Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  Contemplating the oddity of the situation, he slowly closed the cabinet. As the latch snapped shut, the low whirring sound of the servo motor drew his attention. A small panel extended from the side of the cabinet. The panel blinked to life with a message requesting that he place his right thumb against the display.

  At at a loss to explain this strange turn of events, Cyrus raised his hand and pressed a thumb against the screen’s glass surface. The screen flashed green before displaying a message that read, “User identified. Please state your name…”

  What the hell had Meade been up to? Despite himself, Cyrus couldn’t wait to see where this went next. Apparently his thumbprint was recognized. Could his voice print work as well? “Cyrus Cooper.”

  As Cyrus said his name, a waveform spectrograph slid across the bottom third of the screen. Within moments the visual waveform was overlaid with dozens of tiny crosshatched icons and tinted various shades of green. Finally, the voiceprint image cleared and the entire image flashed green. The message at the top of the screen changed. “Voiceprint confirmed. Welcome, Cyrus.”

  A moment later, the wall to the left of the server cabinet drew his attention. It had developed a fine, perfectly straight, vertical line starting at the floor and reaching almost to the ceiling. A section of the wall four feet wide and eight feet high retracted into a recess behind the wall before sliding away to the side. Everything happened without more than a whisper of noise. Light ballasts on the ceiling beyond flashed to life revealing a large workspace.

  Shocked and not knowing what to make of this, Cyrus stepped cautiously across the threshold of the secret room. There was a long deep marble countertop bolted to the wall on his right. The wall to the left was lined entirely with four-foot tall file cabinets. They were extremely old cabinets—maybe old enough to qualify as antique. Cyrus had seen a model very similar in historic video footage shot at Los Alamos Laboratories while the world’s first atomic bombs were being developed. He had even read humorous antidotes about their locks in one of Richard Feynman’s memoirs. Feynman, a Nobel Prize winner, had great fun defeating the cabinets built-in tumbler-based locks, back in his day. The cabinets had the same distinct, dated look, complete with the large combination lock dial built into the front bezel.

  Stacked between the counter on the right wall and the cabinets on the left were piles of dusty cardboard filing boxes. Most appeared to contain neatly organized files but several had spools of ancient reel-to-reel film sticking out of them. An old film projector on a stand was under a sheet of plastic in the corner. But for as unusual as all of these things were, it was the device along the back wall that immediately commanded Cyrus’s attention. It was large and round, raised, with a pair of steps leading to a platform perhaps four feet across. The base of the platform was made of a chrome like metal, but its surface was dull and lacked any kind of luster. The phrase Beta II was inscribed into the metal in large lettering beside the steps. A very thick black cable ran from the bottom of the platform and attached to what looked like a heavy, primitive control box. The box hung from a stout pole that was the only protrusion from the edge of the platform. Though he couldn’t hazard a guess to its purpose, it looked like the control box had been placed just off the back edge of the platform so an operator could reach it while standing on the platform. Like everything in this room, the strange machine looked very old.

  The only object in the room that looked at all modern was an Apple iMac that sat in the middle of the countertop along the right wall. It had started to boot as soon as the overhead lights powered up. There was no doubt in Cyrus’s mind, he’d been led to this room. Called there by the alarm’s tone. The biometric sensor had confirmed his identity, allowing access to the hidden vault. If there was an explanation for the theatrics, the computer seemed the best place to start.

  Cyrus pulled out the short stool and took a seat at the computer. The desktop contained only a single file, a video that was titled simply ‘Play Me.mov.’ He launched the file and the video immediately filled the screen.

  The face of 80-year-old Walter Meade looked back at him from the computer’s display. He seemed to take a moment to collect his thoughts. “Hello, Cyrus,” the old man said finally, along with a warm smile. “Thank you for accepting the gift of my home. There is no one more deserving. I recall a conversation some time back. You said that city life was not for you. One day you hoped to retired someplace out of the way—a place where the world could pass you by.” The old man laughed. “I must say, I know exactly how you felt. I’ve had that same desire many times in my life. This place is—I should say, was, my sanctuary. It was my escape from the world. Unfortunately, if you are seeing this, certain unavoidable events have kept me from retiring to my personal corner of nowhere.

  “This vault contains the bulk of the research pertaining to my life’s work—a project most recently known as Meridian. I’ve left this information with you because, to be honest, there’s a great burden that comes along with it. What you choose to do with the contents of this vault, once you understand the depths of this burden, is entirely up to you. What I’m asking of you is no small favor—but if you’re up to the challenge, as I think you are, you might very well succeed in changing the world.

  “But first, a small history lesson to put everything you’re about to experience in proper perspective. In 1902 a series of small meteor showers pelted the Earth’s atmosphere. As you might imagine, accounts from that point in time are sketchy at best. But we have assembled some fairly reliable information in the decades since, enough to generate very detailed computer models of the events. The majority of the interstellar material burned up entering the Earth’s atmosphere. But in several very rare cases there were surface impacts. At this point I believe all of the meteorites have been recovered. Out of every sample collected across North America, all were fairly unremarkable. Chemical and ore compositions that were not quite in line with what is found on Earth, but nothing extraordinary. That is, with one glaring exception.

  “One of the recovered ore samples exhibited properties unlike anything in recorded history. While the composition of the sample was largely unremarkable, cursory laboratory tests demonstrated unheard-of inconsistencies. Tests that should yield precisely the same results every time, instead displayed wild fluctuations that, initially, could not be explained. That ore sample remains unique to this day. A similar sample has never been located.

  “So,” Walter said, refocusing on the camera and pulling his mind back from his tale. “All of the data is gathered here. All of the records, the test results, and films of the experiments, have been archived in this vault. As you will see, we are on the verge of something very special. Something that will change the world. Sadly I wasn’t able to bring the project to fruition before my time was up. A critical component remains beyond my reach. Until this point, my source of Halon-Seven has been limited, but there is now hope. Recent evidence suggests that additional reserves might yet exist—though I haven’t a clue how to acquire them.”

  Meade stopped again, taking another several seconds to collect his thoughts.

  “There is so much more that I wish I’d shared with you—so much more that you need to know about this mess I’ve left with you. Unfortunately, if you are seeing this, time was not on my side, and the clock ran out before I could share the secret of my life’s work. So, I turn to you, my friend. As you have done for me so many times in the past, take a look at the project and its data. Help me complete my work. Everything you need to know is contained within this vault.”

  Walter took a deep breath and looked into the camera for several long seconds. Cyrus had the distinct impression that the man was looking right at him, here and now, not an image captured in time. It was eerie. Finally, Meade found his words. “The choice is yours, my friend. But this undertaking is a one-way trip. Not to be overly dramatic, but once you go down the rabbit hole, there is no turning back. Once something is learned, it cannot be unlearned.

  “
If you are willing to help me in my last request, the next step is simple. There is a raised platform at the back of the room. Simply step onto the device and turn on the main power key located on the control interface. The Mark II requires sixty seconds to come to full power. After sixty seconds, the light under the glass protective cap will glow green. Flip the cap, and toggle the switch.

  “Now this last part is of paramount importance. The final step is to press the large red button on the left of the control interface. Once you press that button, you will have five seconds to place both of your hands directly to your sides and stand in the center of the platform. Please understand, this is critical. You must stand in the center of the platform.

  “Good luck, Cyrus. Thank you for being a loyal friend to a weary old man.”

  Then, on the video screen, Walter Meade looked down at the keyboard of the computer he was using to record the video and tapped a button. The video ended. The screen went black and the computer’s desktop returned.

  Cyrus stared at the screen for several moments, not really seeing the screen but replaying in his head the expressions on Meade’s face as the man told his tale and asked for help. The old man clearly knew he would not be able to complete his project. From the sound of it, this project had consumed a great deal of the man’s life. Without a doubt, Cyrus suspected Meade had been one of the greatest minds of our time. What sort of project would’ve captured such a man’s attention for so long? What sort of science could keep a man like Meade interested for years and still leave him stumped? And what possible solution could Cyrus find that a great mind like Walter Meade’s could not?

  Spinning around on the stool, he took in the contents of the vault with fresh eyes. Whatever all of this was, apparently it was everything to the old man. And he had left it to Cyrus.

  What am I getting myself into?

  In truth there was never any question. Backing out or refusing the undertaking wasn’t a consideration. Cyrus walked slowly toward the platform. It was old. It had a high-tech look to it, but an old antiquated high-tech look. Like something built in the sixties when they thought the world would be full of flying cars come the year 2000.

  Cyrus slowly climbed the platform. As he stepped into the middle, he looked down. It was the first time he realized that he was wearing only socks on his feet. He found it amusing, but it made no difference. What the hell did this thing do anyway? The old man conveniently left that out of the story. It was an obvious part of his sales pitch.

  The control panel was hanging at waist level at the side of the platform. After taking a brief look at the simple controls, Cyrus turned the key thirty degrees. He heard a loud click as the industrial grade contacts inside the switch locked in place. A moment later he heard the sound of electricity, a hum buzzing below his feet. A static charge filled the air.

  He waited for the toggle switch to turn green.

  As predicted, roughly sixty seconds later the light beneath the protective glass cap went green. He flipped the protective cap and snapped the switch into position. Again, it was another solid click indicating the internal components were substantial and not modern low resistance, low grade, mass produced parts. “Why the hell not?” Cyrus muttered to himself and laid his palm on the large red button. It took more force than he expected, but he pressed it. He quickly returned his hands to his side and confirmed he was standing in the center of the four foot wide circular platform. He smiled at the sight of his socks on the platforms cold surface. It felt like a sheet of glass beneath his feet. There was obviously a great deal of electricity flowing beneath the platform. Even a thin layer of rubber afforded by a pair of shoes would’ve been welcome right about now…

  There was a flash of light followed almost instantly by a second, brighter flash. He felt static electricity the hair all over his body. He felt it spreading across the surface of his t-shirt, up the hair on his arms and down the hair of his legs under his jeans. The static made the day old stubble on his jaw and the short bristle of his hair tingle. There was one final flash of light.

  Then the entire room went pitch black.

  Cyrus stood completely still in the darkness. The static dissipated completely at the same moment the lights had gone out. His ears popped and he felt a little off balance.

  What the hell was that?

  What was this machine supposed to do anyway? Somehow blowing every breaker in the house didn’t seem very impressive.

  Standing in the darkness, Cyrus tried to remember if there had been any emergency light fixtures in the vault. He didn’t have a flashlight on him, and he was now stuck in the basement of a house he was barely familiar with. It wasn’t the end of the world. He would blindly stumble his way in the direction of the staircase and feel his way up to the first floor. Once there, the ambient moonlight coming in through the windows should make it easier to find a flashlight or a candle.

  Taking one tentative step forward followed by another, he was feeling for the edge of the platform with the toe of his sock. He felt the lip of the platform and stepped down onto the first stair.

  As soon as he stepped onto the first stair, the room’s ceiling lights flickered and started coming to life. With the first flicker of light, Cyrus froze. He was off balance midway to the second step and he lost his footing, tripping to the hard tile floor. With what remained of his dexterity, he recovered before falling on his face. But he was shocked. It was all he could do to pull himself fully upright as he looked around the room slack-jawed. Was he dreaming? Had this all been a dream? Was he still upstairs asleep in bed?

  Cyrus was standing in the middle of a small room, maybe fifteen feet square. The walls were drywalled and painted an institutional off-white. The tile floor was some sort of utilitarian gray. The lights over head were fluorescent and recessed into a tile drop ceiling. They hummed and flickered as they continued to warm-up. He turned around to discover that the platform he had been standing on was different as well. It was no longer bulky and clunky like a piece of 1960’s or 70’s technology. This device had similar characteristics but was finished in tight rounded corners of chrome and brushed steel. The platform surface was made of some sort of highly polished glass like composite material.

  What the hell is going on?

  Walking cautiously across the room, he felt the cold tile beneath his socks. He reached the sliding glass door separating this room from the next. The door was tinted with a smoke color that made visibility into the next room impossible. Beside the door was a light switch with a motion sensor built in. At least that explained the lights turning on when he began moving around. Now if someone could just explain what the hell had just happened. Cyrus was starting to wonder if he had experienced a stroke or an embolism. One minute he was stumbling around Walter Meade’s mountaintop home in the dark searching for the source of an alarm and the next he was standing…he didn’t know where he was standing! He didn’t know what was going on, and he was starting to get pissed. Why couldn’t Meade just come out and say what he wanted to say? What the hell had he done?

  Cyrus slid the glass door slowly to the side and stepped into the next room. The lights were out here, too. There was enough ambient light to see he was standing in an office of some kind. He was looking out over a twenty by thirty room separated by the low walls of several office cubicles. Each cubicle was setup as an active workstation, deserted now in the middle of the night. The far end of the room was lined with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  Crossing the room to look out the windows, Cyrus realized he was several floors up in some kind of office building. It must have been eight or ten stories down to the large empty parking lot scattered with a few lonely streetlights.

  Where the hell am I?

  Chapter 7

  Santa Barbara, California

  Wednesday, 1:12 am (2:12 am Colorado Time)

  Cyrus slowly paced the darkened office, deep in thought. The entire experience was unprecedented and more than a little disconcerting, but he
had to admit it wasn’t entirely unexpected. More than a few of his conversations with Walter Meade hinted at the man’s pursuit of some sort of teleportation technology. It wasn’t like the concept was strictly the stuff of fiction anymore. A lab in Switzerland had managed to teleport a half-dozen photons a distance of several inches under strictly controlled conditions. Admittedly, that was a far cry from what he had just experienced.

  Speaking of which…Cyrus pulled the cell phone from his pocket and walked to the front windows overlooking the parking lot below. He tapped an icon and brought up the phone’s GPS app. Moments later his exact location was displayed. He was on the west coast of California, about a block and a half from the Pacific Ocean in Santa Barbara, California!

  Oh, this just keeps getting better and better. What has that old bastard done? Couldn’t he just ask for help like a normal person? This was awfully theatric.

  A flash of light from the back of the office pulled his attention back to the moment. The lights had just turned back on in the teleportation room. He could see the muted glow filtering through the smoked finish of the sliding glass door. Reacting on instinct, Cyrus ducked into the hallway at the side of the room. It led to a pair of restrooms just off the main office. Peering around the corner, he watched the door to the teleportation room. His right hand found the grip of the Springfield still tucked into the back of his jeans. He decided to leave the gun where it was—glad it was there just the same.

  A few moments later the door to the back room slid open and a young dark haired woman stepped through. Nervously, she looked around the dark office as if expecting to meet someone. Finding herself alone, she seemed increasingly on edge. She appeared to be contemplating a dash back into the teleportation room.

  “Cyrus?” She had finally made up her mind and found her voice, unsteady as it was. “Cyrus Cooper?”

  Cyrus watched and waited another moment. She was skittish—even a little afraid. But that was to be expected if she were going to meet a stranger in a dark room in the middle of the night. He wasn’t any crazier about his present circumstances. She was likely even more uncomfortable than he. It was better not to let her twist in the wind any longer.