Deep Silence

by Jonathan Maberry

  “In charge…?” echoed the general, aghast. “Are you seriously considering restarting the Majestic program after everything that’s happened?”

  “It’s my program now, General, or is someone else’s name on my door? You know the door I mean, right? Nice big office, kind of oval shaped? That’s mine. That’s where I work. That means I get to do whatever I want to do. That means I have the power to do what I want. Me. My power.” He placed his palms flat on the table and looked around, clearly quite happy with himself. “Ladies and gentlemen, to be perfectly clear, yes … we are going to restart the Majestic program. Only this time the president will be kept in the loop. This time the Majestic Three program will be my program. I am going to save this country. That’s what the history books are going to say. Do I hear any arguments?”

  No one spoke. No one dared.

  The president leaned back in his chair and smiled. It was good to be the king.

  INTERLUDE TWO

  FOUR SEASONS RESORT THE BILTMORE SANTA BARBARA

  1260 CHANNEL DRIVE

  SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  Gadyuka smoked, held, considered the curling wisp coming off the end of the joint, then exhaled with a smile. “In your file, there is a notation about a man you knew when you went to college in America. A Greek.”

  “Aristotle Kostas,” Valen said. “Ari. Sure. What about him?”

  “His family is involved with the Mediterranean black market?”

  Valen grunted. “The Kostas family is the Mediterranean black market. And they are a big chunk of the Middle East and North African black markets. Actually, last time I spoke with Ari he had big plans on taking the family business global.”

  “Bigger than the Turk … what’s his name? Ohan?”

  “Parallel. They each have their specialties and they do some business together, but as Ari told me, it’s a big world, and so far Ohan hasn’t tried to take the wrong piece of it.”

  Gadyuka nodded as if she already knew it and was confirming that he did. “When’s the last time you spoke with him?”

  “Maybe eight years ago. There was a college reunion thing and we went to it. Kind of an ironic appearance because neither of us give much of a shit about Caltech. It was a school.”

  “He read business and archaeology, and you read geology and seismology,” she said, amused. “What on earth inspired you to read those subjects?”

  “Ari’s choices were all about positioning himself to take over the family business, with maybe a small bias for the antiquities market, which he correctly predicted would go up. He’s made his rich family richer.”

  “And you?” asked Gadyuka. “Why study those sciences?”

  Valen absently reached out for the joint, took a hit, and held it while he thought of how to answer. He blew smoke up into the darkness gathered on the ceiling.

  “When I was a boy,” he said, “my family lived in Chelyabinsk. We were not wealthy by any stretch, but we had enough. And to spare, I suppose. My mother was the sister of Abram Golovin. When my parents were killed in a car accident, I was sent to Ukraine to live with my uncle and his family. This was in 1985. The wall was still up and we were still the Soviet Union. Forever ago.” He sighed, took another hit, and then passed the joint back. “I loved my uncle. He was a good man, a decent man. He was a Communist and to him that meant something. To him, the Party was not the corrupt and decaying thing that they tell children in school nowadays. Back then it was a glorious ideal.”

  “You are lecturing,” said Gadyuka mildly. “You are doing what the Americans call ‘preaching to the choir.’”

  He nodded. “Sorry. But I get that way when I think about Uncle Abram. When I think about Dr. Abram Golovin. Chief structural engineer at Chernobyl. A man whose books on building nuclear power plants were taught in the best universities. He taught me so much, you see. He explained the science of it. All of it, from A to Zed. From selecting the site and doing the geological surveys of the area, to working with architects to design and build a perfect facility, and to maintaining it despite the enormous pressures of cooling water, wastewater, nuclear waste management … the lot.”

  Gadyuka and Valen handed the joint back and forth. It was getting small now, so she pinched it out and rolled another while Valen talked about his uncle.

  “And then,” said Valen with a tightness in his voice, “on my eighth birthday, it all fell apart. 26 April, 1986. We woke to the sound of sirens. There were screams and explosions and people were fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. I stared out of my bedroom window and saw that the sky was on fire. Strange colors, too. Red and yellow and orange, but also a green hue. None of the papers ever mentioned that part, but I saw it clear as day. It was there for several minutes, and then it was gone. Everything was gone. My uncle was gone.”

  He took the joint from Gadyuka but thought better of it and handed it back.

  “They blamed him, of course,” said Valen. “Everyone did. They said that it was a structural fault, or a poor geological report. Oh, I know what you’ll say—that some people have lobbied pretty heavily to say that it was operator error, but in the reports that mattered, they said the plant was not designed to safety standards, in effect, and incorporated unsafe features and that inadequate safety analysis was performed. A scapegoat was needed, and they picked Uncle Abram because he was from Ukraine, not from Russia. That mattered then. In the eyes of the world, it mattered. In terms of propaganda, it mattered. The family was disgraced. I was shipped back to Russia and my cousins, my mother’s sisters, went into the system and I never heard from them again. Siberia, I suppose, though why they should be punished is beyond me. I was forbidden to even mention my uncle’s name. My own surname, Sokolov, was changed to the absurd one I have now. Do you know that it has no actual meaning? I heard a joke once that it was something they made up in some ministry office, and saddled me with it because no one else would have the name and everyone who mattered would instantly know who I am and the shame I carry. Perhaps I’d have even vanished into a camp, except for the fact that my father’s family had just enough pull to get me into a state school.”

  Gadyuka turned on her side and stroked his thigh. “But…?” she prompted.

  “But I don’t believe that. My uncle was a brilliant and diligent man. He checked everything twice, three times. He never left the slightest thing to chance.”

  “You were a boy, Valen.”

  He shook his head. “I know, but I was observant, even then. Uncle Abram always joked that I had an insatiable mind. Like a shark, always looking for something new to eat. It’s true. Always has been. So, when I was a little older, I managed to get hold of his research, his studies, as much of it as I could legally obtain. I’ve spent my life learning the things I needed to learn in order to understand it and then validate it.”

  “What if you’d found a flaw?”

  “Then I’d have gotten a measure of peace from that,” said Valen sharply. “I could have hated Uncle Abram like everyone else and been part of the crowd. But … no. I even went over those studies with my professors at Caltech. They all agreed that Chernobyl was sited correctly and built with great precision. Which left me with a puzzle. Why had it failed? What really caused it all to fall apart?” He sighed, then turned to her. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if you do what I want you to do, you may have the opportunity to clear your uncle’s name. And you will be doing a great service to our people.”

  He gaped at her.

  “Lovely myshka,” she murmured, a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “When you read your uncle’s research, did you read the report titled ‘Anomalous and Incidental Minerals Recovered’?”

  “Yes, of course. It was a list of various minerals found during excavation, but which had little or no significance.”

  “Did you, by any chance, take note of something called L. quartz?”

  “I don’t recall offhand.”

  “The L stands fo
r a word. Lemurian, like the lost island in those stories. There is a white version, which is common. Not this, though. It is a vibrant green. It’s exceptionally rare, and exceptionally important to your new project,” she said. “Just like the quartz you were so clever to find for me in that submarine. I want you and your little black marketer friend, Ari Kostas, to find more of it. I want you to find all of it. Beg, borrow, or steal.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DRIVING IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  We drove around for a while, watching to see if we picked up a tail. And we did. Ghost caught me glowering into the rearview mirror and turned to bare his titanium teeth through the window.

  “It’s smoked glass, Einstein,” I told him. “They can’t even see you.”

  He gave an eloquent fart and continued to snarl. I cracked a window.

  The follow car was the same make and model of blue government Crown Victoria.

  “Okay, kids,” I said, “if you want to play, then let’s have some jollies.”

  For the next ten minutes I made a whole bunch of random turns, U-turns, and even cut down a wide alley between factories. The driver of the follow car was good, but he was probably getting smug because he thought he was keeping up with someone who was attempting to flee. I was not in a fleeing mood, because the more I thought about the first bunch of assholes bracing me at Helen’s grave, the madder I got.

  Church was no help, because he was still making calls, and when I got Aunt Sallie on the line, she told me to: “Stop bothering the grown-ups, stop whining like a girl, and grow a set.”

  The follow car kept up with me, and I began to wonder if I was making a mistake by judging them according to the three clown-shoes I roughed up at the cemetery. Maybe I was also letting my anger cloud my thinking.

  Thunder suddenly boomed overhead and it began to rain. Kind of a dramatic bit of affirmation that my gloomy musings were correct, but that was fine. I tapped three digits into the keypad on the steering column to activate the MindReader Q1 artificial intelligence system.

  “Calpurnia,” I said, “can we use pigeon drones in this kind of weather?”

  “Sure, as long as the wind doesn’t pick up.”

  Bug, or some other maniac on his team, gave the AI a sexy, late-night-jazz-radio voice.

  “Cool. Let’s put a couple of them in the air.”

  “Of course, Joseph,” she said, which made me feel all tingly. “What are they looking for?”

  “Access traffic cams,” I said. “Locate a dark blue Crown Victoria within three hundred feet of my location.”

  “Done.”

  “Track it. I want the license plate.”

  “On it,” she promised.

  There was a soft whir and a side panel opened near the left rear wheel and two small bundles fell out and rolled into the gutter. They were gray and unobtrusive in the steady rainfall. Luckily it wasn’t a full-blown storm—for once Mother Nature was aiding and abetting me instead of the bad guys.

  As soon as the follow car was past and there were no pedestrians close, the drones’ proximity sensors activated the flight controls. The pigeon popped tiny propellers and rose straight up, then the wings deployed to hide the props. Once the bird was flying at sufficient speed, the propellers folded back into the body and the wings flapped like normal bird wings. It was very fast and the sensor software tracked possible line-of-sight observers to make sure none of this happened when anyone was watching. These are not the drones you buy at Target. These babies cost about four hundred thousand each, and if they were captured by anyone who did not have the right kind of RFID transponder chip, they would self-destruct.

  The AI system that ran it was something new for us. It was the most sophisticated computer intelligence software in existence by something like an order of magnitude. Or maybe three. Freakishly intuitive, with natural conversational modes, various combat modes, and all sorts of other extras I barely understand. Bug—the über-geek head of the DMS computer sciences division—rebuilt the software after obtaining it from Zephyr Bain, the woman who’d designed it. Calpurnia’s original program was to oversee a curated technological singularity. Meaning Bain and her crew were trying to bring about a controlled end of the world as we know it. She wanted to kill off the vast multitudes of poor who she considered to be a drain on the global system; but she also wanted to kill off any one percenters who controlled companies that polluted and exploited the planet. So, a little altruism and a whole lot of bugfuck insanity. Calpurnia was designed to be self-learning, but Bain had built it too well, because Calpurnia became self-aware in the bargain. That self-awareness did not lead to a Skynet scenario, which is why we don’t have robot Arnold Schwarzeneggers stomping around shooting plasma rifles. No, Calpurnia went the other way and committed suicide rather than end the world. As acts of heroism go, it was really pretty goddamn touching. Lot of actual human beings I can name would never even consider that kind of selflessness.

  While all that was happening, Bug put the new quantum upgrade of MindReader online. So, the suicidal self-aware artificial intelligence saw the birth of an almost godlike computer mind and begged it for salvation. Calpurnia downloaded every last one and zero of Bain’s carefully constructed master plan into MindReader and then erased herself out of existence.

  Or so Bug said. And he named the DMS AI system in honor of Calpurnia, to celebrate her sacrifice, because that gave us a much-needed win and—let’s face it—saved the whole world. Personally, I have my doubts about some of that. I think maybe the best parts of Calpurnia are still alive within MindReader Q1. That scares me a little. Maybe more than a little. But it also gives us one hell of a weapon to bring into battle against other maniacs who want to burn it all down.

  The data from the pigeon drones came in and Calpurnia processed it.

  “The car is registered to the Secret Service motor pool,” she told me. “It was checked out this morning by Agent Virginia Harrald. There are two heat signatures in the car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you like me to kill their engine? I could override their drive systems and—”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I could blow out the tires.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Just let me know, Joseph. I’m happy to do whatever you need.”

  “Sure, sure. Monitor their radio and cell phones.”

  “On it. No current chatter.”

  “There is a second vehicle, a black SUV.” As I made a random left, I gave her the plate numbers. “Find it.”

  A minute later, Calpurnia said, “The second vehicle is two blocks on a converging route, one block over and two blocks ahead. It just made a right turn. Probability of a pincer interception is high.”

  “Shit.”

  “Language, Joseph.”

  I made a mental note to kneecap Bug.

  The next street was a one-way going the wrong way, but there was a public parking garage close to my end. No traffic heading in my direction, so I swung in and went into the garage. As I got my ticket from the machine I heard the squeal of tires and figured the Crown Vic was following after almost leaving it too late to make the turn.

  I began moving up the levels.

  “Calpurnia, call Top Sims’s cell.”

  “It’s ringing.”

  First Sergeant Bradley Sims—known as Top to everyone—was my number two, and he’d come to town with me to see an old friend. And by “old friend,” I mean the smoking-hot anchorwoman on the six o’clock news. Dinah Trevor. She looks like a taller Kerry Washington and has a Pulitzer. Not sure when they’d become friends, but Top kept a lot of his private life to himself.

  “Morning, Cap’n,” he said, sounding more thoroughly relaxed than I think I’ve ever heard him.

  “How much would you hate me if I asked you for a favor right now?”

  There was a sound, maybe the rustle of sheets.

  “Depends,” he said cautiously. “You need me to be anywhere in the next half hour, you’re
likely to fall off my Christmas card list.”

  “Yeah, well, guess this will save you a stamp,” I said, and told him what was happening.

  “On my way,” he said.

  The line went dead before I could even thank him.

  I kept busy entertaining the Secret Service while I waited to spring my own surprise.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE BASILICA OF THE NATIONAL SHRINE OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  EIGHT DAYS AGO

  It was the largest Roman Catholic church in the United States and was one of the largest churches in the world. Valen hoped it was large enough to let him get lost inside.

  He spent two hours wandering through the collection of contemporary ecclesiastical art, and it might as well have been science fiction for all that he understood of it. Religion had formed no part of his life. Being aware of it was not the same as being part of it, and the various depictions of its strengths and weaknesses in movies, books, and TV gave him only a surface understanding.

  He knew—or at least believed—that a priest was required to talk to someone in need. And he knew that many priests and ministers and other clerics were trained in psychology. They acted more like therapists than evangelists.

  Even so, it took him five tries, five separate visits, before he worked up the courage to speak to any of the priests. It was as much a matter of timing as security. If he was too visible, or if there were too many people around, then either he couldn’t speak with any frankness, or he would risk creating liabilities. Gadyuka was probably having him tailed, and he did not want to put anyone in the crosshairs of a cleanup team.

  The priest working the confessional area that night was fortyish, which meant he was probably not too much of a doctrinist and likely more college educated. Valen spent thirty minutes circling the man like a vulture before the priest noticed him. He was a thin man with an ascetic face and a hipster beard, but he wore a friendly smile as he came over to where Valen was standing.