by David Wood
ORACLE
A Jade Ihara Adventure
By David Wood and Sean Ellis
Sometimes, knowing the future is not enough…. For more than a millennium, the Oracle of Delphi guided kings and conquerors with stunningly accurate visions of the future. But, with the rise of a new God, the Oracle faded from memory. Now, the power of the Oracle is about to change the world once more.
While excavating a previously uncharted passage beneath the ancient city of Teotihuacan, archaeologist Jade Ihara makes a startling discovery: enormous stone spheres, arranged to resemble a model of the solar system, slowly orbiting a golden sun. Even more fantastic, when Jade attempts to move one of the spheres, she catches a glimpse of the future…a premonition that will save her life and launch her into a desperate race to unlock the mysterious secret of the oracular orbs. Jade is accompanied by her old friend, former Navy SEAL Pete “Professor” Chapman, and pursued by a relentless secret society intent on burying the secret of the Oracle forever.
Return to the world of the Dane Maddock Adventures in the first book of a thrilling new series, as Jade crosses the globe in pursuit of the secret of the Oracle.
Oracle- A Jade Ihara Adventure
By David Wood and Sean Ellis
Published by Gryphonwood Press
Copyright David Wood, 2014
“The distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”—Albert Einstein
PROLOGUE
CHOICE
Manila, Spanish East Indies (the Philippines) —1593
What am I doing here?
It was not the first time Gil Perez had asked himself the question, and the answer that always bubbled up in his mind was no more satisfying this time.
You have to be somewhere. Is this really so terrible?
In truth, his situation was not terrible by any stretch of the imagination. He had a place to live, a salary, he never wanted for food, and he even had a purpose, albeit not the one he had imagined when he had chosen the life of a soldier.
Therein lay the problem. As a boy, he craved adventure. The thought of becoming a laborer, scratching out a hard, miserable existence, had been utterly repulsive to him. He dreamed of escaping a life of drudgery, journeying across the seas to fight bravely in the King’s service, and finding fortune and romance. What better way to start down that path than by trading the plow for the sword? He had run away from home and joined the army, expecting to immediately be whisked away to some far off land. The conquest of New Spain had only just begun, and everywhere there were rumors of a rich but wild land, where savages worshipped demon gods and gold flowed in the rivers.
He had quickly learned that the life of a soldier was not measured in the number of battles fought, but in the long—the endlessly long—doldrums of day-to-day routine. He had indeed been taken far from home, an ocean voyage marked by long periods off excruciating boredom with a few brief interstices of absolute terror. That journey, in the retinue of Governor General Gomez Perez Dasmarinas had brought him here, to Manila, where he had been assigned to the Palace Guard.
Not that the life of a Palace Guardsman was always boring, especially not in the territories of New Spain. He had survived more than a few skirmishes in defense of the Governor General’s political agenda—the suppression of the Audiencia, an uprising in Zambales—but like the storms and pirate attacks during the sea voyage, these were merely fleeting moments of excitement in an otherwise dreary routine of service. Indeed, it seemed that being a Guardsman meant that he was passed over when opportunities for adventure arose. Why, only just a few days earlier, the Governor General had set out on a grand expedition to capture the Spice Islands…and yet here Gil was, guarding the governor’s empty house.
With a sigh, he shifted his arquebus to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder and leaned back against the wall. At times like this, he often allowed himself to speculate about what might have happened if he had made different choices along the way. It was a foolish indulgence; one could never truly know what might have been. Attempting to live in an imagined alternative life only blinded a person to opportunities that might arise in the life actually being lived. Nevertheless, he could not help but wonder what might have happened if he had acted on the impulse to stay behind in Mexico.
His friend, Alvaro Diego Menendez Castillo, had done just that. Eager for action and weary of the long journey that would only take him farther from home, Alvaro instead signed on with one of the treasure galleons due to sail the pirate infested waters of the Spanish Main, and had urged Gil to do the same.
Gil had chosen to stay the course. Unlike his friend, who was descended from a noble family, Gil was of common stock, and worse, a bastard. Though he would strike dead any man who dared speak a word against his mother, he knew the truth: his mother had been a harlot, and his father—if his own swarthy complexion was any indication—had probably been a Moorishman. He had left Spain to escape the limitations of his birth. Returning, even as a triumphant protector of the treasure fleet, would mean a return to that life. In the final calculation, he had elected to reject Alvaro’s seductive plan, and continued on to Manila.
But what if…?
Where would I be right now if I had gone with Alvaro?
In all likelihood, he would be dead. He had heard naught of Alvaro in the four years since their parting. Had the young man been lost in a pirate attack or fallen in battle with the English?
Perhaps I am a coward, Gil thought, and if that were true, then there was no better place for him than here, guarding an empty house.
A disturbance at the gate caused him to leave off his self-piteous musings and he straightened, craning his head to see what was happening. A small group of riders, covered in road dust, had arrived and whatever tidings they bore seemed dire indeed. Gil felt an impulse to leave his post and inquire about the news. But no, he would hear of it soon enough.
“Soon” proved to be an understatement. Within minutes, a runner arrived. “The Governor General has been killed,” the breathless messenger said. “Assassinated by Chinese mutineers aboard his own ship. Be on your guard.”
Assassinated! The news shocked Gil. The Governor General was a good man and a strong leader. Yet secretly, Gil felt a measure of relief that the deed had occurred far from Manila, and that he had not been included in the force that had gone out with Perez Dasmarinas.
I am a coward, he realized, embarrassed, and sank against the sturdy palace wall.
What am I doing here?
Gil Perez watched the guttering flame of his lamp, wondering how much longer he would have to finish writing his story.
He wasn’t sure why he felt such a compulsion to set the words to paper; it wasn’t as if anyone would ever read them. He was alone, trapped in the encroaching darkness. He would soon be dead and no one would ever hear his final confession.
And what was his sin?
Pride. Yes, that was it. His pride had led him to reject the wisdom of the course he had earlier set out upon four years earlier. He had made a foolish, impulsive choice, recklessly choosing to follow Alvaro on a quest for adventure and excitement, and it had led him, inevitably, to this benighted tomb.
Oh, there had been adventure and excitement aplenty, but that was of little consolation now. He would soon be dead; there was no escaping it.
He bent closer to the parchment, letting his eyes drift over his account of this final adventure. His knowledge of letters was one good thing that had come of his decision to accompany Alvaro, though that too seemed to count for little now. It was just one of the many things he would willingly trade for a chance to undo that fateful choice.
During the course of his travels, he had occasionally wondered what life might have awaited h
im had he refused Alvaro’s invitation. Now, he knew the answer. A dull life, true, but a life that would not end in suffocating darkness.
If I could turn back the days and choose again, I would choose that life, he promised himself.
That was the worst part of knowing.
“I have gazed upon the life that might have been,” he read aloud, his voice barely a whisper, “as one might gaze through a window. It is there, so close yet just out of reach. If only I could open the window and step through, I would.”
He sighed. Regret seemed a poor way to end this confession, but what else did he have, especially when confronted with the outcome of his choice.
If only I could open the window….
His thoughts were muddled, perhaps the effects of the stale air, but…why couldn’t he open the window? Or smash through it with a stone?
He closed the book and slipped it beneath his waistcoat, then carefully lifted the lamp. It would expire soon, no doubt about that, but he needed its light only a few seconds more. Just long enough to traverse the darkness and reach…
The window!
There it was. As he got close, he began to see that other place—that other life. He set the lamp down, inadvertently dousing its flame, but now he could see by the light of another world.
He placed his hands against the slowly-turning orb, and sensations flooded through him. He was not just seeing that other world now, but experiencing it in its totality: sounds and smells, the weight of a gun on his shoulder and a morion helmet atop his head.
“I choose this life,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Lord, in thy mercy, let this life be mine.”
I am a coward.
The thought came unbidden into his head, as if whispered by someone else.
He sagged against the wall, and suddenly felt fresh air rushing into his lungs. A breeze—warm tropical air—drifted across his face.
He opened his eyes.
It worked.
“Thank you, Lord—”
A low groaning sound silenced his prayer of thanks. He looked around, trying to find the source of noise, which was growing in intensity, but the world he beheld was unchanged…no, there was a change. Darkness was swirling around him like smoke, enveloping him, sucking him back through the open window. He reached out, trying to find something to hold onto, but it was too late.
Gil Perez opened his eyes and shuddered, trying to shake off the chill memory of the…what was it? A waking dream? A vision?
He looked around, seeking solace in the solidity of the real world, but everything was wrong. Nothing was as he remembered it. The palace walls, the stone battlements beneath his feet...all real, but…wrong.
It was dark. The stars shone brightly overhead, yet his last recollection was of standing the mid-afternoon watch,
I am still dreaming, he thought. That must be it. In a moment, I will wake up and find myself back on the wall.
He felt a twinge of guilt for having fallen asleep at his post. Perhaps he had contracted some tropical disease. Yes, that would make sense. His strange vision was some kind of fever dream. He was delirious. The captain of the guard would surely understand.
“You there!”
The shout startled him. The voice was unfamiliar, the accent odd. Gil straightened as if preparing himself for an inspection, and turned to find three soldiers striding toward him. He did not recognize any of them. Even their attire was strange.
“Who are you?” barked the man in the lead. “What are you doing here?”
Gil studied the strange faces and the even stranger apparel, wondering what to make of the men. They were soldiers, there was no doubt of that, yet they clearly were not part of the Palace Guard, nor even part of the garrison stationed at Fort Santiago.
Could this perhaps have something to do with the death of the Governor General? Was some visiting government official trying to seize power?
If so, what did duty require him to do?
“I am Gil Perez of the Palace Guard.”
The lead soldier advanced until he stood nose to nose with Gil. “I am the Captain of the Guard, and I have never seen you before in my life.”
Gil was shocked by the man’s statement. This most certainly was not Captain Licenciado Pedro de Rojas. “Sir, I have been serving in the Palace Guard for over three years. Ever since I arrived in Manila.”
The captain took a step back and regarded Gil warily. “Manila? Are you drunk or mad? Or are you perhaps possessed by a devil? Manila is three thousand leagues from here.”
“Three thousand?” I am dreaming. In a moment, I will wake up. “Where am I?”
“This is Cuidad de Mexico,” said the captain. “And you are under arrest.”
CHANCE
Cessy, France—2011
Paul Dorion paused at the foot of the stairwell, gazing up at the CMS—the Compact Muon Solenoid—with almost reverential awe. He felt like a pilgrim, visiting the Holy Land or Mecca, standing in a place where history had been made.
No, not just history. Miracles.
The very existence of the CMS was a sort of modern miracle. It had taken ten years and the combined efforts of nearly four thousand scientists, to design and build the twelve and a half thousand ton detector, disassemble it into fifteen manageable sections which could be lowered into a manmade cavern, and then reassemble it to tolerances less than the thickness of a human hair. For all its complexity, the CMS was really nothing more than an enormous camera, taking pictures of things that no human eye would ever—could ever—behold.
While it was true that the Large Hadron Collider had not yet accomplished the much publicized goal of identifying the elusive Higgs boson—the so-called “God particle” responsible for differentiating other high energy particles in the instant following the Big Bang—the simple fact of the LHC’s existence and operation was an achievement on the order of reaching the moon. In the twenty-seven kilometer long tunnel, protons—the basic elemental building block of everything that could be seen and touched—were accelerated almost to the speed of light and then smashed together in a collision that replicated, at scale, the creation of the universe. When the accelerated proton beams met, annihilating each other in an explosion of sub-atomic particles, the invisible event was recorded by one of two general purpose detectors situated at opposite points along the circumference of the LHC: ATLAS, just over the border in Switzerland near the headquarters of the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) and—Paul’s pride and joy—the CMS.
As far as Paul Dorion was concerned, that was a lot more impressive than walking on water. And it all happened right here, right where he was standing.
A bemused voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Are you going to do any work today? Or should I just leave you to your gawking?”
Paul felt a twinge of irritation as he turned to look at his co-worker and fellow researcher Lauren Hayes. She was smiling, but that was not necessarily a good indicator of the intention behind her words. He could never tell when Lauren was joking. Maybe it was some inherent cultural incompatibility—he was French and she was from London—or maybe it was something even more fundamental. Regardless of the explanation, his track record for judging her moods was a record of failure that verged on being statistically impossible. When he took her seriously, she would tell him to lighten up; when he thought she was joking, she would throw up her hands in exasperation. Even when he second-guessed himself, he was always wrong. It was enough to make him wonder if her ambiguity was intentional.
“Sorry,” he said, offering no explanation.
Lauren was an attractive women by any measure, and among the predominately male community of scientists and technicians at CERN, was frequently the object of libidinous desire. Perhaps that, more than anything, contributed to Paul’s inability to read her. Despite the romantic reputation of his countrymen, he had a mixed track record with women, and his uncertainty sometimes came across as aloofness. With respect to Lauren and the fact that they had to
work together every day, this was probably a safeguard; better to maintain a professional distance.
“I’ll start at the top” he told her, still avoiding her gaze.
She laughed. “That’s what a girl likes to hear.”
What does that mean? Paul shook his head and started up the stairs to the top of the detector while Lauren moved to the base of the enormous ring-shaped barrel and began her inspection.
The CMS was designed to make observations across a wide spectrum of activity, but Paul’s work—and Lauren’s as well—focused on the detection of muons, large but short-lived elementary particles that decayed to produce electrons and neutrinos. Like all subatomic particles, much of what was known about muons was theoretical, but knowledge of their existence dated back to the 1930s. Muons could pass through matter without interacting with it, which made them ideal for “seeing” through solid objects. The muons created by particle collisions in the LHC were measured using a three-fold system of detection situated in the outermost layer of the CMS, and now that the collider was offline for maintenance, Paul’s task was to check the detectors and replace the units as needed. It was a time-consuming chore, but necessary to the larger goal of producing useful results, and if working at CERN had taught Paul anything, it was the importance of patience. Physics experiments required years of intensive preparation and observation.
At the top of the stairs, he moved out onto a scaffold erected across the top of the barrel. The tedious but exacting job of removing the endcap disks to get at the cathode strip chambers helped him get his mind off the perplexing riddle of Lauren Hayes, and he was soon lost in his work.
“Paul!”
The shout startled him, kicking him out of autopilot mode. He looked over the edge of the scaffold to see Lauren, gazing up at him, hands on hips in what might have been either a stern or flirtatious pose. “Yes?”
