The Gossamer Crown: Book One of The Gossamer Sphere

by Conway, Melissa

  Unreinforced houses, apartment buildings, schools and retail establishments built on sandy soil suffered the greatest damage as the movement of the crust shifted the unstable earth like water. Zach’s relatively new neighborhood, with its higher building code standards and solid bedrock under the foundations, survived.

  School had been cancelled and hadn’t yet resumed. Zach spent the last four months splitting his time between volunteering for the local Red Cross and the police department. The National Guard had been stretched to the limit, and in order to prevent the governor from declaring martial law in the region, local law enforcement had taken on volunteers and trained them to perform more than the usual administrative and community service duties.

  The email tone on his laptop sounded just as he was getting ready for his shift. Lizbeth must have been in a hurry, probably running out of time on the lousy computer she shared with her roommates, because she sent a bare minimum reply, “You’re such a sweetie. Thanks!”

  She didn’t even acknowledge his suggestion that she come visit, although he had to admit he’d couched it in vague terms in case she rejected him. They’d been in contact for some time now. He’d gone to great lengths to find her email address, and just in case it looked suspicious, he’d also found Kevin’s. He almost hoped some other catastrophe would threaten the world so they’d have a reason to get the team back together. Well, a mild catastrophe that didn’t kill anyone, anyway.

  He shut down his laptop and got dressed in what passed for his uniform, black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. Even if the department could afford it, outfitting its volunteers was problematic since the clothing industry had suffered such a big hit – losing so many of its third-world factories in the Cataclysm.

  At the station, Sergeant Barkley briefed the squad on a situation brewing in what was left of the crime-ridden neighborhood of Hunter’s Point.

  “Members of the Westmob gang are squatting in a church on Beech Street. The congregation is supposedly gathering today to confront them. Wong, go with Washington and Novak. I want your opinion on how volatile this thing might get.”

  Zach nodded.

  Any assignment was a challenge just navigating the broken streets and piles of rubble in squad cars built for high speed chases on smooth highways. Aside from shattered windows and a crooked steeple atop the wooden structure, the church seemed undamaged, which was probably why it was a target to the gang. Homelessness had skyrocketed, and some poor neighborhoods had become war zones.

  A crowd of about thirty people, primarily African-American, had gathered on the lawn of the church. Most of the windows were boarded up, but one gaped open, revealing only darkness inside. Washington and Novak approached, with Zach in the rear. Zach didn’t focus on the conversation Washington initiated with the church leaders; his mind was elsewhere.

  A raven sitting on a nearby telephone pole flew down and landed on the sill of the broken window. After a moment, the barrel of a gun appeared, and Zach tensed up, but the thug who wielded it merely brushed Caw aside. The bird flew off, calling out to Zach, “Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!”

  “How many are inside?” Novak asked Pastor Williams, a tall man with a heavily lined face and distinguished grey streaks at his temples.

  “We think fifteen or twenty.”

  Washington looked at Zach, who shook his head and held up four fingers.

  Novak continued to question the pastor. “Are they armed?”

  “They already stuck a rifle out that window there.”

  Washington called in for back-up as Novak tried to convince Pastor Williams that the danger was real and that he’d best calm the milling congregation down.

  Zach stood back and watched with a strangely satisfied feeling. When and if his college ever reopened, he was definitely going to switch majors from Digital Art to Criminal Justice.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  The North Sea

  Repairs to the scientific drilling vessel, which had begun immediately following the lifting of the quarantine, were complete. The Health Protection Agency had isolated what they claimed was a bizarre toxin responsible for killing the six scientists and was highly interested in finding out more about it. They tried to put together the original scientific team, but found only a few who were willing to take the risk. Dr Weinstein would have come, since school was out indefinitely after the Cataclysm and he was effectively out of a job, but his health prevented it. Bill Masters had stayed on as director of the project. His desire to become a shapeshifter was so all-consuming, he’d climbed into bed with the government. Kevin didn’t know how much he’d told them, but hoped the prospect of sounding like a fool stopped him from divulging all he knew.

  Kevin stood on deck, alone with his thoughts and his nausea. He found himself wishing the gossamer sphere had struck land instead of sea when it entered the earth’s atmosphere so long ago. If it had, the hub of the grid would be underground instead of under water, and he’d be in a deep tunnel shaft somewhere, surrounded by comforting dirt and rock instead of suffering another day on the incessantly rolling ocean.

  Bill and the government’s scientists might someday locate a sample of the biometal, but with luck they would never figure out what Kevin had—the secret to how a normal person could survive the initiation, and how it had all begun so long ago. Caitlin had convinced Seamus to remove the lore from his website, without telling him why: the story of queen Wyn, Tadg the Small and Aedn gave it all away.

  “Without the crown, I was unable to conduct experiments to confirm it,” Caitlin said when Kevin asked her about it. “But you are correct. The original three knew, and the lore hints quite broadly that consumption of an animal tainted with the biometal imparts immunity prior to the biometal passing through the barrier of the skin. I have only been able to speculate how that process works on a biological level, and am somewhat reluctant to find out.”

  “You could give Bill what he wants. You could be happy together.”

  “Unlike the original druids, my grandmother included, I have never been tempted to play God,” she’d replied. “Much as I long to—have a companion—Bill is unstable. Blinded, as it were, by his love for me and his desire to become like us. I fear I cannot trust him, which is why I have an assignment for you.”

  The ship had nearly reached the coordinates to place it directly over the center of Silverpit Crater. He still didn’t know how he was going to stop them from drilling, but that was the assignment Caitlin had given him. He thought she had way too much confidence in him, but he had no choice but to try.

  “We must leave no loose ends,” she’d said.

  Once she’d escaped again from jail, she’d hunted Werka down in a small Polish village. Her goal had been to determine what role Werka played within the Guild. When Caitlin posed as Werka’s priest and questioned her about it, it turned out Werka had no knowledge of the crown. Simon had thrown her out right after she told him she’d sent Kevin and the others out to look at the old church on the farm property. Simon was furious, but Werka had no idea why.

  “Hey, Mort.”

  Kevin turned. Bill Masters came up beside him, hair plastered back in the stiff breeze.

  “How’s it going, Bill?”

  “Great. How’s the lab look?”

  Kevin figured this was as good a time as any. There was no one else on deck to see, and this conversation sounded like it was going to get technical. The real Mort, who was home in bed sleeping off the sedative his “mom” had slipped him when she visited unexpectedly, would have answered Bill casually. Kevin had no idea what to say to sound authentic. He relaxed and shapeshifted into his true form.

  Bill looked surprised for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Caitlin sent me.”

  “Maybe she should have come herself.”

  “She had urgent business in Alaska,” Kevin said.

  Bill snorted. “Really? For the last four months?”

  “Jail
will slow you up that way.”

  “Not her.”

  “It was a little harder for her to escape this time, since they had cameras on her twenty-four-seven, but you’re going to go ahead and think what you want anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Look, punk-”

  “No, you look. Yeah, real deep into your soul. As much as you’ve convinced yourself your reasons have merit, you know as well as I do that Caitlin is not the reason you want to do this.”

  “I love her,” Bill said. “And she loves me. I want to spare her having to watch me grow old and die.”

  “I know.” Kevin nodded earnestly. “But you need to listen to me. The sphere may be quiet now, but I have it on good authority it won’t tolerate being drilled into a second time. You’re risking the lives of everyone on this ship.”

  “It’s out of my hands. The HPA is running things now. I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to.”

  “You have to, or we’ll all die.”

  Bill looked at him grimly. “I don’t have you people’s knack of reading minds. I don’t know if you’re telling the truth or if Caitlin told you to lie. She’s good at lying, did you notice?”

  “She’s had good reason. Regardless, I’m here to offer you what you want. If you stop the drill, I’ll give you this.” Kevin held out his hand. On his palm, the nugget glittered dully in the overcast day. Bill stared at it, his face the picture of fascinated fear.

  “Go ahead,” Kevin said. “Take it.”

  Bill took a half-step back. “If the HPA get a sample, their doctors can study it, figure out how it works. They can test people to make sure it won’t kill them, maybe fix it so everyone can touch it without getting sick.”

  “Now you sound like Griffey. You think that’s really how it will happen? The government’s just going to let everyone become shapeshifters?” Kevin laughed. “I thought I was naïve.”

  “Alright, good point, but we can’t stop them forever. Disabling the ship now is only postponing the inevitable.”

  Kevin shrugged. “Give the sphere a few more months and they’ll never find it.”

  Bill’s eyebrows lifted. After a momentary hesitation, he held out his hand. “Deal.”

  Kevin’s heart began to beat faster. Caitlin hadn’t given him any instruction other than to stop the drilling, but he was pretty sure she didn’t want him to kill her lover. On the other hand, if he didn’t give Bill the nugget, the whole ship was doomed. He started to hand it over, but stopped.

  “I got sick hanging on to this thing, and I’m half shapeshifter.”

  “So?”

  “So, that’s why the initiates only touched the crown. Prolonged exposure, until you’re immune, can hurt you.”

  “Just give me the damned thing.”

  Kevin put the nugget back into his pocket. “Disable the drill first. Permanently.”

  Bill looked out over the choppy sea. Kevin felt like a voyeur; he knew Bill was thinking of Caitlin – he was practically projecting his longing.

  “Alright,” he said. “Give me an hour. It’ll be done before we reach the crater.”

  Kevin waited by the rail, fighting to keep his lunch down. The gunmetal grey water flowing past the ship reminded him of the sphere. Sometimes his conscious mind strayed into memories of the contact and wouldn’t let go. He’d relived it so many times, wallowing in the familiar strangeness.

  It hadn’t taken much research for him to find the Arp 274 triple galaxy on the Internet, since the Hubble Telescope had recently photographed it. As soon as he saw the three forms swirling 400 million light years away, he recognized them. He didn’t know much else, like from where in those vast galaxies the sphere originated. The only thing he was sure of was that the entity had been completely surprised that Kevin had the ability to enter its thoughts, if only for an instant. Surprised and very, very threatened.

  Kevin didn’t know how Bill did it, but he, at least, kept his word. Soon after they arrived at Silverpit Crater, the crew began to scramble like ants through the bowels of the ship, trying to determine why the drill was malfunctioning. No one was on deck to see Kevin tuck the nugget under his tongue and change again.

  His blubber protected him from the cold shock of the sea. He surfaced, exhaled through his blowhole and rolled on his side, looking at the ship through the elastic lenses over his eyes.

  When Bill realized he was gone, he would be angry, justifiably so, but Kevin the dolphin didn’t care.

  The End

  The Following is Chapter One of The Triskele Galaxies, Book Two of The Gossamer Sphere

  County Wicklow, Ireland

  Under grey winter groundcover, shoots of spring growth gave a tinge of green to the Irish countryside. The cloudless sky would have been blue today if it weren’t for the lingering haze of volcanic ash polluting the atmosphere since the Cataclysm. The spring season worldwide had been delayed this year from the resulting temperature drop. The Cataclysm had effectively halted global warming, but the cost was incalculable.

  Kevin Guzman waited in his parked rental car, partially shielded from the road by a copse of evergreen bushes. Once the old man in his rusty red truck went by, Kevin pulled back onto the narrow country road and turned down a dirt driveway. He drove through a cloud of dust and exhaust from the old man’s passing to a wooden gate marked “Private,” which stood open and unattended. Under a thin canopy of bare, interlaced branches, the car bounced over ruts and through potholes. He stopped in the circular gravel driveway of a sprawling, one-story farm house.

  With the old man gone, Kevin figured there was no one to answer his knock, but as a courtesy, he rapped on the iron-strapped oak door anyway. Then, following his compass and a mental map, he walked a thin footpath around the house to the northeast section of the property.

  This was the sixth location he’d scouted in as many days, after three weeks of studying the geology of the region and poring over historical maps of the mines of the Emerald Isle. He saw what he was looking for behind a chest-high tangle of bracken that clung to an exposed cut of buckled sandstone and shale at the base of a low hill.

  Scattered in the vicinity were overgrown piles of “tell,” artificial mounds of cast-away rock. Partially buried nearby he found a smooth stone, the kind you’d see on the shore of a lake or beach; out of place here in the hills. Examination of the stone revealed a worn groove, or “rill,” where it had long ago been tied to a stick or bone for use as a hammer.

  He unfolded his new portable axe and took a few whacks at the bramble, surprised to find most of it was loose. He looked closely at the severed stem of one; it was still a greenstick—someone had recently cut the bushes down and then replaced them against the rock wall. With an uneasy feeling, Kevin pulled the bushes away until the sandstone face was revealed.

  Beginning in the Bronze Age and continuing up until explosives were invented, “firesetting” was an effective method of mining. Fires were set up against the rock face to heat it, and then doused with water to fracture the stone for extraction of the ore. The process left telltale depressions in the hillside.

  In this day and age, an active mining society prowled Ireland’s mines - big, small and insignificant. Even so, he’d heard about the existence of this place yesterday in a pub in the small village of Hollywood.

  He’d been driving back to Dublin from a mine site when traffic had been stopped by the security guards for a film crew, of all things. In a broad field dotted with trees, a horde of painted men spurred their horses at a signal from the director. The scene must not have been pivotal to the plot, because all they did was ride a short distance, sweeping past one camera on a dolly at ground level and another up on a platform. Security waved the stopped cars on as the horsemen rode back to the start point for the next take.

  The unscheduled delay prompted Kevin to stop for lunch at a pub in the mosquito-sized village. When the chatty waitress heard he was interested in historical mines, she told him about a crotchety old farmer who came in nearly every aftern
oon and stayed until he was blotto. The old guy had been complaining about the historical mine society salivating over an ancient opencast mine on his land.

  “He won’t let nobody go see it, though,” the waitress said. “He’s not very sociable, if you know what I mean. Makes a person wonder exactly what it is he grows on that farm of his, besides potatoes.”

  Now at that very farm, Kevin didn't see any suspicious-looking plants that would explain the farmer’s unfriendliness, but he took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching. Other than bare trees swaying in the mild breeze and a flitting brown bird or two, nothing moved. The tunnel was low even for his stocky, 5-foot 4-and-three-quarters frame, and deeper than it should be. It might have begun as an opencast mine, but successive generations must have used better techniques to get deeper to the ore. Bending down to enter, he ran an eye over the walls and floor for evidence of recent habitation. He was no tracker, but if it weren’t for the pre-cut bushes at the entrance, he’d think the cave hadn’t been visited by humans since the erstwhile miners had abandoned it.

  His eyes adjusted quickly as he went further in. A normal person would have needed a light, but Kevin had recently come to terms with how very normal he wasn’t.

  Almost from the moment he entered, he knew this mine on the south side of nowhere was what he’d been searching for. At the end of the tunnel was a small cave, not much roomier than the tunnel itself, but at least he was able to stand upright. He couldn’t imagine living in this claustrophobic space for six years, but that’s what the lore said his grandfather had done.

  Tadg the Small had been banished from the clan for his part in the deaths of six miners who were exposed to the very substance Kevin now sought. In this place, this historic place, not that anyone would ever know about it, Tadg had become the very first shapeshifter.

  Kevin shivered a little as he imagined his grandfather’s ghost haunting this seemingly insignificant cave. Unlike others of his kind, Tadg had lived only a few hundred years before his enemies took an axe to his skull and dumped his body in a bog. Kevin had seen what was left of his mummified, distorted torso on display in Dublin just weeks ago. While he’d bowed his head in respectful silence, mourning a man he’d never known, a British tourist loudly explained to his wife and two kids that Clonycavan Man had been sacrificed to appease pagan Celtic gods.