by Nick Thacker
Her team was currently working to sequence the rest of the DNA in the pure lineage. Only then would she be able to make an accurate analysis of the exact makeup of the ‘pure’ genetic material — the material in the human genetic code that defined the purity of the individual.
Her father had come close to finding this answer, but he had credited too much to his own grandfather. He had relied too heavily on the research done by Nazi Germany, by the SS scientists and researchers who worked for Heinrich Himmler and, ultimately, Adolph Hitler. Her father had believed the papers and research produced and subsequently hidden by the Nazis; he had assumed their studies and findings were accurate.
He believed that his own grandfather, Sigmund Rascher, had been close to finding a suitable compound with which to test individuals. His government had used the compound in the gas chambers in the concentration and death camps, and while it had proven to be an effective poison, it hadn’t given the Nazis any reliable data as to the purity of the many races tested within those camps.
In short, the project had failed. Nazi propaganda and a worldwide, century-long rebranding of the Nazi’s experimentations had led the world to believe that their testing of the purity of the races was merely a misguided effort to eradicate the Jewish and other ‘non-Aryan’ races from the planet.
But Rachel knew the truth. She had her great-grandfather’s private journal, a piece once thought lost to history. She knew what her great-grandfather’s struggle had been, what he was worried about, what he had intended to accomplish. Hitler was a monster, but according to Rachel he hadn’t been all wrong — the world was a place that needed policing, the human effort one that needed leadership. The ancients had established their stronghold amidst many other prosperous civilizations, and had quickly asserted their authority and power. They had held their rightful place as the dominant race for centuries, and only because of a freak accident had their place been usurped.
Rachel pushed the window on her screen to another monitor, this one larger and providing a better view of what was happening in Room 23. She watched as her father bucked and fought against the straps, trying to break free from the terror he was currently experiencing.
The test was odd in that it affected the psychology of the individual as much as it affected the physiology. Subjects experienced hallucinations, some even so strong that they believed the walls, the floor or ceiling, or even other people in the room, were melting. The hallucinogenic drug gave subjects the impression that the entire room was somehow on fire, an inferno so hot everything around them was liquefying. The psychological effect was only strengthened by the physical effects — the subject was, after all, being poisoned. The compound, converted from a liquid to a gas by the heat radiating through the bell, penetrated the skin and the heat blistered any available flesh. The effects were horrendous but temporary.
Either the patient lived or died, and if they lived the blistered regions of skin would heal and the wounds would disappear.
And knowing that her pure lineage meant she was already directly linked to the Ancients — and that she didn’t need to go through the tests herself — was the just the affirmation she’d needed. It had given her the drive to continue, the stamina to make it through the hell of testing her entire staff.
But it hadn’t been quite enough to get her through this.
She started to cry once again, feeling the tears, the searing heat of the saline as it rolled slowly down her cheek. She watched the screen, unable to see but unable to ignore it, as her father fought against the very thing he had sworn his life to. The bell was a cruel and unyielding dictator, unbending. Her father was a true German, a man who looked and acted the part — a man with ambition, drive, steadfastness, and determination. A man who wanted nothing but success, and showed up early for it and refused to settle for less than the best.
But, like the Nazi party and its scientists before him, her grandfather hadn’t realized that German was in itself nothing but a bastardization of the race the Ancients had designed and perpetuated. To be German meant one was from Germany, not necessarily as pure as the Ancients, and a person’s physical appearance sometimes was more of a coincidence than a determining factor.
For her blond-haired, blue-eyed father, Germany was a homeland, a dream, and a goal. But to Rachel, it was a speed bump. Germany was simply a diversion, a sideshow to the ultimate goal of creating a pure, ancient-worthy race of humanity.
A humanity that would eventually prove its worth, and one that she would potentially lead.
Rachel focused on her father’s face, already seeing the welting and bruising caused by the serum.
No, she thought. Please, don’t be true.
She knew what was going to happen, but she hated to admit it, even to herself. She’d had her suspicions, known for many years that her father had been the illegitimate product of a German-born man and a foreign woman. Thanks to his decision to marry within the race, however, the purity in Rachel Rascher’s bloodline had been restored. She would have passed the test, but she was afraid her father would not.
He threw his head up and back down upon the gurney’s headrest multiple times, each time more forceful, until he lay back down. Still.
No, she thought.
The test was inevitable. The serum was infallible. She told herself this fact, reminded herself of it over and over again.
Still, she couldn’t stop watching the screen. Her father lay still, motionless, unmoving on his bed.
Or his deathbed.
No, she thought, before the thought could infect her mind. He could still be pure enough.
But she knew the truth. She’d known it all her life, and it was the one thought that haunted her for her entire professional career. She knew what the test results would be, and she wanted to ignore it and just move on.
But her eyes were riveted. She was a researcher, a learner, a scientist. She wanted to know, to see, what happened. She was analyzing it, studying it. She knew that the compound the ancients had created was working its magic, forming thousands of heat-induced clots beneath his skin, simultaneously working to test his blood for purity. He would be fully catatonic by now, experiencing a completely different reality than what was actually transpiring. Most likely, from his perspective, the walls were melting, the floor and ceiling turning to liquid and dripping down around him.
But from her perspective, the room was silent, quiet and unmoving. Her father was sleeping, soundly and immobile. She didn’t care about what he might be feeling, or what his subconscious mind was telling him about the external world.
The only thing she cared about was whether or not her father was going to wake up.
28
Graham
PROFESSOR GRAHAM LINDGREN TRIED to swallow the fava beans, but it was difficult. In his decades of experience traveling the world, Graham had eaten all sorts of odd and eclectic dishes, from just about every corner of the globe. Things like raw cow spine and guinea pigs on a stick were what he called ‘cultural delicacies,’ devouring them with the veracity of a proper local.
There were a few things, however, that made him draw the line. Mushrooms, of any sort or shape, were one of them. The other thing was peas.
And fava beans, as far as he was concerned, were the same thing as peas.
The dish that had been served to him was called ful medames, essentially a porridge of mashed fava beans with some accoutrements — in this case onions and peppers — served with hard-boiled eggs. It had a protein-rich, earthy taste to it, which would have been otherwise palatable if not for the consistency.
He forced the bean mash down his throat, trying to appreciate the flavor. The dish had been cooked well, and he was grateful of that. It had been delivered as a side, alongside fois gras, which he had always been a fan of. He’d finished the fois gras and bread first, then turned his sights — and taste buds — to finishing the beans.
Something in him refused to let the food go to waste. It was frustrating, but he coul
dn’t shake it. He was a prisoner here, and yet the people retaining him were doing everything they could to make his stay comfortable.
They’d even given him a better pillow after he’d complained about the tissue-thick sleeve of polyester he’d had to sleep on the first three nights.
Ms. Rascher sat in front of him, across the table from her captive. She had done nothing to her appearance, but her large, bright eyes and single strand of gray hair were as unassumingly attractive as they had been before. They were sitting in his ‘room,’ the rock-walled cell he’d been thrown into, but a table and chairs had been brought in and placed in the center of the room.
If he wasn’t mistaken, it seemed as though his captors were interested in his overall comfort level.
“Seems like a bit much for a lowly prisoner,” he said.
Rachel Rascher made a face. “A prisoner? You are a distinguished guest of my department, Professor.”
“Your department? And if I’m a guest, I’m assuming I am free to leave?”
“You are free to leave,” she said. “Once we have the object.”
He waited.
“And my department is part of the Egyptian government.”
“The Egyptian government is holding me hostage?” Graham asked.
She shook her head, smiling. “No. As I said, you are not a hostage. And the government has nothing to do with this — experiment.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Graham swallowed another bite. He found that talking helped him focus on something other than the dirt-tasting retch of the fava dish in front of him.
“My department is the Ministry of Antiquities of Egypt.”
“We’re in Egypt?”
She nodded.
He looked around. “Where in Egypt?”
She ignored the follow-up question. “And I am the head of the department.”
“Minister Rachel Rascher?”
She nodded.
“A German?”
“Good guess,” she said. “Yes, I am German, but only by birth.”
He frowned.
“I lived in the United States for five years, then thirteen around Europe, but spent my adult years here in Egypt. My lineage goes through modern Germany and can be traced back to the Grecian region.”
“And you want this ‘object’ that I found. In Greenland.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“What if I don’t have it?”
She grinned. “I know you don’t have it, Professor. That’s why you’re still here.”
“So you’re holding me here, against my will, until I get it for you?”
She shrugged. “Or until it comes to us.”
“You think my —” he stopped himself. “You believe that someone’s just going to deliver this thing right to you?”
“I believe your daughter is looking for you. And since you sent the artifact to her, yes. I believe she will bring it right back.”
Graham dropped his head. If only I’d known.
“Professor,” Rachel said, softly. “There is a way you can help us. A way that might prevent anything… unfortunate from happening to you or your daughter.”
He felt his body tense. The involuntary response of a father, learning his daughter was in possible danger, was too much to hide. At the same time, he forced his mind to relax. If there’s something I can do, he thought, I’ll do it. Anything.
“Tell me what was inside the object.”
He shifted his head sideways. “You know more about this mysterious object than you’ve been letting on.”
“Professor,” she said, taking another bite, “tell me what was inside.”
He sighed. Took a deep breath. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Rachel asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Sorry. It was empty. Once I figured out how to open it, I was excited, but when I twisted it open I saw there was nothing inside.”
He wasn’t telling the truth, of course — there had been something inside the object when he’d finally gotten it open. It was a rock, nothing but a pebble. A rough-edged, whitish pebble.
He recognized it as opal, his daughter’s birthstone, so he’d made a necklace out of it, put it back inside the artifact, and sent the whole thing to Sarah.
But Graham knew the woman wasn’t looking for a piece of opal. She had hinted at something else — a substance, or a chemical compound of some sort — hiding inside the artifact. Since there was nothing of the sort inside, Graham was technically telling the truth. What the woman and her team was looking for had most certainly not been inside the artifact.
He hoped that by proving to the woman that he knew exactly how to open the ceramic artifact that he could also prove to her he was telling the truth, but his mind raced back to the emails she had sent. She’s not going to accept that, he thought.
“Not even…” she stopped herself. “Are you sure?”
He frowned. “Pretty damn.”
“Well then,” she said. “I guess we’re done here.”
“We — we’re done?”
“Forgive me,” Rachel said, pushing her chair back and standing up. “I meant I’m done here. You, on the other hand, are not done here at all.”
29
Ben
ANOTHER PLANE, BEN THOUGHT. I really should have settled down somewhere closer to civilization.
Ben hated flying. There was a lack of control he felt whenever he boarded an aircraft, and it didn’t matter how large or small the craft was — he was equally intimidated. The larger aircrafts reminded him that he was defying the laws of physics, hurtling through the air in a fuel-filled metal tube. And the smaller vehicles he’d flown on — Cessnas, helicopters, and the like — were just as bad. He could feel every movement, every whip of the wind and churn of the turbulence. He could feel the unsettling force of acceleration, knowing that he was tens of thousands of feet above a hard, unforgiving earth.
So, even though Mr. E had sprung for the best-of-the-best, a commercial-quality Learjet 85, decked out in luxury and high-end tech, Ben hardly felt better. The takeoff and ascent had been smooth, but he had gripped the armrest tightly, wishing Julie had sat in the seat next to him. She’d opted for a lounger toward the back, assuring him that the flight would be more comfortable if he’d just learn to relax.
He’d responded to her unhelpful comment by ordering and slamming two shots of whiskey before they’d even taxied across the tarmac at the Anchorage airport. The ‘thinking juice’ did little to calm his nerves, and it was only after an hour of flight time that he started to feel a bit more at ease.
The jet was a recent purchase by Mr. E’s communications company, and allowing the Civilian Special Operations team to loan it from the corporate office would be a tax write-off for him. The CSO often enjoyed the perks of Mr. E’s vast wealth, as they were somewhat of an experimental organization, and Mr. E was greatly interested in proving its worth. Military representatives made up just under half of the organization’s board, with Mr. E and his wife, Ben, Julie, and Reggie making up the rest. The military representatives wanted a way to source the projects that were either too public, too risky, or too specialized for the US military to get involved. If it wasn’t something that could be appropriately expensed in a line item for Congress’ scrutiny, it would fall under the category of ‘black ops’ or ‘table for later.’
The CSO had been set up to handle the ‘table for later’ items. Civilians, trained to be researchers who knew their way around a sticky situation, were perfect for the projects the US government didn’t want to mess around with.
Mr. E had already invested heavily in the group’s success, and the results showed. Ben’s cabin had been expanded, the two-level wing nearing completion. There would be room for the entire team to stay on-campus, complete with a conference room, workout facility, and hot tub.
The last had been a request from Ben, and Mr. E had apparently thought it prudent to honor the request of the man who owned the land.
&n
bsp; The jet was brand-new, and Mr. E’s company hadn’t even gotten to use it yet. The jet came with a pilot, copilot, and three flight attendants. The onboard staff doubled the size of the passenger manifest.
Ben, Julie, and Reggie were also joined by Mr. E’s wife, who sat sprawled back in a reclined seat across the aisle from Ben. He looked over at the gigantic woman and smiled.
“Been awhile,” he said.
“It has,” Mrs. E said, nodding. “I believe it was over a month ago.”
“You came up to the cabin, but didn’t stay long.”
“Yes,” she said. “My husband has me running around, going to business meetings and shaking hands.”
“Sounds like fun,” Ben said. If there was anyone he knew was more uncomfortable around executive types than he was, it was Mrs. E. The woman was a strong-willed, physically imposing person, and he had seen her in action more than once and was always glad she was on his team. But she hated public appearances, business dealings, and the forced nature of playing a role.
She laughed. “Yes, about as fun as getting shot at.”
“You’ve been shot at plenty of times, E,” Ben said. “I’d bet you’d take getting shot at over handling your husband’s affairs any day.”
She grinned. “Sure, yes. That is actually true. But he does even worse than I do with public appearances. It is quite the irony that he has been able to build such a successful company without ever stepping foot inside of it.”
Ben knew that to be true — Mr. E was a recluse, agoraphobic and unwilling to step foot in a public place. Ben had never shaken the man’s hand, and any conversations with him had been by way of video chat or conference call. He conducted business remotely, and anything that had to be done in person was either done at his house or through his proxy — Mrs. E.
