Dal made quick mental calculations. “So it was the, eh – the nineteen year war?”
“To that point, yes,” Bosch replied. He held a long smile, acknowledging Dal’s quick math skills. “However it continued spasmodically until 1453.”
Dal again rose to the occasion. “1453? Hmm, that would make it the, eh - the one hundred and sixteen year war.”
Bosch caught the grin from le Blanc. The two men took it in with a sense of amusement.
“During those years,” Bosch said, “there were several cease fires.” He smiled at Bell, at Blake, and then turned to face Dal. “The war consisted of a series of conflicts made up of three or four phases. The actual time was...”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dal groaned. “They add up to one hundred years. I don’t give a damn about how long this extravaganza played; I want to know if we’re on the winning side. I mean like - when we get there, the English, are we on their side?”
Le Blanc nodded, “Fortunately, yes. The English handed my French ancestors a sound thrashing. In 1348 the Black Death ravaged Europe and had passed on by the end of 1356. England was able to recover financially and Edward’s son and namesake, the Prince of Wales, led his well-trained army into France where they defeated the forces of King John at Poitiers.”
“And that’s the war you’ll be dropping us into?” Blake asked shaking his head disapprovingly and burying his face in his hands.
Le Blanc felt his smile dissipate. “You will arrive at a time we believe hostilities were in one of the, eh ...” he paused, glanced at Bosch who avoided his gaze. Le Blanc cleared his throat and added, “In one of the intermittent ceasefire stages.”
“This is insane,” Blake scoffed in a muffled voice, his face deeply buried in his hands.
Dal felt dizziness coming on. A half-minute passed by and Dal groaned, “Wonderful, just fuckin’ wonderful!” Then with another nod at the assortment on the table, “These weapons here, do we get something a bit more advanced to take along? You know, a few grenades, an M fuckin’ 16, shit like that?”
Bosch shook his head. “No. You can only take weapons that already exist. No advanced technology can be allowed to influence what is already in place. But you each have your skills, skills for which each of you is renowned.”
Dal stared at Bosch and began scrubbing at his unruly blonde hair. “Oh that’s rich, Hans. I’ll take a fuckin’ long-board, that’s what I’m pretty renowned for, right?”
Bell reached for one of the broad swords and felt its weight. “I’m umm; I’m renowned for my work with a foil,” and she clanged the broadsword down on the tabletop. “But not with one of these things - this weighs a ton.”
“We will make an exception for you, Miss Bellinger; we will accommodate you with a foil of French vintage. It will not be breaking the rules so to speak, just a slight deviation.”
He sniggered and flashed a smile at Dal.
Dal groaned at Blake, and Blake, whose face was still buried in his hands made a farting sound. Bosch raised a finger and leaned toward another small flat panel. He touched the screen and an image of a peaceful setting showing hills skirting a dense forest appeared on the opposite wall.
A commentary began: “In early September of 1356, France’s King John reached the Loire with a huge army of seventeen thousand foot soldiers, three thousand crossbowmen and five hundred knights. The French army marched hard and overtook the unsuspecting English force at Poitiers.”
Images appeared as the commentary continued, men on horseback, infantry-men carrying bows along with knights in armor. It was a movie of epic proportion - or so it appeared.
The commentary continued: “King John believed the English would have little chance against his overwhelming army and subsequently rejected a peace agreement, demanding the Prince of Wales surrender himself and his army. Edward refused and the opposing forces prepared for battle. The English were experienced; many of the archers were veterans of Crecy - the last major battle that took place ten years earlier.”
Bosch pointed at the screen. “That is precisely where you will materialize. Take note, you will need to reach those trees as quickly as possible. It is only three miles from your final destination – Poitiers.”
La Blanc turned up the volume.
“The inferior French army quickly broke up. Fugitives made their way to Poitiers pursued by the mounted Gascons, only to be slaughtered upon reaching the closed city gates. King John found himself alone with his younger son, Philip, fighting an overwhelming force of Gascons and English. Eventually the king agreed to surrender. The English army set about pillaging the vanquished French knights and the lavish camps of the French. King John surrendered to a French knight, Sir Denis de Campion, who personally handed him over to Edward, the Black Prince.”
The commentary faded, and soft music played as the picture dissolved from the screen.
They moved into a large stainless steel room containing five caskets, each with its lid slid open. The two nearest caskets were connected to a plethora of wires, computerized readouts and tubing. Each was filled with a strange white haze. Bosch touched a control panel and the white haze dissipated, exposing two men wearing medieval dress – seemingly two sleeping figures.
“I would like you to meet Dominic Moreau and Denis Campion. These...” and he waved a hand over the caskets, “are particle accelerant chambers. The occupants you see here are in suspension.”
Blake placed a reluctant hand on top of the nearest casing and moved within two feet of the red-headed man’s face.
Francois le Blanc spoke in a somber voice. “This is Denis Campion,” and he tapped on a silver nameplate as he spoke. “He will remain physically encased until his return.”
Denis Campion wondered into the clutches of Libra shortly following Moreau’s move to Zurich. He’d also attended MSU, but unlike Moreau, he carried a slight Texas drawl along with his French surname and Mediterranean good looks. The pair had been referred to as Denise and Dominique by the frat boys at MSU, a sexual slur that only served to further galvanize the two handsome young men.
Bosch threw Blake an annoyed glance. “We had a problem with Denis. We fear things are not going well for him.”
“Had a problem?” Blake queried. “That’s past tense; past tense isn’t what I want to hear!”
Dal moved closer, peered at Campion and said, “This guy looks like he’s anesthetized.”
“So it appears. He is actually in a suspended state,” Hans Bosch said unconvincingly. “As such we cannot intervene in his particle suspension.”
Le Blanc added, “Our intervention at this time would most certainly prove fatal.”
As Blake hovered over the second container, Francois la Blanc placed a hand on his shoulder. “And here we have our second traveler, Dominic Moreau.”
Blake leaned in a little nearer, swallowed hard and read the nameplate affixed to the chamber. “Yeah, that’s what it says here, Dominic Moreau.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Particle Accelerant Chambers
March 25
10.22 P: M
Beckman entered the room, waved a hand across the caskets and motioned at the vacant particle chambers. “Good evening, as you see we are monitoring our two travelers.” He passed a nod to Bosch. “Hans, you have explained the accelerant chambers to our group?”
Bosch gave his heels a slight click.
Blake’s uneasiness showed. He wiped the back of one hand across his nose and then scratched at an eyebrow just as Beckman placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “I fully understand your apprehension my friend, but please - realize we have considered many people for the undertaking of this mission and Libra’s decision was not made lightly.”
He sensed Blake’s uneasiness at the hand on his shoulder. He released the grip and turned away. “Nor was the decision made in haste,’ he said and slipped a sideways glance at Bosch. “We are most prudent in how and when we are able to pass on information regarding our technology, our prudenc
e may seem obsessive but believe me - our competitors are ruthless in their pursuit. Fortunately for our program, our major competition has experienced several setbacks, or rather - regretful fatalities among its travelers.”
There was a moment of silence during which Blake pictured himself drifting in cyberspace. “Fatalities?” he asked with a contorted face. “Don’t we get a return ticket on this excursion?”
Beckman appeared guarded in his response. “Oh, they came back, but the sub-atomic transference was, eh . . . what we call severely distorted.”
Blake shifted his position until eye to eye with Beckman. “What the fuck’s that mean - severely distorted?”
“Imagine a facsimile,” Beckman said as he edged away from Blake. “You set it onto the plate of your machine and you transmit. It arrives at its destination as an exact duplicate of the original, which remains in your fax machine.” Again he waved a casual hand toward the two cylinders. “Just like these two gentlemen. They are lying in their ‘facsimile machines.’”
“Sounds like your ability’s highly questionable,” Blake said. “Like you’re holding back on us.”
Beckman hesitated. It was best to be candid with Blake. He could see the agent was not at the front of the queue when God handed out patience.
“If the receiver,” Beckman explained, “sends a copy of the original back to you but your machine’s receptor is malfunctioning, you may hear the activation of the machine alerting you to the incoming transmission, however when it attempts atomic restructuring, well, the result is misalignment.”
“Misalignment?” Dal groped.
“Quite so, reading it becomes impossible. The transcription is out of alignment; the text is jumbled. It is misaligned.”
As the sick feeling began building deep in Dal’s stomach, he shuffled his feet and moaned, “I need the restroom.”
Bosch pointed to a door and Dal hurried off with both hands clenching his stomach.
“He appears unwell,” Beckman commented with insincerity.
“What the hell are we getting ourselves into here?” Blake asked. “I understand our going back to the 14th century,” and he pointed at Bosch. “Hans here explained how we get back, but seeing these two sleeping beauties just lying here waiting, well – it puts a nasty taste in my mouth.”
“Understandably so,” Beckman replied. “But please accompany me to a more comfortable setting. Perhaps we three can explain exactly what your task entails in uh - somewhat layman’s terms.”
Dal rejoined the group. They moved on to a room far more eclectically decorated than the sterile areas within the facility. Of note were two sofas of Chesterfield design separated by a Louis XIV table.
“I have to tell you guys,” Blake said still deep in thought and ignoring the décor, “this isn’t sitting too well with any of us.”
Beckman said, “Allow me to begin by explaining the theory of how you will arrive at your coordinates. I assume my colleague...” and his tone became condescending as he flipped a casual thumb over his shoulder, “...explained the purpose of the three empty chambers.” He handed Blake five small discs. “These converter discs are of paramount importance, never misplace them. You have one each, three green ones. The additional two red discs are for Campion and Moreau. We must assume their discs are malfunctioning. I cannot impress upon you enough the importance of these discs – they are your ticket back to this facility.”
“Hold that thought,” Blake said. “I recall hearing a guarantee from you, you said because you’re here now – didn’t you say words to that affect?”
“Quite so, the men in the particle chambers, you saw them, they are here now, are they not?”
“Yeah, they sound like the words.”
Bell had been nervous throughout the discussion. Seated some ten feet from Blake, she leaned forward, ran her hands down to her ankles and dropped her head between her knees. Blake and Bell simultaneously groaned, and Dal rolled his head from one side to the other causing his vertebrae to let out a cracking sound.
Beckman grinned as he placed a consoling hand on Dal’s shoulder. “The comfort level inside your chamber will be pleasant and pain free. You will have no conscious awareness of the process.”
There was a moment of silence. Blake turned and saw Bell sitting with her head between her knees and asked, “You okay, Bell?”
“Depends on your interpretation of okay.”
Blake gazed at Dal and wondered if he should just tell Beckman to take the assignment and...
Beckman felt Bosch’s glare. He cleared his throat and continued. “During transmission you’ll be disassembled into pixels. This is accomplished by reflecting your images through multiple lenses positioned along the inner lid and sides of your chamber. The lenses are focused to a charged coupling device that converts your images into electrical current. The interior walls of each chamber are constructed with multiple curved mirrors. These mirrors prevent you from seeing out but we can see in . . . just as you were able to see the two suspended travelers. It will be as though you are simply resting. Once inside your chamber you will enter a process known as sub-atomic conversion. Signals will be modulated and transmitted into the parallel universe - to your pre-set coordinates. The green disc you each carry is pre-programmed. When the time is right you will activate the recall function and we will transfer you back to your chamber.”
“You mean . . . just like those two guys?” Dal asked. The question went unanswered. “And another thing
– what’s with all this pixel shit?” And Dal made another hurried exit to the rest room.
Beckman waited for Dal to leave, refocused on Blake and Bell. “As you have been told, your primary task is to locate Moreau and Campion, give each man a disc and secure the Lucifer ampoules. Do you have questions?”
Bosch stared at Blake; a cold stare that lingered for several long moments. When no move came from Blake, he shifted his stare to Bell in anticipation of a reaction. None came – the time for reaction had long gone.
“Agent Blake, we know our universe is not four dimensional, that it does not consist of three spaces plus a time dimension, and that it indeed hosts numerous other dimensions. The theory of relativity or of quantum mechanics revolutionized our way of thinking, and Libra’s research into the existence of extra dimensions has been a major milestone in developing fuller understanding of the universe. As a result of this, our obvious application has been - time travel.”
Beckman gave Bosch a reprieve. “Contemporary neighbors of ours known as CERNA whose primary work involves the production of micro black holes, have built a Super Large Hadron Collider in a circular tunnel thirty miles in circumference. It is buried around three hundred feet underground and straddles the borders of France and Switzerland on the outskirts of Geneva. We consider the direction in which they are moving to be a possible doomsday scenario. Although according to a report prepared by the Executive Committee of the Division of Particles & Fields of the American Physical Society, the LHC particle collisions pose no conceivable threat. CERNA mandated a group of independent scientists to review these scenarios. They concluded that, like current particle experiments such as the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider, the LHC particle collisions actually pose no conceivable threat. A second review of the evidence commissioned by CERNA was released in 2008. Our physicists have studied copies of the reports and our conclusions are somewhat skeptical. With our research we have circumvented certain areas of their fundamental theorem.”
Beckman heard approaching footsteps. He halfturned, glanced over his shoulder and mumbled a few incoherent words. “As a result, we have our nose well in front of CERNA as the goal draws nearer.”
Dal returned looking a little washed out. He sat alongside Bellinger as Bosch took over from his associate. “CERNA aims at increasing the functional capacity of their machine by a factor of 10 to 1035 cm−2s−1. And yes, we agree this will provide far better chances to see rare processes and improve statistic marginal measurements.”
He paused briefly, allowing Blake to strut his minimal scientific acumen. “Yeah, I’ve heard about CERNA’s work, but I thought they’d reached a peak with their Large Hadron Collider.”
Sam added, “But isn’t their level of research to be expected of an institution with their kind of backing? The people behind CERNA receive enough annually to fund a super version of the contraption, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Bosch replied, failing to disguise his tone. “There are so many different paths that exist for upgrading their Collider program, Mr. Ridkin and their funding is limitless. CERNA maintains a collection of different designs of the high luminosity interaction regions. They held a workshop in 2006 to establish which options would be the most promising machine parameters - they produced amazing results.”
Sam analyzed Bosch’s praise of the competitor as being one of skepticism, rather than admiration.
Bosch continued. “Concerns have been raised in the media, on the Internet and through the law courts about the safety of the particle physics experiments planned by CERNA. As far as the world knows, their LHC is the world’s largest and highest-energy particle accelerator. We have carefully guarded our program and we prefer it stay that way.”
“Hmm, so CERNA’s done well,” Blake said in a doubting tone. “And your particle chamber’s more advanced than theirs?”
Beckman replied, “At this point I see no reason to withhold confidential material from you.” He looked to Bosch, at Danzig, and received a nod from each. “We were concerned the physicists at CERNA’s Geneva facility were outpacing our own particle work. Unfortunately, our compatriots experienced a small problem last year.” His delivery switched to one of cynicism. “During a powering test of the main dipole circuit, a fault occurred in the electrical bus connection. It resulted in mechanical damage and the release of helium from the magnetic cold mass. Thankfully, with proper safety procedures in place, CERNA personnel were never at risk.”
“Did they suspect you guys at Libra were behind the, uh - behind the accident?” Sam asked.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 8
