Logan had inherited all of his parents’ worldly goods, along with a Destiny Box, a high-tech lockbox that was invented after the Great Disruption, when looting and identity theft had been rampant. A Destiny Box could be programmed to open at a certain time but only if the proper piece of DNA was placed on a sensory pad connected to the lock. When Logan’s box had opened last year, it contained the forgotten books. They were the only things of value he possessed. That was why he had no choice but to do what he was about to do. He needed the money. Surely his parents would have understood that.
“All right, first things first.” Ms. Crawley broke into Logan’s thoughts. “Let’s get you something to drink.” She led Logan over to the bar. Glasses of wine and champagne stood ready on the counter, and waiters were circulating through the crowd serving hors d’oeuvres.
“You’re right, there are a lot of people here,” Logan observed.
“Yes, it’s a very good turnout.” Ms. Crawley seemed to know everyone, acknowledging people with a wave or a wink as they walked by. “What would you like to drink? Champagne? Or maybe some of our very own wine from one of John’s wineries?”
“No, thank you,” Logan said. “I don’t really drink.” Ms. Crawley handed him a glass of champagne anyway. “Are all these people here to bid on the Chronicles?” Logan asked, surveying the crowd.
“Heavens, no, dear,” Ms. Crawley said. “The Chronicles are certainly the jewel of tonight’s auction, but we have many other interesting items for sale this evening. Speaking of which . . .” She put on her reading glasses, took out her PCD, and displayed an image of the night’s auction program. “See, the Chronicles are sixteenth on the list, the final item of the evening.”
Logan pointed to the display. “What’s that number next to it?”
“That is the starting bid, dear.” Ms. Crawley looked at Logan and squeezed his arm. “We have had a few preauction bids from people who are unable to attend.”
Logan could only raise his eyebrows in disbelief. Just that starting bid would solve all of his financial problems.
Ms. Crawley smiled. “This is the art world. All logic is thrown out the window.”
Logan remained speechless as Ms. Crawley turned off the display and put her PCD away. “The auction is going to start in about fifteen minutes. When you hear the bell, that will be your signal to take a seat to watch the night’s events unfold.”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” Logan responded, still thinking about the large number he had seen.
Ms. Crawley gave him a pinch on the cheek and walked into the growing crowd, greeting the attendees.
Logan was glad he didn’t know anyone there. Being an anonymous seller seemed to ease his guilt. Just a few more hours, and everything will be better, he thought, as he took his champagne flute and walked over to the large windows overlooking the busy streets of New Chicago. It was twilight. He could see the protesters marching up and down the sidewalk in front of the auction house and the police working to contain the crowd. Away from the ruckus, people were out walking, some with their pets, some with their children, and yet others by themselves. An open-air tour bus drove down Michigan Avenue, showing visitors the landmarks of New Chicago. In the distance, Logan saw the old Willis Tower, now nicknamed Stump Tower. During the Great Disruption, the top thirty-three floors had toppled over and crushed a whole city block. The top of the building hadn’t been rebuilt. It had just been capped with a platform that was used as a broadcasting facility.
“Everyone has someplace to go, something to see, and something to do, don’t they?” a familiar voice commented. “Most, though, look straight ahead as they walk, missing the chance to greet all the interesting people walking by.”
Logan turned around. It was Sebastian Quinn, the gentleman he had met earlier that day at the museum. “Mr. Quinn,” Logan began, then caught himself. “I mean, Sebastian.” He reached out and heartily shook his hand. “I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew tonight. Are you here to buy more artwork?”
“No, not tonight,” Sebastian responded. “I am more intrigued by the Satraya books. I recently learned they were going to be auctioned off.”
“Yes, the books,” Logan said awkwardly. “Their coming up for sale surprised many people.” He paused, experiencing another pang of guilt. “I bet you have a wonderful collection of books. They would be a great addition to your library.”
“No, I am not here to purchase them,” Sebastian said, taking a sip of his red wine. “I came tonight to see where the books will choose to go.”
“That’s an interesting choice of words,” Logan commented.
“I suppose that after our meeting at the museum, you think I am a bit eccentric,” Sebastian said. “But there’s something special about the original sets of the Chronicles. Books such as these are not possessed randomly. There is a great purpose to their journey. They helped save the world, you know. They picked the exact four people who would best serve humanity. Do you think those four individuals found them by chance?”
Logan didn’t answer. All he knew was that Sebastian was the most intriguing person he had ever met. He had an indescribable presence, a gentleness in his eyes and in his voice.
“Yes, I must sound a bit eccentric to you. It is just that I am an admirer of Satraya lore.”
“No, no, I understand,” Logan said. “My parents were also part of that generation. You remind me of them, actually, especially my father.” He was sure his parents would have enjoyed meeting Sebastian. He was about to tell him that he’d figured out the proper paint color for the last bit of restoration work on The Creation of Adam when the bell rang.
“Ah, the night is about to begin,” Sebastian exclaimed. “Hurry, you should get to your seat. You don’t want to miss the sale of your wonderful books.” Sebastian urged Logan along with a smile before he turned and took a seat near the back of the room.
My books? Logan thought. How does he know they are my books?
Logan looked around and found Ms. Crawley heading to her place near the auctioneer’s podium. “Ms. Crawley?” he said. “Did you tell anyone that I’m the current owner of the books?”
“Of course not, dear. We keep that information strictly confidential when a seller requests anonymity. Now, go and find a seat, we are about to start.”
Logan took a seat along the aisle, close to the center of the room. He looked for Sebastian but was unable to spot him. There’s more to this man than meets the eye, he thought. He wanted to talk to him again when the auction was over.
The bell rang for the second time, and the background music stopped. The lights in the hall dimmed, and a spotlight shone over the auctioneer’s podium and the area where the items on the night’s program would be displayed for sale. Along the right and left sides of the hall, large HoloPads stood upright on the floor, projecting the images of six people.
“Welcome, everyone, to Mason One and what we hope will be a very exciting and satisfying evening,” Ms. Crawley said from the podium. “We also welcome our guests who will be participating remotely. I am proud to say that we are the first auction house to utilize HoloPads. With the support of modern technology, these six bidders can see and interact with everything that goes on tonight, as if they were here.”
Logan looked at the projected images, which were crystal-clear and three-dimensional, as if the remote bidders were right there in the room. Each pad had a camera, a speaker, and a microphone that would allow the person using it to engage seamlessly with the people in the hall. Ms. Crawley made a few more procedural announcements and then signaled to the auctioneer to begin. With the pounding of his gavel, the auction was under way.
“The first item up for sale,” the auctioneer began, “is a gold dagger from the collection of Freeman Dawns. It dates from the era of the Roman Republic . . .”
Logan’s thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d just had with Sebastian. Did the books really choose their owner? Did they somehow choose his father, as they’d chosen C
amden Ford all those years ago? His next question was both obvious and disturbing: Did they choose . . . me?
After lot number ten was auctioned off, a short intermission was called, and people rose to refresh themselves. Logan joined them, taking a glance around the auction hall. He saw Sebastian, speaking to an unusual-looking man wearing a knee-length black fitted jacket with a row of ornate gold buttons down the front. In his right hand, he carried a walking cane with a silver handle. In his left, he held an antique clock whose alarm sounded like a woodpecker, an item he had just purchased at the auction. The man’s face was obscured by his long gray hair, which fell to his shoulders.
Logan’s attention was drawn next to two of the HoloPads and the projected images of two older women who seemed to be staring at each other. They hadn’t yet participated in any of the bidding. The lady on the right was dressed very stylishly and was wearing a crimson hood which cast a shadow over her face. The lady on the left was dressed in a dark blue suit. Logan recognized her as Cynthia Brown, whom he had seen on the HoloTV, speaking at the Freedom Day rally.
“It looks as if the Council of Satraya is interested in the books after all,” Ms. Crawley said, handing Logan another glass of champagne. “A bit strange. I kept calling them and leaving messages about the auction, but no one ever responded. Oh, well, those Satrayians were always an odd bunch.”
“Who’s the woman wearing the crimson hood?” Logan asked.
“You are probably too young to remember her. That is Andrea Montavon.”
Logan considered her a moment. “She was a member of the original Council of Satraya,” he remarked, recalling a history lesson from his youth.
“One and the same,” Ms. Crawley confirmed. “Years ago, before you were born, Andrea was a very successful model and fashion designer. She was also gaining renown as an advocate for women’s rights. You see that head scarf she’s wearing?” Logan nodded. “It was part of her collection and a signature accessory of the women’s solidarity and empowerment movement she fostered. The movement was called Women of the Veil. I had a forest-green one myself.” Ms. Crawley giggled girlishly. “She was an inspiring woman in those days.”
“What happened to the movement?” Logan asked. “You don’t hear about the Women of the Veil anymore.”
“The Great Disruption happened,” Ms. Crawley replied, shaking her head. “That stopped the movement dead in its tracks. Andrea wasn’t in the public eye for some time after that, and when she returned, it was with the Council of Satraya. Women were hopeful that she’d revive the movement then. But for some reason, it didn’t happen. I think her marriage to Lord Alfred Benson had something to do with that.”
Logan nodded, still looking at the figure in the red hood. “They said she became a recluse after the first Council disbanded,” he said.
“No one really understood why she withdrew from public life,” Ms. Crawley said with some disappointment. “She’s still as beautiful as ever.”
Ms. Crawley checked her watch and then waved to the back of the room, where the bell rang immediately, signaling that the auction was going to start again. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight beamed down on the podium. Logan continued to watch the images of the two women, who had not stopped staring at each other. The auctioneer pounded the gavel, and the auction was under way once more. Six more items, Logan thought. And before he knew it, as the auctioneer pounded his gavel for the fifteenth time, it was just one.
“Lot number fifteen sold for one million four hundred thousand credits to bidder 102,” the auctioneer announced. “Thank you, sir. I am certain your lovely wife will be very happy with her gift.”
The crowd applauded. The auctioneer had been putting on quite a show all night.
“Next is lot number sixteen,” the auctioneer said in his most dramatic tone of voice, looking to his left as the last and final lot of the evening was carried out. A murmur started in the crowd, and Logan moved forward in his chair. People who had spent much of the evening milling around and socializing at the back of the room ceased their conversations and moved closer to the podium.
“Lot number sixteen,” the auctioneer continued, “a rare, original copy of The Chronicles of Satraya. It is one of only four sets in the world, and it is offered tonight for sale.” Even though he hadn’t been named, Logan felt as if a spotlight had been turned on him. He felt sweat break out on his forehead, as a wave of guilt flushed through him.
Meanwhile, the auctioneer’s assistant held each book up, one at a time. The volumes of the Chronicles were in good condition, with the Satraya symbol shining on the cover of each book and the gold-embossed titles still unblemished. “One of the other sets of the Chronicles is on display in the Cairo Museum, and the other two are believed to belong to private collections in Switzerland and India,” the auctioneer explained. “The books in this set have been authenticated by the unique watermarks located on the first page of each volume. There can be no doubt—this is the Forest Set found by Camden Ford himself.”
The murmuring in the room increased. People craned their necks, trying to get a glimpse of the books, the most influential work of literature since the Great Disruption.
While the assistant was holding up the third volume, a folded piece of paper fell from the book and floated to the floor. The auctioneer quickly picked it up, reassuring the crowd. “Don’t worry, it is not one of the book’s pages; it’s just a stray piece of notepaper.” The crowd laughed as he showed it to them, proving his point. The auctioneer handed the note to Ms. Crawley. Logan wondered what it said and who had written it. Probably his father.
“The starting bid for this item has already been set,” the auctioneer announced. “Bidder 901, who could not attend tonight, has set the price at six hundred fifty thousand credits. Do I hear seven?”
“Seven,” shouted bidder 204 in the back row.
“Eight,” from bidder 4, a young man in the front row.
“One million,” called out an elderly man attending via HoloPad.
The bidding continued at a fast pace. “One point one, one point three, one point five, one point seven!” the auctioneer shouted in rapid succession. The bids moved into the twos and then continued into the threes. The pace was fast and furious. As each bid was called, Logan looked from right to left, up and down the auction hall, trying to spot the latest bidder. The auctioneer worked the audience masterfully, pitting bidder against bidder.
“The current bid stands at three point two million credits. Do I hear three point three?”
Logan scanned the audience. The bidding had come to a halt. “That might do it,” Logan whispered out loud.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” said the man sitting next to him. “Look at those two ladies. They have been lying in wait for the right moment.” He gestured to the images of Cynthia Brown, who Logan could see was seated at a large table of some kind, and Andrea Montavon, who was sitting with her legs crossed in a high-backed leather chair, her elbows perched on the arm rests. Neither woman had bid on anything all night, and now they were looking directly at each other. The man whispered, “I think the auction is about to get very interesting . . .”
“Hello, Cynthia,” Logan heard Andrea say in a cold, level voice as she adjusted her hood, allowing her face to emerge from the shadowy light.
“Hello, Andrea,” Cynthia replied in a similar tone. “It’s been a very long time.”
The auctioneer turned to Ms. Crawley, who responded with a slight hand wave, indicating that he should proceed. Bidders didn’t typically engage in conversations. The atmosphere in the room grew tense.
Andrea raised her hand, still looking directly at Cynthia. “Three point five,” she said calmly. The room was quiet. Logan could almost hear his heart beating.
Cynthia was next. “Three point seven.” Back and forth they went, every subsequent bid coming quicker and quicker. All the auctioneer needed to do was confirm the bids. No other bidders appeared interested in entering the showdown.
&nbs
p; The bid was at four point three, and the auctioneer was now waiting for Andrea. “I didn’t know the Council had money like this to waste on an old and faded piece of history. Four point five,” Andrea added, raising the bid.
Cynthia smiled. “Old and faded, perhaps, but still valuable—or you wouldn’t be here. Four point seven.”
It was apparent that the two women were engaged in more than just a bidding war. This was personal, Logan realized. He was dumbfounded by the whole thing. How can these books be worth this much money? Into the fives they went. Andrea owned the current bid, five point two million credits. It was Cynthia’s turn to respond.
Suddenly, the image of Cynthia turned neon green, filling the room with a blinding light. People in the audience gasped, instinctively covering their eyes. Then there was an ear-splitting pop as the projection vanished in a flash. People were screaming, and Logan watched as those seated close to the exits ran out of the room.
Ms. Crawley jumped from her seat. “George! We have an issue here! Please check the HoloPad. Ms. Brown has disappeared. Quickly, please!”
The technician ran over to the HoloPad and began checking the wires and testing the device’s buttons.
“Please, everyone, it seems we have experienced some kind of technical problem,” Ms. Crawley announced. “Please be patient while we attend to the matter.”
The people in the audience slowly regained their composure, speaking to one another and laughing nervously. Those who had panicked and fled returned to the auction hall with sheepish grins on their faces. But the image of Cynthia Brown could not be restored.
Journey Into the Flame: Book One of the Rising World Trilogy Page 6
