of the sleep…as long as I do it for hours.”

  “Perhaps I should take up the practice.” Isabel chuckled ruefully. “I haven’t experienced a full night’s sleep in more years than I can recall.”

  I smiled and sipped the hot tea. Spending time with Andrew’s mother had been an eye-opening experience. She was warm, engaging, thoughtful, and gracious—the polar opposite of Andric Breckinridge. I couldn’t comprehend how they had ever been a couple. Isabel and Andrew had spent the day in one another’s company, leaving me free to read, walk the gardens, practice yoga, and meditate for hours. For the first time since we lost my sister, I felt the beginning tendrils of peace creeping back into my life.

  I was considering the beautiful symmetry of a cluster of giant brilliant-pink cymbidium blooms when I heard the doorbell chimes.

  Isabel’s brow furrowed as she rose from her perch, and the chimes rang again. “So insistent! Who could it be at this early hour?” She placed her mug on the table next to a gilded planter and turned for the door.