by B. C. CHASE
The trip to the coastal Zhongshan station and the two-night stay there with his wife and daughter would have been one of the happiest times of his life had it not been shadowed by the fact that, as soon as the visit was over, he would return to Vostok and make the descent two miles under the ice. When he waved goodbye as their helicopter rose into the sky, he wished beyond anything that he had listened to his parents and chosen a major other than Paleontology.
As it was, he returned to miserable Vostok and was greeted by the ever-cheerful Doctor Toskovic and, to his dismay, the camera crew. It was now evening: he would go to bed. The next morning would be the descent.
Paradeisia Hospital
“How is it that you didn't notice this before?” Henry demanded, staring in perplexity at the man lying on the operating table before them.
“We didn't notice before because he was never in the dark before,” the doctor replied. Doctor James Pearce was originally from one of the near islands; Trinidad. He had a very solemn-looking face with a neatly trimmed white mustache.
The three of them, including Jinkins, were standing in an operating room where Andrews lay anesthetized. The room was dark except for some soft lighting illuminating a counter on one side.
“But what is it?” Jinkins asked impatiently. “And by 'what is it' I mean what relevance does this have?”
Doctor Pearce folded his arms, “It has all the relevance in the world, I think. The man's been missing for how many years, he comes back, and now he has this. How do we explain that?” He motioned down to Andrews' arm where, glowing with a soft green tint from within the skin was a marking:
Jinkins was between Henry and the doctor and he looked back and forth between the two of them, “It's quite simple, I'd say. He had this before he came to Paradeisia, some newfangled glowing tattoo.”
The doctor objected, “Look closer. It's made of tiny dots of light. I extracted one. It's over here.” He walked them over to a petri dish on the counter. Barely visible was a tiny translucent ball smaller than the point of a pen. “As soon as I removed it, the light went out. It seems to have been powered by his body, maybe his warmth. Or, more likely, bacteria.”
“Well that doesn't prove anything. I still say he could have had it before he came.” Jinkins snorted. “I mean if you're trying to say that somehow he received it when he was down the portal, why that's preposterous. How could that possibly have happened?” Jinkins wiped his forehead of a sweat he had developed.
“There's still a lot we don't know about what's down there,” Doctor Pearce said quietly with a nervous glance at Henry.
Henry had just been standing there, his hand on his chin, looking deeply contemplative. Finally he interrupted, “Let's drop it, gentlemen.”
The other two stared at him.
“It's late. There's no reason to speculate at this hour. Let's go to bed now and you can begin to pursue your theory in the morning, doctor. Some things are better addressed after a good night's sleep.”
The doctor nodded and Jinkins, looking relieved, agreed with a, “Yes, yes, let's get some sleep. And I suppose you won't be going to China after all, eh Potter? Now that you've seen what's down the portal?”
“I will be going to China. But I'll only stay overnight.” He turned to the physician, “Thank you doctor. You have my number if you have something worth telling me.”
Jinkins simply shrugged and followed Henry as he walked out of the room.
Henry stopped to use the restroom in the hospital before he left, so Jinkins was long-gone by the time he stepped out through the sliding glass doors into the still-warm night air. As he jogged down the steps to the road where a Jeep waited, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He swung around.
“Mr. Potter,” said the person standing there.
Henry replied, “Yes?”
He was a stocky man with short-trimmed hair, a goatee and large up-turned eyebrows. He wore a tropically patterned loose polo and big shorts. An expensive-looking watch ornamented his wrist, but he had simple sandals on his feet. He took one last puff of his cigarette before flicking it onto the pavement, stomping it out. He held out his hand, “I'm Scott Nimitz, Operations Supervisor.”
“Good to meet you,” said Henry, looking less than thrilled. “And what is your role this drama?”
“There are sixteen of us along with four forecasters. We work the command center at headquarters—in the FlyRail Hub on the top of the mountain. We're there twenty-four hours a day. We have video feeds of almost everywhere on the island.”
“Interesting,” Henry said.
“And that's what I wanted to talk with you about. I was bored, you know, watching Poseidon's Platter when you guys were having your meal. Word's gone around that you're now the man in charge.”
Henry said, “Indeed I am. There will be a formal announcement.”
“I'm not a brown-noser or anything like that. I just think there are some things you should know if you're going to make this place a success, you know.”
“I'm all ears,” Henry said.
“Operationally this place is the bomb. Runs like clockwork. We get the occasional computer glitches—but who doesn't have those.... I'm more worried about...other things. Now don't get me wrong, Jinkins is a good guy. He's a nice man, you know. We all love him. But I think he kind of... He's been in denial about some stuff. In operations, we hear most of what goes on here. In other departments you know how it is, the right hand doesn't know what the left is doing. But in ops we're the brain, the mind. There's not much that doesn't pass through.”
“Yes,” Henry said, apparently getting impatient. “So what is it that you want to tell me?”
“Andrews disappeared three years ago like Jinkins told you.” Nimitz said. “But Andrews isn't the only one who's gone missing. He was just the only one to go missing when he was down the portal.”
“How many people have gone missing?” Henry said.
“Including Andrews...” Nimitz hesitated. “Eleven.”
Henry's eyebrows rose. “Eleven. And he's the only one who's come back?”
Nimitz nodded, concern creasing his face.
“Is there any pattern that you've noticed?”
“They were all young, but no children were taken.”
“Taken?”
“Yes, I think they were taken.”
“Hmm,” Henry said, looking skeptical. “Had they all gone down the shaft previously?”
“No. Just people from all over the island, working all kinds of jobs. But Andrews was the first to disappear. Nobody disappeared that I know of until after the portal was complete. Of course, we didn't have nearly as many people working here back then.”
“And what is the working population now?”
“Seventy-five thousand, give or take.”
“Well then, eleven disappearances doesn't sound all that extraordinary. Does it seem likely that they disappeared for legitimate reasons; for example, just walked off the job and went home? Or perhaps localized crimes?”
“I wouldn't rule out localized crimes, but of course we have a security force here, a kind of police force, and they haven't resolved anything,” Nimitz said.
“And most of the workforce comes from the surrounding areas?”
“We have a good mix. Most of them don't work for Paradeisia; they're from the developers. A lot of Caribbean islanders. A lot of Asians. Plenty from the States and South America. A bunch of Cubans. We even have a lot from Europe. It's like Babel around here.”
Henry stuck out a hand to shake, “Well, thank you for the information, I—“
But Nimitz was shaking his head. “Mr. Potter... The disappearances are one thing. But there's something else that I wanted to tell you, something that makes me even more nervous.”
Henry dropped his hand to his side and said, “And that is?”
“Sightings.”
FBI Field Office, Baltimore
Special Agent Kessler was at his boss's desk, saying, “I made calls for eve
ry missing person alert we have.”
“You mean everyone at our office?”
“No, I mean everyone in the FBI.”
His boss sat back in his squeaky chair, “You've got to be kidding. 2,500 people go missing every day.”
“Yeah, but you know most of them are child custody cases or senile old folks. Once you take out the superfluous ones, it's not that many. About a hundred kids are legitimately kidnapped by creeps every year. Legitimate disappearances have come up 400% over the past three years. Nobody noticed because nobody was separating the legitimates from the divorces and silver alerts. I thinned the herd down to about 500 active cases that I thought fit my bill. We spoke with someone from each of the families.”
“You know, Jarred, we don't have a 'special agent of the year' award....”
Jarred said, “I know. But listen; here's the rub:” he paused. “In almost every one of these cases, the missing person had an anomaly. Some had special traits, such as the case I'm working. He was a two-year-old genius. But many of the missing people had diseases. A lot of them had psychological problems. But they were all rare.” Kessler continued, “My question is, what is it that makes this uniqueness valuable? Especially the sick ones. Why would anyone want a deadly disease?”
His boss said, “That is a very good question.” He tilted his head, “And precisely why I think you might be taking this a bit too far. Aren't you just grasping at straws, here, Jarred? This seems like quite a stretch. I mean how many of the missing people have some rare characteristic like you're talking about?”
“479.”
“You know it's very easy to get caught up in conspiracy theories if you look to hard enough.”
“This is no theory. This is an epidemic of the lost.”
United Nations Security Council
Doctor Martin spun his head around and searched the audience. There wasn't a single movement, not a single cough. They were entranced. He looked back at the council members and continued, “So to explain the sixth sense, I go back to my original experience, the experience that sent me on the quest for understanding.
“When I had that jolting intuition, that sudden sense that I should take the long way back to Cambridge, was it just a chance whim that happened at that moment? Or was it because I somehow sensed the inevitable truth: that my sister was about to die?
“The one thing that all of these strange phenomena have in common is that, in some way or other, we are linked. All life is linked. We can sense when others are in danger, or perished. We can sense when others are looking at us, from wherever. We can sense where loved ones are, and reach them.
“The link between beings is stronger the more intimate the relationship. That is why dogs can sense when their masters are in peril or returning home, but not just anybody. That is why I had a feeling of foreboding when my sister's life was about to be lost.
“It has often been said that we have souls, that we are not merely physical beings. Well, I propose, in a scientific sense, that this is true. Our existence is on both the physical plain, which we understand to a great degree, but it is also on another, invisible plain, which we do not understand at all.”
Suddenly, there was a noise from the council. One of the representatives was rising to his feet, the one from the United States. Doctor Martin knew him to be Abael Fiedler, chief of staff to the U.S. President.
The man stood from his wheelchair with some difficulty, and, even at his full height, bowed over with a grotesque hump protruding under his suit coat. From behind, a woman stepped up to assist him, but in annoyance, he waved her away. He leaned forward to the microphone, yanked it towards himself, and said, “Doctor Martin, if I may say something...”
Surprised, Doctor Martin said, “Of course.”
“When you began your testimony, you mentioned several different categories into which people fall in reference to psychic phenomena. Whether you are a believer or not, and so forth....”
“Yes.”
“Well, I propose that there is a tenth group: those who believe in these phenomena, fully understand them, and use them, or channel them, to their own benefit and the benefit of others.”
“Well that would certainly be a hypothetical group, yes. But I fear no such group exists.”
Abael stared at him with beady black eyes, his head tilted oddly and slowly sinking towards his chest. Doctor Martin almost thought that the man had fallen asleep with his eyes open, but then he opened his mouth with a pop and said, “Why is that? Why would you believe no one knows and understands these phenomena?”
“Well because no has come forward with a credible claim. Anyone I have seen yet who avows to channel these abilities generally turns out to not have his head screwed on properly.”
Abael said, “So to make such a credible claim, a person would necessarily be required to explain what he knows and provide some empirical evidence that he has the power to channel these so-called psychic abilities?”
“Well certainly yes.”
“So you assume that someone in possession of such power would necessarily be willing to share it?”
Doctor Martin took a deep breath, thinking. He thought he knew where this man was coming from. He said, “If you are suggesting that some government, for example, the United States government, understands and utilizes this power for the advancement of national interest, then you are right I would not expect that they would be eager to disclose the fact.”
Sharply, Abael retorted, “No, that is not what I mean at all!”
Doctor Martin waited for him to explain what he did mean, but he made no indication that he intended to do so. Doctor Martin prodded, “What do you mean, sir?”
Slowly, Abael lowered himself back into his wheelchair. He straightened his tie. Then he looked up and said, “I am coming soon. You will see what I mean then.”
“Coming where, sir?”
“I am coming soon.”
Cairo, Egypt
Airport
She held out her hand, “I am glad to finally meet you in person, Doctor Katz.” She had long well-defined eyebrows that were perfectly arched over large brown eyes—highlighted by purple eye shadow. Her loose airy top and pants were not enough to disguise her attractive figure, and the head scarf she wore only enhanced the mystique of her beauty.
No matter how attractive she was, though, to Doctor David Katz, she was off-limits. He was a widower with three children, and not looking. But aside from that, the fact that he was a Jew just off the plane from Israel and she was a betrothed Muslim in Egypt was more than enough to prevent a relationship.
Doctor Katz thought, as he often did in these situations, that it was odd how people from different countries frequently had to resort to English if neither of them knew the other's language. It was Babel.
Shaking her hand, he smiled, “No more email! Thank you for picking me up, Miss Fayed.”
“Call me Layla,” she said seriously.
He was the head of Middle Eastern and African History at Tel Aviv University, a position he had only recently lamentably accepted after the sudden death of his mentor.
Doctor Katz had happened across Layla's blog via an internet search for “mummy DNA.” She was an amateur historian studying at the Cairo University and had authored reams of well-documented data on the pharaohs; especially about Akhenaten. On her blog, she frequently diverged from the official Egyptian Ministry of Antiquity talking points and even criticized the ministry's head for what she called “self-aggrandizing tactics.” This freedom of expression was very rare for Egyptian scholars, particularly those who didn't want to kill their careers.
Especially intriguing to Doctor Katz was one article in which she outlined why she believed the notorious KV55 mummy could not possibly be Akhenaten, as the Ministry said, and created a different family tree for Tutankhamen than the Ministry's.
Doctor Katz prided himself on being open-minded. That is why he had emailed her and a frequent dialogue had begun; anything that challe
nged the status quo attracted his attention.
Beautiful young women also attracted his attention, and his work as a professor at a university full of them was usually enough to satisfy his appetite for them—and had frequently been enough to get him into trouble with his late wife of five years. Of course, he never did anything more than look, but he didn't think his wife had ever believed him when he had declared himself innocent.
Regardless, his wife certainly had not shared his fascination with the past as his students did. The most he had ever got out of her when he had tried to share his excitement was a sigh; usually she had rebuked him to “save his lectures for the university.”
Aside from lecturing, he spent a great deal of time with his students at archeological digs or visiting his connections at museums and colleges to chase down answers to little mysteries he discovered. In the evenings, he was generally found with his students at their usual haunts; bars, clubs and even their dormitories.
The truth was, Doctor Katz was hip; he couldn't help it. To emphasize the point, he wore a bandana on his head, a chain around his neck with a silver star of David, and loose-fitting clothes. He was never clean-shaven, preferring to look more on the adventurous side.
In all their internet exchanges, he had somehow been imagining some mole-faced older woman with glasses, a head covering and a big drape-like kaftan. That’s why he was surprised to see now that Layla was young, brilliant and appraising him with her gorgeous eyes.
She said, “A taxi will take us to the museum. There I will show you my discovery.”
As they walked, Doctor Katz sensed Layla's eyes look him over again, and narrow. She wasn't impressed. She apparently didn't appreciate his casual appearance the way his students did, despite her youth. She probably took it to indicate incompetence.
A challenge, he mused. He had faced this kind of prejudice over and over again among elderly scholars, and every time had proven it baseless. How ironic that now he faced the same skepticism from a youthful beauty. Doctor Katz was nothing if not competent, and he would prove it to her.
