So, now it was more than painfully clear he'd reached a dead end. He didn't think it would be a particularly good idea to go back in and start asking more questions.
Still leaning on the nearest wall for support, he felt in his pocket. His handipad was still there. He could be thankful for that much at least. He needed to get back to his apartment and slap on a couple of Rapiheals. Let the patches work on putting his body back together while he tried to collect his thoughts. Somehow he'd thrown away an opportunity and he didn't quite know how he'd managed it. Something he'd said in there had triggered the reaction, and he didn't know what. Maybe it had been as simple as the mention of Pinpin Dan, but why that in particular would prompt the sudden aggression, he couldn’t fathom. These kids had to know Pinpin Dan, or at least know of him but that didn’t help. Still, he was no closer to finding out what had happened to Billie.
There was something else that had happened in there. He closed his eyes and willed the thought past the pounding in his head. He remembered. His fingers had fleetingly brushed the small blue bottle while he'd been inside. That simple touch had conjured the image of Pinpin Dan. Stark, clear and funereal as ever. But Pinpin Dan was dead. Pinpin could have no connection with the bottle, or could he? It seemed that the elusive Heironymous Dan had his long disgusting fingers everywhere. He needed to figure out exactly how and where.
Later. Billie was still missing.
As he shuffled painfully toward the nearest shuttle stop, he ran the connections over in his head. Pinpin Dan. Billie. The bottle. Pinpin Dan. Diamantis/Daman. Pinpin — dead. Billie — missing, maybe dead too. She couldn't be. He gripped the bottle inside his pocket, pressing it firmly inside his fist, but it gave him nothing more. No new image floated up inside his head, only more pounding. He gritted his teeth, swaying slightly as he waited for the shuttle to slide to a stop, then staggered inside to huddle in a corner, folded away in a cloud of frustration and bruises. The few passengers who joined glanced at him and quickly looked away. Better not to become involved. Well, that suited Jack just fine.
By the time the shuttle reached Mid, the nausea had started; waves that swept in time to the regular throbbing in his skull.
ELEVEN
Two days he spent waiting for the Rapiheals to do their work. Two days he could have spent trying to hunt down the leads he didn't have. It seemed like about half of that time he spent hunched over the toilet trying to purge himself of his insides. Concussion. Definitely concussion. Beautiful. He knew it was stupid, but he tried to find solace in sleep, letting the patches act on him while he was unconscious, but there was no rest there. The snatches of sleep were populated with pictures of Billie and the White-Haired Man. They were trying to tell him something, but each time he reached, the voices and the images slipped from memory, scuttling away into confusing fog. Whoever this guy was, Jack had to find him. And what was the significance of the White-Haired Man's strange eyes? In the brief patches of semi-consciousness, he puzzled at the picture, but try as he might, he couldn't make the link.
As an exercise to try and clear his head, he dragged himself out of the bedroom and collapsed on the couch. At least the nausea had passed, though the muscles in his abdomen and chest ached from the effort, and every time he coughed, pain lanced across his ribs. They weren’t broken, he knew, but they hurt like hell. Probably just bruised. He had to gain some focus, make up for lost time, and a big picture sometimes helped to shuffle disconnected part into a meaningful whole. "Chart," he said, and the wall crawled into a series of motile colors. First the connections.
"Joshua Van der Stegen." The name appeared in a small oval in the middle of the wall. "Top right." The name slipped into position.
"William Warburg." He positioned that one top left.
"Anastasia Van der Stegen."
One by one, he positioned the names on the wall, including Billie, Pinpin Dan, Gil Ronschke and Francis Gleeson. A few other ovals were left holding descriptions rather than names.
"Connect Joshua Van der Stegen, Anastasia Van der Stegen." A line sprang into place between the ovals. He nodded, wished he hadn't, and then lay back staring at the names. Gleeson he connected to Ronschke, Billie to Pinpin Dan, Gleeson also to Warburg. By the end, he was left with three clear streams of people. On the right lay those connected to Joshua Van der Stegen, and on the left, those connected to William Warburg and Outreach. Running down the center, was a series of connections to Pinpin Dan, seemingly unconnected to either of the lateral lines. But just because Pinpin Dan was dead, that didn't snuff out the stream. Daman, Pablo, the kids in Old, Billie: they all sat firmly connected. He understood the obvious link, but underneath, there had to be something else. He grimaced. There was still one name that he'd forgotten.
"Jack Stein." One by one, he traced the connections. He seemed to be the only thing tying the streams together. There was no way he was the nexus. There had to be more.
Half an hour later, and he was no closer to the answer. Two bubbles remained unconnected. The White-Haired Man and the pair who had been at Pinpin's place. The White-Haired Man was connected to him, but the other pair ... obviously they were linked to Pinpin some way, but that wasn't enough.
As an afterthought, he added one more name. Louis Ng. The policeman had to have a connection somehow to this mess, even if it was only through Pinpin Dan. But they must have been tipped off by someone. They knew too much. How else would they be investigating? No, there was definitely a connection there too. So, who had given them the information? Why had Investigator Ng been so quick to contact Jack Stein? It was more than just a security image of him in attendance at Pinpin's apartment — had to be.
"Keep," he said. "And stick it together with the stuff from the handipad. Also the Outreach files."
His head was starting to hurt again. He needed another Rapiheal and some painkiller as well. The Rapiheals had some analgesic properties, but not enough for the way his head was feeling right now. He could work with the chart again later. He stared at it for a few moments more before clearing down the wall and hobbling off to the bathroom to apply the appropriate patches. A few minutes later and his head was starting to feel a little better. He decided to give it another try.
Staring at the chart seemed to get no further, so he called up the files that Billie had been working on: the stuff about snakes, the science stuff. He scrolled through it at random, reading a passage here, a snippet there, just letting his subconscious do the work. It seemed like there were thousands of seemingly unconnected references. Most of the references to snakes related to the alchemical mythos he was already partly familiar with — philosopher's stone, gateways — but then something new snagged his attention.
The serpent is the centripetal force, ever seeking to penetrate into Paradise (the Sephiroth), and to tempt the Supernal Eve (the bride), so that in her turn she may tempt the Supernal Adam (Microprosopus).
Huh? What did that mean? And what was 'Sephiroth'? The second part didn’t mean much, it was the first part that had caught him.
Jack scratched at the back of his neck, nearly disturbed the patch, then carefully smoothed it back into place. He read a little further.
This is the kabalistic Tree of Life, on which all things depend. There is considerable analogy between this and the tree Yggdrasil of the Scandinavians.
Jack would have given up right there, but he'd heard Billie say that name: Yggdrasil. Another link. More old stuff that seemed to have no relationship to anything he was working on, but it was being put in front of him for a reason. He knew better than to believe it wasn't. Too many times seemingly random events had tied themselves together shaping the elements of his life, and it projected into every single case he’d ever worked on.
Now the text was talking about triangles. Not circles — triangles. But somehow, the triangles were supposed to be made up of spheres, or circles. That just didn’t make sense. He tried to visualize a triangle made up of spheres and it just didn’t come. He needed someone to talk
to, someone to use as a sounding board. He grimaced. If Billie had been here…
He shook his head and kept reading. Not only was a snake associated with this tree, but it traced paths through the branches. At the top of the so-called tree, there was a circle. It had a name: Kether. He scanned, looking for the name, not knowing where this was taking him. He found it in another passage and again, there was something in it that he knew was relevant:
Thus, then, the limitless ocean of negative light does not proceed from a center, for it is centreless, but it concentrates a center, which is the number one of the manifested Sephiroth, Kether, the Crown, the First Sephira; which therefore may be said to be the Malkuth or number ten of the hidden Sephiroth. Thus, "Kether is in Malkuth, and Malkuth is in Kether." Or, as an alchemical author of great repute (Thomas Vaughan, better known as Eugenius Philalethes) says, ["Euphrates, or, The Waters of the East"] apparently quoting from Proclus: "That the heaven is in the earth, but after an earthly manner; and that the earth is in the heaven, but after a heavenly manner."
There. There was the alchemy connection. So, what was this Kether, and what did it have to do with snakes, gateways, and circles. Further down, he found a partial answer. It was the place of perfect unity. Kether was the place of perfect unity.
Okay, that made it as clear as ... and what was all that stuff about heaven being in earth and earth in heaven. Space, maybe? No, that didn't make sense either. Kabala, qabala, whatever they called it, he could see no reason for the connection.
Then he remembered what Billie had said about the science stuff. Numbers and letters. From what he could determine in the passages he had read so far, this Kabala thing was all about numbers and letters, about some sort of secret code that would unlock the place of enlightenment — something that would ... what? Unlock the door. Yeah, that was it. Numbers and letters. Scientific formulae. Maybe. Just maybe.
He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes letting the connections tumble into place.
oOo
The buildings of Old creaked and stirred all around him. He stood in semi-darkness in the center of the street. He pulled out his handipad and thumbed it on. There was the chart, the names, almost too small to read. Three lines of ovals, one on either side and one down the center. The names shimmered, and then one grew large. It was his own name, Jack Stein, and it glowed, pulsing red like blood.
"Jack Stein," called a voice from a nearby doorway. The voice was familiar. "Sitra Akhar, Jack Stein. Sitra Akhar."
The words meant nothing. He keyed the words into his pad, wiping his chart from view.
"Save," he said.
"Who do you want to save, Jack?"
Jack glanced over to the doorway. Long white hair flowed around the doorway as if stirred by an oily breeze. He looked back at the handipad. Another name glowed on its surface. Billie. It pulsed in time to the creaks and groans around him. Jack felt the bottom drop from his guts. Cold. Cold inside.
"Save," said the voice.
He looked back to the doorway. The long strands of hair were changing, transforming themselves into long, sinuous bodies — snakes, climbing up the side of the wall. They left shimmering rainbow trails. He tore his gaze away, turned it back to the handipad. Billie's name was gone. The chart he'd been working on had replaced it. But wait, it wasn't the chart. It was some kind of diagram, circles interconnected with lines. Ten circles, each with a name in them, but he couldn't read the names; they were in some sort of unfamiliar script. The lines crossed and crossed again, back and forth between the circles.
"Sitra Akhar." The White-Haired Man, talking to him from the shadows in the doorway. Snakes surrounded his head. He was joined by another figure — short, dressed strangely. "That's it, Jack, Jack Stein. Go and w
oOo
rk," said Daman. Jack's heart was pounding. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. Daman took one step toward him, then another. "Come on, Jack, Jack Stein. What are you waiting for?"
The face changed. It wasn't Daman any more. It was the kid, Pablo. The technical wizard down from Old. And then it was Daman. The faces merged into each other, fading in and out.
Then both of them were chanting: Daman/Pablo and the White-Haired Man, chanting in unison. "Sitra Akhar. Sitra Akhar"
A huge shudder ran through the Locality's surface, undulating along its length in dark waves. The ceiling panels at the far end of Old started to fall, tumbling in slow motion as the next wave slid along the outside walls. Buildings, streets, crumbled and more ceiling panels fell, crashing in tinkling shards all around him. The whole structure was falling apart, piece by piece.
And he was awake again.
At least his head was no longer pounding. He passed his hand across his forehead, feeling the sweat dampness of the dream. Strange, strange dream. He could see himself writing the words spoken by the White-Haired Man. Sitra Akhar. What had prompted that? Probably something he'd read while scanning the passages that Billie had pulled together for him. His unconscious mind was trying to tell him something.
He glanced at the display. He'd been asleep for maybe an hour, but the wall was still live. Line after line of text ran across it. He had to pin down the words before he lost them.
"Search. Sitra Akhar."
A couple of moments passed, words blurring into moving lines, and then a highlighted passage: Sitra Akhar, refers to the left hand path of the tree. It also refers to those things associated with darkness and corruption. The left hand side of the tree. Why? He called up the chart again. William Warburg. That much was clear. Francis Gleeson? Darkness and corruption? He didn't think so. Joshua Van der Stegen was on the wrong side. Van der Stegen was on the right. And Pinpin Dan and the rest were in the center. Maybe he had the connections wrong. Perhaps the names were in the wrong places. It was worth considering. But he had no way to connect them any other way. He had to find the link. The White-Haired Man. The pair from Pinpin's apartment. That's where the clues lay. Then he could join the missing lines.
Just for a second, he thought he'd try something. "Connect all." A tracery of lines sprang up between the various ovals. It was strangely reminiscent of the Kabala diagram — the tree of life. No, too many lines there, too many circles, but there were similarities.
He needed coffee. He cleared down the chart to its original form and shut down the display. He needed to work on it more. Threads, circles, lines — he wasn't dealing with possibilities, he was dealing with geometries and mathematics now, and if he didn't watch out he'd become ensnared in an artificial pattern of his own making. He had no grounding in this material at all.
Coffee was better. I would help him think straight. He was almost feeling well enough to venture out again, and the dream Daman had been right. What had he been waiting for? He had to find Billie, and find her soon.
He finished the coffee, and had another. He needed the kick start. He was already wearing too many patches, what with the Rapiheals and the painkillers. He didn't want to overdo it. As he stood there sipping, leaning back against the kitchen units, he had another thought. Sure Billie was a priority, but he was supposed to be working on the Outreach stuff. What the hell was he doing? He'd almost completely forgotten what had started it all. Almost. And if Billie was tied in as he suspected, then solving the Outreach problem was partway along the path to determining Billie’s location.
If he was going to get any sense out of this stuff, he had to talk to someone, but whom? He could hardly approach anyone else from Outreach. Not having Billie around was more difficult than he thought. He could have used her as a sounding board. Sometimes if he had only himself to bounce things off, the echoes became too distorted. He could wallow in the network for days without making any headway. There had to be a more sensible means of finding what he needed. Okay, all this stuff was freely available to the Locality’s populace, but somebody had to maintain it. He called up the wall screen again.
“Services,” he said.
A Locality site map faded into view, se
ries of colored icons denoting the various facilities. Tiny wording appeared beside each, explaining what the graphics meant. He peered closer at the screen.
“Information services,” he said.
A pink icon unfolded into a list and he scanned the options. There. Library.
“Give me a map of where the Library is.”
It was about halfway up New, right next to one of the exterior walls. It was a shuttle ride and then a walk. About seven blocks west of the transit. The exercise would do him good.
First a shower and a shave. Try and recapture some shred of normality, at least pretend he was something resembling human. As he moved to the bathroom, he took a good whiff of his shirt. He stank. Humanity was long overdue.
oOo
He stood on the opposite side of the road from the Library building. The only thing distinguishing it from its companions was the lack of logos or advertising crawling up the walls. Apart from that, it was new glass/metal if perhaps a little more squat than the surrounding offices. There weren’t many people around. Jack smoothed his hair, still slightly damp from the shower and took a breath. Okay, nothing for it. He headed across the street.
He climbed the stairs and stood before two large glass doors. Inside, there was a blank lobby, marble effect floors and walls, but nothing else. There was no reception, no lobby furniture, merely a single double door on the other side. He pushed through the glass doors and crossed the empty floor, his footsteps echoing off the flat shiny walls, floor and ceiling. Strange. He stood for a couple of seconds outside the double doors, wondering whether he should knock. There seemed little point, so he pushed against the right-most door, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t, and it swung effortlessly inward, no sound, apart from the sudden increase in volume of some sort of underlying ambient hum. Jack stepped inside.
Wyrmhole Page 14
