by Vern Buzarde
Karen pushed a button, and an orderly came in. “I’ll see you in three days. Meanwhile, I’m hopeful the new medication will help.”
They left Karen’s office and walked through the stark, unfamiliar hallway until entering a large room. Other patients sat at tables, playing games or reading. The orderly stopped as Tess moved farther into the room. She saw the familiar image of a woman sitting at a small desk. A man stood next to her. He had a ponytail and held a broom. The girl was staring up at the man, stacking dominos in rows, then toppling them, watching them fold into one another. Tess approached her, and the girl gave her a lost look.
“Natalie?” Tess said.
Tess felt a hand on her shoulder. “Dr. Carrillo?”
***
She sat in the control room, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened and terrified she’d find herself there again. Frigid dread bloomed inside. It had all felt so real. She had no idea how much time had passed and was afraid to look.
Jeannie was talking, something about Satoshi. She tried to tune her out, willing Jeannie’s words away while she gauged the emotional impact of what had just happened. Was it connected to Prajna? She wanted to ask it but was afraid.
What if it sends me back there? Or somewhere worse?
“Tess,” Jeannie said, “did you hear what I said? Dr. Satoshi…he’s… His jet is missing. They’re assuming the worst.”
“What?” She was too stunned to say anything else, not sure if what she heard was real.
She stumbled back to her quarters and pulled up the New York Times online. Satoshi’s picture was plastered on the front page. She scanned the article.
Missing…searching…Switzerland…unknown…no further details.
Tess started toward the door, determined now to reengage Prajna. Maybe it could shed some light on Satoshi’s status.
She hesitated, turned back to the computer, typed her name in the search bar, and hit enter. There were sixty-two thousand search results. A profile picture popped up. It was her, but it wasn’t. The bio description read:
Tess Carrillo is a popular artist specializing in abstract oil paintings known for their familiar, yet otherworldly images. Her work has been described as emotionally connected to the fragility and impermanence of life. Famed critic Dominick Cantu described it as “inter-dimensional” with underlying themes that seem“mathematically precise.”
Part 5
Terminus
32
Tess felt the heat of his body, that familiar geothermal radiance that always soothed her. But this time it was different. As she lay in the dark, she was aware, for the first time, of the other world. No specific details remained. Only the deep emotion from the realization that she had lost him once. The understanding that somehow, somewhere, her worst imaginable nightmare had come true. Ryan had died, yet he was here, next to her.
For reasons she could not fathom, she’d been given another chance. A stipend of compensation for some fatalistic misstep. A gift. She now had the ability to appreciate Ryan from the perspective of having lost him.
They’d had ravenous sex, the kind of sex people had after long separations or near-death experiences. At one point he’d stopped, leaned back, and smiled, asking what he might have done to cause this level of enthusiasm so he could do it every day. Now, he snored like a spent lion. She almost laughed out loud, gleeful.
She thought about her latest collection, now finally finished. She would call it Journey to Consciousness. Or possibly just Consciousness. But she thought it needed the sense of motion. Motion was crucial to the message. Motion was half the inspiration.
Most of the feedback she’d received from the limited number of people who’d seen it was that it was beautifully dark. Equal parts hope and misery. But to Tess, it was simply a mirror of existence. Something neither beautiful nor dark. And…she had no idea where it came from, but she suspected it was that same place she now felt so emotionally connected to. The same place where she had somehow, deep in her mind, lost Ryan.
Tess knew it had to be hours before dawn, and her nocturnal nature was kicking in. That was okay. She did her best work during these hours. She moved gently out of the bed, careful not to wake him. She took two steps, then bumped into a wall. She was disoriented standing in the pitch-black room and reached out, trying to get her bearings. She found her way to the bedroom door and opened it. Large windows full of city lights filled her dilated pupils as she closed the door behind her and wandered slowly to the middle of the room.
She momentarily thought she was sleepwalking or in the middle of another lucid dream. The lights weren’t the familiar glow from her tiny San Francisco apartment. She was staring at the Hotel Icon on Travis. Somehow, Tess knew she was standing in a loft. In Houston. Familiar but new to her.
What does it mean? What is happening to me? Is he really here?
She turned and slowly moved toward the bedroom door, listening for any signs of his snores. Icy dread slid down her spine, and she paused, not ready to know if Ryan was in the bed or if she had imagined it all. And how was she here? She recognized the loft, but it wasn’t her world. Something part of her but imaginary. Like a make-believe friend. She expected to wake any minute, but the idea that if she did, it might be in a place without him tied her mind in knots. She couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that Ryan could not exist in this world.
Tess moved back into the center of the main room and looked around. It was all familiar. The contemporary furniture, the art, the windows. Even the scent of the old brick walls mixed with oak floors summoned memories she knew came from a real place. But how was it happening? Even if it was all a dream, everything was impossibly realistic. And the art. Familiar, but not hers.
The time was 2:30 a.m. The occasional squawk of car horns mixed with drunken shouts indicated the bars were closing.
How do I know that? Tess moved to the kitchen area, open to the main room. She picked up a cell phone; a picture of her and Ryan was displayed. It was a photo she didn’t know. One taken when they were both much younger, probably in their mid twenties. But she hadn’t known him then.
She put her thumb over the scanner, and the phone opened. She scrolled through the list of contacts, all unrecognizable. Tess put the phone back on the counter. The only thing keeping her from totally losing all semblance of composure was the certainty that she was dreaming. And if this was a dream, maybe she could even have some fun with it all. Maybe in her dream…in this dream…she had some kind of power, limited only by her imagination.
Then it hit her like a giant wave. All the inspiration for her recent paintings was rooted in this world. Simultaneously alien and familiar. This world was where her creative juices were brought to a boil…the generator of the dreams she weaved together like intricate webs. The ability to remove herself from the real world and look at it from the outside, from another dimension, was the secret sauce…the thing people craved.
Tess turned back toward the large windows facing the street. The lights from outside began to narrow, then formed a cluster. She sensed motion. She was moving, hurtling through space, lost and untethered. She could see a small object far away, something moving toward her. Tess wanted to leave. A level of loneliness she’d never known filled her. This was the place Anicca’s Portal came from. A lost place. She trembled. The time had come to disconnect from this. She was being pulled in too deeply. It was becoming unhealthy. Soon she wouldn’t be able to find her way back.
She pulled her gaze from the window and saw her reflection in a mirror on the wall by the entrance. But the image wasn’t quite right. Almost her, but not. She looked deeply into the eyes of her reflection and mumbled, “You’re going insane, aren’t you?”
But as she spoke the words, the image in the mirror was still. The woman that was her but not her stared back and said, “Yes.”
***
The auctioneer tapp
ed his gavel and said, “Sold.”
Tess knew it was only a matter of minutes until Annica’s Portal would appear onstage. She couldn’t remember any time in her life she’d been more nervous.
“Tell me why you decided to sell,” Natalie whispered. “What changed your mind?”
“Some paintings reflect your deepest feelings, things you can’t describe,” Tess said. “Others absorb them. This one’s starting to drain me, emotionally. It’s affecting my creativity, almost like it wants all my attention. It’s time to move on.”
“Well, that sounds a little bit like what I told my ex. By the way, Fillmore’s pissed we didn’t come to him first before putting it up for auction. But I think this is the best move. I guess we’re about to find out.”
“Do you think he’ll show up? Send someone?”
“Who knows. But I’m confident it’ll go for at least the one million minimum we’ve set. I’ve had several inquiries, and they all know the starting point.”
The snap of the auctioneer’s gavel echoed through the room, indicating another sale had wrapped. The room was crowded, but most of the purchases came from four individuals scattered throughout, representatives for anonymous buyers.
The diversity of the pieces being sold turned out to be a real treat for Tess. She thought they were all spectacular, and she felt nervous that one of hers would be in such company. Tess winced at the idea of pricing something she created that high. She wished Natalie had set a more reasonable minimum, but Natalie was adamant. The business aspect of being an artist was the most challenging for her. Now, coming to the auction seemed like a bad idea. She was already preparing mentally in case Anicca’s Portal didn’t sell.
What if they bring it out and nobody bids? What if they laugh?
Another sale finished, and she saw Anicca’s Portal being brought to the center of the stage. This was it.
The lighting’s not right. Crap!
The auctioneer introduced it and announced the minimum starting bid. Silence. Tess squirmed, trying to resist the urge to leave, bolt out the door. Her heart pounded. She stared at her shoes, willing herself to disappear. Natalie placed a hand on Tess’s knee and squeezed reassuringly.
“One million dollars,” a young hipster said.
“One million one hundred thousand,” an extremely tall woman offered.
“One million one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
The auctioneer said, “The bid is one million one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
Natalie gave her a playful slap on the arm. “Told ya!”
“Five million dollars.” Several in the crowd gasped. A few clapped.
Tess looked at Natalie, who was trance-like. Even she seemed stunned.
Tess couldn’t process it. The number was unimaginable to her. An amount so great it had no meaning. Not real. Money from a Monopoly game.
“The bid is five mil—”
“Ten million dollars.”
Even the auctioneer seemed stunned, perspiration beginning to bead on his upper lip.
“The bid is…ten million dollars. Ten million dollars!”
After several seconds that felt like an hour he finally said, “Sold!” The gavel smacked, a bit harder than any of the previous times. The whole thing was over in under three minutes.
Tess and Natalie stared at each other.
“What just happened?” Tess mumbled.
Natalie whispered, “You’re buying lunch.”
***
Daniel Fillmore had not left his penthouse on the fortieth floor in the three days since the painting was delivered. It sat on the floor in the main room, propped against the wall. He’d banned all staff, giving strict orders he wasn’t to be disturbed. The lights in the room remained off at all times, the painting reflecting whatever natural light found its way through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Daniel sat naked in a chair six feet away. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, even if he’d wanted to. His mind was lost in its vastness. Everything was there, unfolding in front of him. He remembered it all. Milo’s cabin. His death. The misty cloud that always hung over his memory, ever present but inaccessible, now gone. He knew his only purpose for being here was for this moment. He’d been sent to destroy the painting. But he’d been unable to do it. Until now.
All his life’s success. The fame. The money. All of it was tied to this moment. His destiny. Delaying any longer would only make his task more difficult. Soon it would be impossible for him to muster the courage. There was no alternative. His existence was directly tied to the painting’s destruction. That was the reason he was here. His sole purpose for being.
Daniel stood and walked to it, tears streaming down his face. He unscrewed the nozzle on the bottle of Zippo lighter fluid and soaked the painting. He dropped the plastic bottle on the floor. Its contents continued dripping, forming a puddle close to his feet. The noxious fumes hung in the air, so thick his lungs burned. He held a small book of matches with the words Hotel Castallion on the cover but couldn’t will himself to light one.
He reached out, craving more, a deeper connection. His hand penetrated the canvass and he smiled. He was going home. Daniel sobbed gently, walked into the painting, and disappeared.
33
Milo felt armed with the righteous power of an Archangel as he looked down on the beautiful town of Davos, Switzerland. His jet circled in a holding pattern, waiting to be cleared for landing at the Zurich airport. The small pristine hamlet of Davos was wedged perfectly into the surrounding Swiss Alps as if it had been painted, copied from a perfect postcard.
But something was different. The normally bright rays of the sun reflecting off sterile snow through crystalline air usually made the alpines pop like inverted green icicles. This time it all seemed duller; there was a yellow tint, like everything had been covered in a murky film. Milo watched skiers winding their way down the slopes of the perfectly manicured trails. He tried to imagine the mountain in its natural state, without the grotesque ski lifts and gouged trails as the jet started to descend.
He was greeted by a chauffeur who took his carry-on bag, searching for additional luggage until Milo informed him there was none. As he rode from the Zurich airport in the back of the limousine, he held a notepad and pencil, making some final tweaks to the speech he had prepared. After a little over an hour, they arrived, and he asked to be dropped at the Davos Conference Center instead of the hotel.
A large group of protesters lined the area just outside the conference grounds, carrying signs and banners. The crowd looked angry, yelling curses at each conference attendee as they arrived. Nervous security guards and local police formed a solid wall between them and the guests. Milo could barely suppress his glee as he heard the jeers and aggressive slurs from the mob, some even yelling the Enlightened Path name. One woman attempted to hand him a copy of his own manifesto before being pushed back by the guards.
As he walked through the entrance, the energy in the room was palpable. Even those industry elites who found most organized events a wasted effort made time for the Technology Leadership Conference held every year here. Invitations were exclusive to the international top echelon, attendance limited to seven hundred.
The available parking space for private jets at the Zurich and Klosters airports was a consistent challenge. Claiming a slot with an optimal location, allowing for easy exit, was a clear reflection of the international technological hierarchy, and jockeying for the top positions was an ongoing complex chess game by some of the most powerful people in the world. Those forced to locations in the back were required to wait until their more well-positioned peers decided to return home, often taking their time in an assertion of superiority and arrogance. Just another ritual in the ongoing game.
The TLC was considered a critical opportunity to gauge each competitor’s progress. A peek under the hood of some of the higher-
profile projects. Although all were well versed in maintaining a cloak of secrecy, certain details inevitably slipped out, whether deliberately or accidentally. Occasionally, information was disclosed in efforts at misdirection. Sometimes, egos simply got the better of them, resulting in otherwise unintended disclosures meant to piss all over their competitor’s enthusiasm. For a brief moment, Milo missed the competitive juices that flowed so freely when he was younger and ravenous for the opportunity to join the fray.
Alliances were occasionally forged by some of the tech titans as a result of conversations that would otherwise not have taken place. Fraternizing outside of the conference was rare. Although Milo was now unassociated with any high-profile companies, his reputation and former successes afforded him lifelong membership in the exclusive club. Although he had not attended in several years, his presence was welcomed by the others. In many ways, the fact that Milo was no longer a competitor made him more accepted. A non-threat.
The weekend always kicked off with a Friday evening mixer, then dinner and speeches in the elegant main room of the complex. All seven hundred of the guests were expected to attend as the facilitator presented the weekend’s agenda and schedules. Each would be assigned to a smaller group for the following day and given a topic for discussion, based on input compiled by surveys sent months in advance. The full group would reassemble the next afternoon, where representatives would summarize their findings. During tonight’s dinner, one representative from various ongoing companies was designated to present an update. The project was chosen by the group based on the results of the survey. This year, the selection had been the Prajna Project.
Milo suspected the main topic for discussion would be the missing Anton Satoshi. There was still no word that any bodies had been recovered, but his chances for survival were virtually nil. His lack of presence had a sobering effect on the overall mood. There was no doubt many who professed shock and sadness secretly smiled somewhere inside. The jockeying to replace him had already begun, and a scramble for the perceived top would result in lively competition for the coveted, yet unofficial, industry leader designation.
