by Nick Thacker
Reggie flashed Ben a surprised glance. “You have a top shelf?”
Ben laughed.
“What were you two just talking about?” Julie asked.
“We were trying to remember what it was that Sarah was studying. Ben was saying that it was weird that Sarah’s old man sent her the artifact he found.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a professional archeologist. He could send it anywhere to be examined. Surely there’s a big, boring old lab somewhere that just sits around waiting for him to send them stuff to look at under microscopes. So why send it to her?”
“She’s his daughter, and she’s intelligent. Maybe he —”
“No,” Reggie said, “I’m with Ben. It’s a little fishy.”
“He was trying to alert her, to tell her something. We decided that already, right? That he wrote the letter to try to tell her where he was headed, or at least where he had been?”
Reggie and Ben nodded.
“But he didn’t just come out and say it, which tells me someone didn’t want him to be broadcasting it around the world.”
“Or he didn’t know where he was going,” Reggie said. “Maybe he knew there was a price on his head and he wanted to get a message out, but he wasn’t sure exactly where we should start looking for him. So he told her what he knows: there’s a weird old rock and some quote that got him thinking about Atlantis. He doesn’t know where it is, but maybe he thought that’s where they’d take him.”
Ben smiled, but Julie was already moving on to another theory. “But what if that quote was something more? What if it’s code for something else, something he didn’t want prying eyes to see? She did say the old man loved that sort of thing.”
Reggie lifted off from the corner of the television and started pacing again. “The quote is from Plato, an old dead guy, and he’s the one who came up with the myth of Atlantis?”
Ben nodded. “That’s what I remember, anyway.”
“No,” Julie said. “He didn’t come up with it. He just wrote it down, and his is the one we quote most often.”
“But there are others?” Reggie asked. “I mean, I remember hearing that Plato only wrote down what was told to him, but I didn’t realize there were more documents referencing Atlantis.”
“Well,” Julie began, “from what I just read, there aren’t any documented references from before Plato’s time, but that could simply be because they haven’t survived. But there are quite a few people who came after Plato who wrote about Atlantis.”
Ben squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force back the buzz he was feeling. “But — but that’s hardly credible, right? They could have just been rehashing what Plato wrote.”
“And I’m sure most of them are,” Julie said. “But there are a couple that seem to be reiterating, in their own words, what Plato was saying — but they’re not necessarily based on Plato’s words.”
“So they heard the story as well, and wrote it down?” Reggie asked.
“That’s what some scholars believe,” Julie said. “It’s really impossible to tell. But I think Sarah’s father was on to something, or at least he thought he was.”
“And his captors thought he was, too,” Ben added.
“Right. He made a big deal of sending a cryptic letter and an artifact to his daughter, so I think it’s worth exploring,” she said. “It could end up being nothing, but then again it could —”
Julie’s voice died away as Ben felt the cellphone in his pocket vibrate. He pulled it out, noticing that Reggie and Julie were mimicking his movements, each reaching for their own phones.
He lifted the phone up and read the message they’d all just received.
‘Pack your bags. We have a destination.’
25
Sarah
Next day
SARAH HITCHED THE BACKPACK UP OVER her shoulder and took a deep breath. This is it, she thought. Now or never.
She fumbled with the bundle of papers in her hand and stepped into the security line at the airport, dragging a rolling carryon suitcase behind her. This airline should have a way to do ticketless boarding, she thought. She was used to flying with only her phone, using the phone’s wallet app to flash the boarding pass code on the screen during TSA security checkpoints and for boarding.
She was also used to having the time to select the perfect flight that allowed her plenty of time on either end of the departure and arrival.
Today, however, she was traveling in a hurry, and she hadn’t had the luxury of being able to select her flight. Sawyer International to Chicago O’Hare, then on to Stockholm Arlanda, in order to make a quick check-in at her father’s apartment. She’d requested at least that from the CSO team, who’d graciously offered to purchase the flights for her. They’d done it even though it was understood Interpol or the local Stockholm police would likely be at the apartment performing their own investigation.
But she had to try.
She knew her father would have done the same for her. Start at the beginning of a mystery, he’d often say, his cryptic phrases underlined by his lopsided grin. The beginning is the only place.
For her, the ‘beginning’ of this mystery was his own apartment. If there was anything there that might clue her in on where he was now, she would find it. She didn’t distrust Interpol, but she knew they were merely facilitating the investigation with local, on-the-ground law enforcement. Both parties were performing their duties as established by law, but they weren’t personally motivated like she was.
She would only spend a night in Stockholm, then she would be back at the airport and off to the next destination.
That had been the other thing about this trip that was odd — she had no idea where they were ultimately sending her. They’d apparently reached an agreement and told her they needed her input, and then what time to be at the airport. She was gracious for the help, and didn’t ask questions. Normally her tickets were purchased by her, funded by her university. Today’s travel, however, had been purchased and assigned to her by the CSO, the organization Reggie was working with.
Reggie.
She took another deep breath. Now or never, she thought again. Either see him now or don’t see him ever again.
She wasn’t sure where the thought had originated, but she had a feeling it was something her mother would have told her. Her mother was always the pragmatist, constantly reminding her only daughter that time was a luxury no man or woman could afford, and that chasing dreams was something one should spend only free time doing. ‘If you want something, get it. Stop daydreaming about it.’
Sarah had never fully understood her mother’s straightforward pragmatism, but she understood the sentiment behind it. Her mom had never been one to waste time doing anything. She was far from lazy, constantly bustling around finishing chores and preparing for the many evenings entertaining her husband’s invited dinner guests.
Sarah had grown up with a father who was constantly chasing his dreams, following one whim after another and somehow stringing together one massive success after another until he’d built a career around it. She’d also grown up with a mother who tried her best to make their home — wherever it may have been each season — feel steady, constant. She strove for security and consistency where her husband strove for excitement and satisfaction. They were polar opposites in many ways, but absolutely perfect for each other nonetheless.
The TSA staffer hurriedly pulled her forward with an impatient wave of his hand. She shuffled her ID, boarding pass, shoulder bag, and carryon suitcase, hoping the man would get the point and offer assistance.
He didn’t. Instead, he huffed and looked around, clearly annoyed.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t usually go through security, they typically let me use my —”
“Just your ID, please,” the man said, interrupting. “Then your boarding pass. One at a time.”
He held out a fat, tired hand. She placed the ID in it and he grabbed it. She wasn’t able t
o fully remove her own hand from his closing fist as it withdrew, and she felt the cold, clammy sweat of the overworked and underpaid government employee.
“Boarding pass,” he said.
She handed it over, and waited for it to click and light up the green light on the display meter above his station. When it did, she hurried forward and started the agonizing process of waiting in line behind a gaggle of anxious travelers removing shoes and belts and laptops, feeling rushed even though she had a solid ten minutes before she could resume her pace to her gate.
Ten minutes before I get to the gate, and another thirty before we board. Then another ten or so hours before I see him again.
She wasn’t sure if she was excited to see the man again or if they would pick up right where they’d left off. Scared, angry, hurt, pained.
In love.
26
Sarah
SHE PICKED UP HER PACE AND reached the departure gate after fifteen minutes of walking and riding in one of the many intra-airport shuttles. After waiting twenty minutes at the gate, she boarded and sat down.
She considered sleeping while the rest of the passengers boarded — she had a window seat, so there wouldn’t be any reason for her to get up until they landed again — but decided instead to take a look at the object her father had sent her. It was in her shoulder bag, which she had stowed underneath her seat. She reached for it and withdrew the small, round artifact.
The object was just as she’d remembered. Clay or ceramic, fired to an incredible hardness that had allowed it to stand up to the elements for an untold amount of years. Round, with a protrusion in one side that carried through to the opposite face. She held it up to the light streaming in from the airplane’s window, studying it. She hadn’t even thought to inspect it since hearing of her father’s disappearance, but there wasn’t much else to see.
Still, she rolled it back and forth in her hands, impressed at the artistry and craftsmanship. It was a simple circle, but it seemed to be perfectly formed, as if it had been created with a clay wheel. The knob-like protrusion on the top and the indentation on the bottom of the object were also formed with delicate precision.
The only reason she agreed with her father’s assessment that the object was ancient was the slight deterioration along the edges. She could see a few areas where the otherwise perfect circle edges had been chipped away, and the weathering discoloration on the faces added more intrigue.
She reached up and flicked on the overhead light, then brought the object closer to her face. She examined the indentation on what she was calling the ‘bottom’ of the object, rubbing her thumb around the inside of it.
There.
There was something odd about the indentation, and she brought it still closer to her eye. A faint line appeared, a slight score in the ceramic all the way around the inside of the indentation.
She pushed her thumb harder into the indentation, then twisted the object around in her hand. She felt something click, then saw the crack in the ceramic widen slightly.
No way, she thought. It actually opens.
Apparently the object wasn’t just a solid piece of rock. It was some sort of storage container, and she had accidentally discovered how to open it. She held her thumb steady and continued twisting until another crack widened along the center of the outer edge of the circle and she could get her finger inside.
It came apart in her hands. It was a screw mechanism — threads ran along the inside of the two pieces, and pushing the indentation in and twisting the two halves apart did the trick. Something from inside the object fell into her lap, but she hardly noticed. She was staring at the two pieces of rock that had just opened in front of her.
Unbelievable. She was in awe. Whatever the origin of this artifact, it was using technology discovered centuries after its time. She didn’t know the exact history of the screw and screwdriver, but she was dead certain there had been no screwed-together ceramics from the pre-bronze era.
There was still the consideration that the artifact was a fake, but then what was the point? A fancy, ancient-looking storage container didn’t seem to be a useful application of someone’s clay-forming artistry. Plus, she doubted her father had somehow stumbled across a fabricated artifact in the sparse backcountry of Greenland.
This is real, she thought, getting more excited. And it means something. Something significant.
Her father had once again given her a mystery to solve.
Only then did she remember the object that had been hidden inside. She reached to her lap and retrieved it. It was a necklace, a small rock hanging from a thin silver chain. The chain seemed to be a standard sterling silver piece, something easily purchased online or at any big-box store. The stone also seemed to be nothing extraordinary. Off-white color, with hints of glossier specks, and semi-smoothed on one side, as if it had been broken off a larger chunk of rock that had once been exposed on one side to moving water. She recognized it as opal, her birthstone.
She rolled it around in her hand, feeling the cool, smoothed edges that sank into the rougher section. The entire stone was only dime-sized, insignificant. It was an odd gift, but then again there was little about her father and his affinity for eccentricities that she wouldn’t describe as ‘weird.’
As she held the present, she remembered the postscript of his letter:
‘P.S.: consider it an early birthday gift.’
She now knew that the artifact was merely the delivery mechanism for his actual gift: the necklace and the tiny stone on it.
Odd, she thought. This means Dad knew the object could be opened. He put this in here for me to find.
It was a fun way to deliver a birthday present, but there were still too many unanswered questions. Why put it in a priceless artifact? Why send me this two months before my birthday? It was August, and her birthday was at the end of October. What’s he trying to tell me?
And, above all, where in the world is he?
She sighed, gently unfolding the silver chain and placing it around her neck, then clasping it together. She slowly slid the stone down to the center of the chain, then tucked it beneath her shirt. Sarah had never been much of a jewelry wearer; she found the trinkets and accessories more of a pain than an asset. But a gift was a gift, and she wasn’t about to refuse a missing father his desire to please his daughter.
She returned the artifact to the box she’d packed it in, careful to make sure the two layers of bubble wrap were protecting the object. It was an old habit she’d learned from her father, and she heard his voice echoing in her mind: ‘never can be too careful with things you know little about.’ She closed her eyes, imagining his stern reminder to treat his collection of historic artifacts and treasures he kept in his office with respect and courtesy.
The memory pained her. She felt no closer to solving the mystery of her missing father, and to make things worse, she had no idea if the objects he had given her were meant to be harmless fun, from one scientist to another, or something more meaningful:
A clue.
27
Rachel
SHE SAT DOWN IN HER EXECUTIVE chair, swiveling around so she was face to face with the main display on her desk. She tapped a few keys, then watched as the small window grew to fill her screen.
She could see her father, lying on the gurney, the flashes of light temporarily blinding the camera as the bell heated up the contents of the mysterious compound it held within. Her father bucked and fought against the straps holding him to the hospital bed, his strength surprising considering the state he was in.
He knew what was happening; he was, after all, one of the original project managers she’d hired. Her father was a die-hard believer in the project, and he had made possible nearly everything she had achieved. He knew exactly what this was.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t against it. She and her father had been at odds over the past year; both father and daughter wanting to approach the problem from completely different sides. Her father
wanted to take more time, to allow the scientists time to complete their synthesis of the compound and recreate it in a scalable way. He had wanted to move slower, to push their beliefs out to the masses in a controlled way and let the effects of social media and the speed of modern life set the pace.
She, on the other hand, had pushed for a rapid launch of their technology, using fear and terror as a tactical advantage. She argued for the historic truth of their experiments, feeling that since their cause had been given to them millennia ago, their cause was true. She wanted to expand their research, testing more and more of the population every year, and in order to do that she needed to have a copy of the compound that was as reliable as the original.
She wasn’t a killer, after all. She wasn’t some mad scientist hell-bent on world domination. She wanted the world to know the truth, and she wanted to increase the reach of her tests.
But at the end of the day, she wanted to save the world. Population was already increasing at an alarming rate, and most experts believed the growth rate of the human population was already unsustainable.
To Rachel it was obvious — the world was never meant to host so many people. The Ancients and their civilization — her civilization — had planned for every contingency, including overpopulation. And to Rachel, that solution was as elegant as it was effective. Her silent partners didn’t want the exact same thing, but their interests were aligned enough at these early stages that their support was all but guaranteed.
Plus, she had no interest in informing them that their end goals were not the same.
The chemical compound — whatever it was — allowed the Ancients to keep their race pure, to test any hopeful members of their growing cult and deem them worthy of joining or worthy of death. The test was perfect, infallible and trustworthy, and Rachel had the genetic code to back it up. While her team was still hard at work decoding the exact makeup of the hereditary traits that were passed down through the ages from the pure Ancients, she had reason to believe that the ‘Code of the Pure,’ as she liked to call it, was a DNA match with the Ancients of at least 99.99999% accuracy. ‘Five nines accurate,’ her geneticists described the material, referring to the five nines found after the decimal place.
