“This is weird,” she said. “The word ‘Panic’ is capitalized in the message.” She tilted her head, thinking.
Walter jumped into the seat next to Haylie and pointed to the text. “There are line breaks that don’t make any sense as well, but they could just be random. Trying to make the message fit into a tight space.”
“What about that file name, ‘1907?’” Benjamin said from his corner.
“I was wondering about that, too,” Haylie said, opening a new browser tab and searching for any hints about the number’s significance. “It’s prime, just like 2309 and all the other numbers from the puzzle so far, but that doesn’t really tell us anything.”
“Try the year. See if anything big happened in 1907,” Walter said.
“Already checking that,” Haylie said. “I’m seeing the Romanian Peasant’s Revolt. The Japan-Korea Treaty of 1907. The Quebec Bridge collapsed. I don’t see anything that would help us here.”
She kept searching, but nothing jumped out. Elections in the Finnish Parliament, which was the first in the world to include women. The RMS Lusitania made its maiden voyage. The Knickerbocker Crisis also known as….
“Wait,” Haylie said, pulling her hair back behind her ear, eyes filling with hope. “I think I found it.”
> > > > >
Titanhurst - London
March 9th, 9:45AM
Martin pulled a folder from his black leather bag, dragging the zipper closed with a long, precise stroke. He laid the manila folder on the table, sliding his chair back across the floorboards and rising to his feet.
He walked with purpose, eying a tall, dark bookcase appointed with a collection of leather-bound books, stainless-steel electronics, and old vinyl records. His fingers traced the edge of the hi-fi system as he turned his attention to the albums stacked neatly above the speakers. He thumbed across the faces of old, faded paper bindings, slowly inhaling. He turned his attention down to the stereo and hit a single button with a firm click. Country music—was that Willie Nelson?—began to play from the speakers with a slow, steady beat.
“Streaming radio. A wonderful thing. Technology makes things so much better, you don’t have to deal with all the fuss,” Martin said, walking back towards Caesar. “But, of course, you know that already. Being so smart and all.”
“What’s in the folder?”
“Ah, yes. It’s something we’ve been working on for quite some time now. Some new concepts for an outsider like you but don’t worry, I think you’ll see that there’s nothing here you don’t already know.”
Caesar reached across the table and pulled the folder back, spinning it to face him. Eying Martin, he peeled back the cover. The paper inside was brittle and worn, barely holding itself together. The pages appeared as if they had been carefully ripped from an old magazine, complete with the article’s title “Who Are We? Where Will We Go? 1970” in the bottom left corner.
The top of the page displayed a triangular diagram with the labels ‘GOVERNMENT,’ ‘NATURE,’ and ‘MAN’ at the tips of each corner. Dotted lines had been drawn from all three corners into the very center of the diagram, into a space labeled ‘TECHNOLOGY.’
Caesar began to read.
Mankind has taken the upper hand, given its unique position on the earth, with the very vessel that created his life. Each day, he is knowingly taking more and more from nature and yet at the same time, is creating more of himself at a fearful rate.
Technology—the advanced fulfillment of man’s knowledge—allows him to distance himself from what is nature, and through government create a separate functioning ecosystem that is not of this world. The triangle was formed not by us, but by the beginning of time, but we now see irrefutable evidence that technology, after building exponential speed and power, has become the most powerful force in our world.
Given the growing influence of man in today’s triangular force, the prominence of technology has already created destabilization. This shift will result in an imbalance that is unsustainable at its current levels of scale, and requires a reset and careful planning to keep the system as a whole functioning at its core.
“Are you serious with this?” Caesar asked, looking up to Martin and pushing the papers back towards him.
“Keep reading, there’s plenty more,” Martin said. His excitement grew as Caesar turned back to the faded pages.
Caesar continued on. He paused on a write-up with a large, pill-shaped diagram at the top featuring a pattern of colored circles, arcs, and thick, twisting lines. It was titled ‘Cryptogram Describing the Complexities of Our World.’
Moving on to the next page, a huge, slate blue graph took up three fourths of the layout, showing a sharp increase in population growth over the past few decades. Caesar focused on a large diagram with the title ‘The Growing Problem Set’ with haphazardly intertwined lines representing concepts labeled as ‘Large Scale Poverty,’ ‘Inadequate Education,’ ‘Spoilage of Nature,’ ‘Decay in Inner Cities,’ and on and on.
He met a page title that stopped him in his tracks: ‘In Search of New Approaches.’ Caesar gripped the sheet of paper in his hands as he raised it towards his eyes.
We cannot deny that our balance has been offset in every manner by this growing problem of Man. Our Nature has been pillaged. Our Government has been thrown into a mode of recovery at all times. And our Technology has been confined to the corner of fixing problems we’ve created in lieu of the greater adventure: to build.
In a world so harshly transformed, it’s not possible to tackle such a growing imbalance with the methods and mentality of the past.
Throughout history, our attempts to bridge the world have failed; democracy has reigned, and free will has splintered humanity. ‘One man one vote’ has not brought into account the larger picture—the knowledge that all men are not equal.
Mankind does not find balance when left to its own devices; this has been shown. But a fixed group of men, self-appointed and directed with cause, can fix what has been wronged and ensure the long-term survival of the species, placing man back in control of his direction.
Caesar placed the paper back on the table. He looked to the window and saw that the morning was in full bloom, complete with chirping birds perched across bare tree limbs and scattered white, bulbous clouds pushing across the sky. He took a deep breath, turning back to Martin and staring into his eyes, checking for signs of life.
“Your thoughts?” Martin said, smiling with anticipation and straightening his jacket. “I must know.”
“This is what Raven’s been all about? This?” Caesar gestured down at the manifesto with an open palm, quickly reaching for the folder and flicking it back across the table. Sheets of paper flew into the air, scattering all around Martin, a few landing haphazardly across the tabletop. “Well, I think you’re out of your mind.”
Smiling and slowly picking the papers off his lap, Martin took his time in replying. “Why … why would you say that?”
“This stuff is all fluff, it’s pseudoscience. Perfect triangles representing humanity? The complexities of the world can’t just be drawn up in one, neat little diagram.”
“It’s a simplification of a larger set of–”
“It’s childish, that’s what I think. Like the work of a fifth-grader that has checked out too many conspiracy-theory books from the school library.”
Martin paused, pointing a trembling finger towards Caesar, but then drawing back and composing himself. “You’re a logical man. You must know the world is out of balance. Why do you lash out at someone … someone trying to finally fix the problem?”
“Because the world is a complex system, just like it says on those pages,” Caesar said. “It’s a complex system that requires delicate solutions, not simple ones. Easy solutions seem great on paper, but tend to have a lot of collateral damage.”
Martin shook his head.
“And the Raven puzzle,” Caesar said. “What does it have to do with any of this? I don’t get it.”
Martin stood firm. “Oh, please Caesar. You didn’t see the clues along the way? Secret societies are all around us, they are the only way we can elevate our level of conversation. Progress doesn’t happen in democracies; it happens behind closed doors. I am trying to give you a view behind those doors. To show you the wonders that can occur when men are allowed to leave other men out. If you didn’t understand that, then I must have failed with my design. But I’m confident that’s not the case.”
“You? You created Raven?”
“I designed it,” Martin said. “I don’t have the technical skills to build out something that complex, but the logic was mine. I’m its father and its keeper.”
“I don’t believe this is happening,” Caesar said.
“This world view is not new; it originates from decades of work by an inner circle of our group. Their plans are well thought out and comprehensive.”
“Plans? What kind of plans?”
“The papers you didn’t read, the ones you so rudely threw in my direction, those tell of the solution to our problem. We’ll need a new way forward, so to speak. And while technology in the hands of the many has helped to put us in this mess in the first place, the findings from the group believe that high-powered technology in the hands of a few can help to correct it. This next generation of man will have science as its ally. Raven was built to help find men just like you. Men that can help lead this next wave of humanity. To use technology to power us forward once The Project begins.”
Caesar wrung his hands through his hair, no longer trying to hide his utter disbelief. “The Project? There’s a project? Stopping population growth, a small group of people running the entire world … you guys are actually acting on this?”
“The world is destroying itself, and we’re going to fix it. I’m here today asking if you’d like to join us.”
Caesar stared with dead eyes past the apartment’s kitchen at the locked front door. He looked down to the pile of papers littered across the table.
“Caesar, please. Help us save the world.”
> > > > >
Interstate 101
near Novato, California
March 9th, 1:52AM
“What did you find?” Benjamin asked.
Haylie gripped the sides of her laptop as the car bounced over a rough spot in the road, fighting to keep her eyes open. She had only managed to sneak a few hours of sleep on the jet last night and the fatigue, compounded with hours trekking across the California forest, was taking a toll on her. Her head spun as she focused on the car’s floor to recalibrate.
“The Knickerbocker Crisis,” she said. “It says here that in October of 1907, the New York Stock Exchange fell almost fifty percent in a single day of trading. J.P. Morgan jumped in … he called all his banker friends together to pledge huge sums of money. They effectively saved the U.S. economy.”
“What’s the connection to the clue?” Walter asked.
Haylie continued. “The other name for the Knickerbocker Crisis is the important piece here: The Panic of 1907.”
“Ok. So the ‘don’t Panic’ line from the message makes sense now,” Benjamin said. “But how does that help us?”
“Here.” Haylie pointed to a new search result. “As soon as we add J.P. Morgan’s name to the Brother Libra search, the results light up. There’s a bunch of them.” She clicked across the top tabs of her browser, checking for anything that would help. “Looks like J.P. Morgan formed a secretive group back around that time called The Zodiac Club. They would hold monthly meetings—dinners—in his personal library.”
Benjamin laughed. “Let me guess … another conspiracy website?”
“No,” Haylie replied, flipping the laptop screen back towards him. “This is from the New York Times.”
“Huh.” Walter leaned in, gently reaching for the computer. Haylie passed it to him, wringing her fingers together as he read out loud. “’The Zodiac Club is known only to its members and others that live in the world behind closed doors. The rotating collection of twelve members has met every year since 1868.’”
“Your invites must have been lost in the mail,” Haylie said, clinking a few ice cubes into a glass she had plucked from the backseat bar and filling it halfway full with water.
“You joke, but it’s strange we’ve never heard of it. This kind of stuff usually gets around in our circles,” Walter said. “‘The Zodiac dinners are held without public knowledge of attendance or agenda. All notes from the meetings are kept in Morgan’s private library for safekeeping.’”
“Unbelievable,” Haylie said, taking a long drink of water. “Raven is turning into a ‘Who’s Who’ of rich white dudes that are drunk with power, holding secret meetings in their backyard tree forts.”
“Here it is!” Walter yelled, pointing at the screen with one hand, and slamming his fist on the car seat with the other.
“Hey,” Haylie said, looking down at her laptop. “Careful with the hardware.”
“Listen to this,” Walter said. “‘Each member choses a sign of the zodiac as his codename. J.P. Morgan, the group’s founder, led the charge with his moniker: Brother Libra.’” He handed the laptop back to Haylie. “This is awesome.”
“’Find Brother Libra’s last meal, we’ll see you there,’” Benjamin repeated from the clue. “We need to find the last meal he had with the group. The meeting notes—it should be listed in the meeting notes from his last Zodiac dinner.”
“So we have to break into J.P. Morgan’s library?” Walter asked.
Haylie shook her head as she scrolled. “It might be easier than that. His former home is now the Morgan Library, a public museum located a few blocks from the Empire State Building. It’s at the corner of Madison and 36th.”
Walter pulled out his phone and dialed. He spoke to someone on the other side of the line, asking them to prep the plane for takeoff.
“Yes, that’s right,” Walter said. “We’re heading home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Somewhere over Colorado
March 9th, 3:37AM
Haylie recognized the familiar feeling of panic as it crept up her spine; the rush to scatter, to be safe, to be anywhere but here. But it had never felt like this.
She swallowed her heartbeat into her throat as she hunted for sanctuary. She needed a place to hide, but there was simply nowhere to go.
The room went on for what seemed liked forever, with a grid of square tiles surrounded her on all sides, pulsing out like an inflating balloon. Every direction she tried to run, she just ended up right back in the middle, again and again; her movement pulling her back across the floor like the snap of a rubber band.
Haylie felt the presence of someone else, but she didn’t know his name or face. Whoever was in pursuit—and he was there, she knew it—was good at this game. Crouching down, she ran her hand across the surface of the white tile at her feet. Expecting a slick, cold sheen, she jerked back her hand after feeling the scrape of sandpaper.
She had never wanted a shovel more in her life. If she had a shovel, she told herself, she’d dig for hours. Dig for days. She’d be safe down there, where no one else could see her, where no one else would even think to go. Scurry down, hide in a corner and watch the entrance above, shovel in hand, ready to strike anyone peaking over the edge.
She shouted out, calling for her hunter; to reason with him. To talk him down. To talk her way out. But the attempt met with a rush of air from her throat but little else. No sound, just dry straining and fatigue. Trying again and again, the words never came—not even stuck on her lips or her throat, but being held deep in her belly, like a ball of thick cement weighing her down with each attempt.
He was behind her.
She could feel it. She knew it. She had to run but she couldn’t move. Each step was a moonwalk, flowing with impossibly heavy movement, like being underwater in the neighborhood pool at the crest of summertime.
He was coming.
She couldn’t b
reathe. She could feel the heat of his hand reaching out–
> > > > >
The laptop jackknifed off her lap as Haylie woke to find her legs curled towards her chest, twisting into a knot in the leather chair. She sat up at full alert, eyes blinking, head turning left and right.
Where the hell am I?
She saw Benjamin asleep in the front left corner seat of the jet, his jacket and shoes neatly arranged on the bench across from him, legs crossed loosely on the table. Walter, a few seats over, looked back at Haylie with tired eyes.
“You were making some noise … I thought it was best to let you sleep,” he said in a soft tone. “You need it.”
With her dream still heavy in her mind, she blinked repeatedly to come back online. She reached down to retrieve her computer, checking the corners and screen for any damage.
“I’m fine. Just a dream.”
She stretched her arms up into the air and buttoned the zipper flap of her jacket up with a few snaps, sliding her blanket down and around her waist. Cracking the laptop back open, the jet’s cabin was once again filled with the click-clack of rapid keystrokes.
“You’ve been under a lot of pressure, with Raven and everything,” Walter said. “You should get more rest.”
Ignoring him, Haylie checked newsfeeds and forums, finding comfort in her daily ritual. “You need sleep more than I do. You’re old.”
Walter chuckled, clicking off his light and pulling his blanket across his shoulder. He turned towards the window, bringing his knees up to his chest, and went silent.
Crash Alive (The Haylie Black Series Book 1) Page 15
