***
When Harry blinked his eyes open, he didn’t know where he was. He tried to recall where he had been and what had brought him here, but the effort only confused him. Not only did he not know where he was, but he also couldn’t recall who he was.
He grunted when he felt a sudden pressure against his genitals. Looking downward, he saw that his body was enveloped in an odd, greenish light. Some kind of mechanical arm was holding him up. Narrowing his eyes, he saw that the arm was attached to an amorphous, though vaguely pyramidal, shape. Suddenly, the metal arm began to move upward. He could see his feet lift from the floor as the steel arm swung in a short arc.
A driving spray of oily fluid pummeled his body. He opened his mouth to scream but could not. The bitter oil flooded into the back of his mouth and choked him, and he began to cough convulsively, kicking and struggling against the steel arm that held him. Seized by panic, he fought like a demon, throwing his arms out wildly and kicking against the steel harness. He barely noticed the minute sting of a small needle as it stabbed into his upper right thigh. In the next instant he went completely limp, engulfed by a rush of euphoria. He began to giggle foolishly. This is all just a crazy dream, he thought. A second later, he was asleep.
When consciousness returned, he lay in a prone position. As his eyes began to focus, he saw that his entire body was encapsulated in a clear, gelatinous material. A half-dozen ribbed plastic tubes were connected to his chest. He tried to follow them to their source, but they stretched into an unknown blackness.
The scene overwhelmed him and he could make no sense of it. I must be in an intensive care unit, he thought, and under heavy-duty drugs. But then he was struck by another realization: since he had woken, he had not taken so much as a single breath. He tried to breathe deeply and found that nothing happened; he could not even feel the movement of air into his lungs or the physical expansion of his chest. It was as though nothing was there. He was a disembodied entity, floating in gelatinous womb.
Am I dead?
He tried to move his hands and feet but could feel no sensation in his entire body, save for a thickening in the back of his throat. What had happened to him? The memory of falling and the recollection of his own screaming voice came rushing back.
Something to his left caught his eye. A vaguely familiar shape, pyramidal in form, glided toward him, its motion as smooth as a puck on ice. It had a single mechanical arm. Where had he seen it before? Attached to the end of the arm was the largest hypodermic needle he had ever seen. It was at least eight inches long. Harry’s eyes widened in terror and he tried to scream, but his vocal cords, like the rest of his body, would not respond. He felt the contact of the needle at the base of his neck penetrate upward toward his head. Time seemed to stretch into eternity before he slipped into merciful oblivion.
Chapter Four
For Jon, descending the mountain was much easier than climbing it. He had ascended the south slope, which was steep and jagged, but on the downward climb had taken the northern slope, which turned into a semi-maintained trail at about the halfway point. He had to skirt the entire base of the mountain to get back to his meeting point with Harry.
The scenery was spectacular—the distant mountains, the dappled light on the orange and yellow leaves of the trees below, and the wonderful, clean smell of the autumn air. It was an exclamation point to his last three days and it made him wonder how he could ever work in an office. The outdoors made him feel so alive; only at times like this did he feel truly comfortable with himself.
At first, the trip down the mountain seemed to pass in slow motion. He was caught in a perfect moment of time—just his steps moving in rhythm, his lungs filling with fresh air, and his eyes drinking in the beautiful scenery. But after three days on short rations, his stomach let him know how hungry he was. As soon as he hooked up with Harry, he wanted to find a trucker’s diner and place a double order. After that, he would find someplace with a shower.
When he reached the meeting point, there was no trace of Harry. He checked the car first and saw that it was still mostly packed. Unease gnawed at him as he extended his search. Near the trout stream, he found Harry’s fishing rod lying on the ground, but no Harry.
He called out again and again and wandered around the hundred-yard area between the car and the trout stream. Finding no sign of Harry, he widened his circle, but stopped suddenly when he saw a set of tracks in the dirt. He squatted down to examine the tracks more closely and saw that the toes pointed toward the caves. Jon stood quickly and suppressed a sudden feeling of panic as he walked toward the largest cave, fumbling in his backpack for his flashlight. As soon as he reached the cave and flicked the light on, he saw Harry’s prostrate form on the floor, just a few feet away from a deadfall.
“Jesus!” he said loudly, but Harry did not respond.
Jon opened his canteen and dribbled water on Harry’s face. “Harry!” he said in a sharp voice, “Can you hear me?”
Still no response. Again, he tipped his canteen and poured the cool water onto Harry’s face. This time there was a reaction.
Harry coughed and opened his eyes. “What the hell’s going on?” he said.
For the first few moments, Harry shivered uncontrollably as if trying to shake a bone-chilling numbness out of his body. He struggled to pull his legs up under him and get to his feet. Jon bent to help him, and it was clear from the way his friend leaned on his arm that he would not have been able to stand without help.
Once he was standing, Jon held onto his arm as a safeguard, since the deadfall was right next to them. Harry stared down into the abyss. There was a puzzled expression on his face, a look that was completely uncharacteristic. He stepped back warily, still staring down into the pit.
“I fell down into that,” he said.
“You couldn’t have,” said Jon. “If you had, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”
Jon could see his friend struggling, trying to come to grips with what had happened.
“Try to remember the last thing that happened to you,” said Jon.
Harry leaned against his friend as he tried to recall.
“I tripped and nearly fell into that,” he said, as he pointed toward the deadfall. “I must have landed awkwardly and banged my head. How long have I been unconscious?”
When Jon told him it had been three days, he shook his head in disbelief. “Three days,” he echoed. “Three fucking days!”
They backed away from the deadfall and, when they were clear of it, they turned and walked toward the daylight. The farther they got from the cave, the better Harry seemed. Walking in the late afternoon sun warmed and revived him. Jon watched him become steadier with each step, and a bizarrely euphoric expression broke over Harry’s face.
“It’s almost like I’ve been drugged,” he said aloud before stopping in his tracks. “I can remember someone sticking me with a really long hypodermic needle.”
Still holding his arm, Jon looked at him sympathetically. “A blow to the head can do funny things to your mind.”
“But it seems so real to me.”
“We’ve got to get you to a hospital right away,” Jon said.
“I don’t need that,” said Harry as he drew away from his friend. “I’m okay.”
“I’m serious, you could have a head injury. You don’t want to take any chances.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” said Harry, his voice hardening. “I know I’m okay.”
Harry rubbed his hands together involuntarily as they walked to the car. There was something sticky on them—a thin film of something greenish. He brought his fingers to his face and sniffed, then recoiled. “Alcohol,” he muttered.
“I’m going to wash up,” he said, as he moved away from Jon and toward the creek.
Meanwhile, Jon observed his friend. Harry’s stride was steady and his balance was good. Maybe he was right and he didn’t need a doctor. But the more Jon thought about it, the more he decided to press the issue. Af
ter all, the guy was knocked unconscious and exposed to the chill of the cave for three days straight.
During the first twenty miles of their ride home they argued, but Harry refused to let Jon take him to a hospital. Finally, Jon gave up in exasperation. The word “stubborn” might have been coined for Harry.
“Okay, if you want to go through life with a head injury, that’s your business,” Jon finally said in disgust.
After driving another ten miles in silence, Jon suddenly pulled off the road and parked at a trucker’s diner. “I’ve got to get something to eat,” he said. “I’m absolutely starving.”
Harry made no move to join him. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
“You’re not hungry?” Jon said in amazement. “Three days without eating and you’re not hungry?”
In response, Harry pulled his cap down over his eyes and put his seat back. “Take your time,” he said. “I’m going to take a little nap.”
“Harry, you might have a concussion. Taking a nap might kill you.”
“Will you please fuck off!” Harry shouted as he repositioned himself. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m perfectly okay.”
Jon thought about arguing more, but the expression in Harry’s eyes told him he’d better not. He stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
When Jon returned from the diner forty-five minutes later, Harry was sound asleep. He remained asleep for three and a half hours, the rest of their trip back home. Jon had to shake him awake after he pulled into Harry’s driveway.
“I’m dead tired,” Harry said as he got out of the car. “Can I just leave my gear in your car until tomorrow?”
Harry didn’t wait for a reply. He walked toward the door of his house like a zombie.
“Goddamn it!” said Jon as he watched him wander inside. “I should have taken him to the hospital.”
Chapter Five
General Rockaway looked across the briefing room at the assembly of senior intelligence officers, noting with distaste the presence of two congressmen and a senator from West Virginia.
An aide touched his left shoulder and said, “They’re all here now, General. And the doors have been sealed.”
The general cleared his throat and ran a hand through thick, bristly white hair. The large collection of medals on his chest sparkled in the artificial light, adding splendor to his solid physique and towering stature. His commanding presence was only enhanced by his booming voice. “Gentleman, may I have your attention, please?”
The roar of fifty different conversations died down until only a few whispers remained. The general thumbed nervously at the corner of the stack of index cards containing his notes as he began the briefing.
“On this past Thursday, it was discovered that America’s largest reserve of precious metals at Tartan’s Crag, West Virginia, had been looted. More than looted, picked clean to the bone.”
The general noted with satisfaction that his opening statement had seized their attention. He coughed once and continued.
“The Tartan’s Crag installation is second only to Fort Knox in its security. I can say without any hesitation, the military personnel at that installation are the best trained, best equipped, and most conscientious people in this man’s army. Twenty-four hours before the theft, a complete inventory had been taken and everything accounted for. Iridium, titanium, tungsten, platinum, industrial gold and silver … it was all there, down to the last milligram. Yet, twenty-four hours later, all fifteen hundred-odd tons of material valued at over ten billion dollars had vanished.”
A rustle of voices rose throughout the room. A senior intelligence official, seated to the left of the general, spoke up.
“May I make a comment, sir?”
The general nodded.
“Obviously, whoever was responsible didn’t carry fifteen hundred tons of material out the front door. Do we have any leads on how they got the material out of there?”
The general’s smile was sour. “Unfortunately, what leads we have at this point are about as incredible as the crime itself. I’ve brought Dr. Brookings from the investigative team here to explain this part to you.” The general nodded at a lean, fidgety man who sat at the far end of the table.
Dr. Brookings stood and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, furtively glancing from side to side as though seeking an avenue of escape. He was a small, diffident man who had a clear distaste for the limelight. When he spoke, his lips moved but nothing could be heard over the din of fifty whispered conversations.
“Put a microphone on him, damn it!” the general shouted.
Again, Dr. Brookings tried to speak. This time his words were drowned out by a high-pitched squeal from the P.A. The sheer volume of it served to catch the attention of the audience. Their whispered conversations stopped and they turned toward the new speaker, who was already in mid-sentence as the gain on the P.A. finally reached the proper level.
“… a microscopic analysis of the foundations of the vault finally yielded the first substantive evidence. What previously had been case-hardened steel had become the matrix for an ultra-fine tubular network made of a material chemically consistent with industrial diamonds. The individual capillaries within this structure were remarkably uniform, each one having an interior diameter of exactly 21.375 microns. An atomic analysis of the interior walls of these capillaries yielded evidence of the passage of materials consistent with the materials stored in the vaults. We theorize that a molecular disassembly process of some type occurred. The stored materials were reduced to their component molecules and literally pumped out of the vault through these capillaries ….”
The rising volume of voices drowned out the P.A. and left Dr. Brookings standing with his mouth open, frozen in mid-sentence.
A senior advisor from the National Security Agency who stood in the front row managed to penetrate the background noise with his deep baritone voice.
“Can I assume from your description that some species of nanotechnology was used in this theft? If so, what country has reached this level of development in nanotechnology?”
The conference quieted down as Dr. Brookings leaned closer to the microphone.
“Quite right,” he said. “The theft was definitely accomplished through the use of nanotechnology. In our analysis of the ambient materials within the micro-tunnels, several molecular disassemblers that were damaged by background radiation were discovered. They are definitely products of an extremely sophisticated form of nanotechnology, far in advance of anything currently under development in any of the industrial nations. As to their origin, let me fill you in on what we have learned of them so far ….”
An odd smile played across Dr. Brookings face, and he stared off beyond the last row of chairs. It was as though the implausibility of what he was about to say tickled some corner of his scientific soul.
“We were able to trace the micro-tunnels to their point of origin, some six and a half miles below ground. What we discovered was some sort of crèche made of a material we have not been able to analyze. This crèche was buried in a layer of basalt rock that we have dated to the Cenozoic Era. Apparently the crèche lay dormant there for some sixty million years. What activated the nanotechnological components retained within the crèche remains a mystery. A number of inactive nano-chips were left behind, containing information stored in a base-eleven number system. We’ve succeeded in decoding only one of these nano-chips. It contained genetic information of a most unusual nature: the DNA coding of a member of the species Homo erectus.”
Dr. Brookings seemed oblivious to the fact that the entire audience was waiting breathlessly for more. He drew back from the microphone, removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, mopped the sweat from his forehead, and once again took his seat. He had said what he had come to say. The rest of the room was not satisfied.
The senior advisor from the National Security Agency jumped up. “Surely there’s more, Doctor.”
Dr. Brooking dismi
ssed the question with a shake of his head.
The senior advisor would not be shaken off.
“Is there any special significance in its time of origin? I believe you said it dated from the Cenozoic.”
The doctor’s eyebrows did a short dance and his face took on a disgruntled expression. It was clear that such a vague and general question had little meaning for him. He glanced over at the general, hoping against hope that his part in the presentation was over.
The senior advisor was not deterred. “What I mean, Doctor, is this: from a scientific point of view, what characterizes the Cenozoic Era? What differentiates it from other geological eras?”
Dr. Brooking answered the question reluctantly.
“The Cenozoic Era was a period of profound morphological change and diversification of species. It is the period when the progenitors of mankind first appeared.”
The senior advisor seized on this point. “Do you think that this crèche that you discovered could have had some role in the evolutionary development of mankind?”
Dr. Brookings grimaced. “This is useless speculation. I have presented the facts as we know them. Until our investigation progresses further, I have nothing more of substance to contribute.”
At the conclusion of this statement, he plunked himself down in his chair and folded his arms.
The conference room lapsed into silence. The senior advisor—who remained standing, his mouth still open—turned toward General Rockaway.
“Where do we go from here, sir?”
The Infinity Program Page 3
