“Investigations within CERNA are still being conducted,” Beckman replied. “The complete findings will be reported at a later date. They are experiencing difficulties reducing the beams inside their chambers, the beams moved around the internal mirrored enclosure in which their, uh . . . in which their subjects were suspended in a continuous vacuum guided by a magnetic field . . . superconducting magnets cooled by a huge cryogenics system.”
Dal, Blake and Bell turned and stared hard at Sam, each assuming he was following the discussion. Sam kept a serious demeanor, leading them to believe he was on track with Beckman’s scientific jargon.
“Cables conduct current without resistance in their superconducting state, but the beams that were meant to be stored at high energy levels for hours . . . well, they uh . . .” Beckman took a long break as though searching out the least incriminating words. “Well, what can I say . . . they malfunctioned.”
“Malfunctioned?” Sam asked.
“Yes, a malfunction that resulted in collisions inside CERNA’s chamber.” He paused, allowed a guilt ridden smile to escape. “It uh - resulted in a temporary cessation of their program . . . such a pity.”
“What of your program,” Blake inquired. “Any uh, pity with it?”
“Well yes actually, initially we had setbacks. We transferred a few subjects out there.”
“Out there?” Dal groaned.
Bosch was hesitant. “Hmm, yes, unfortunately uh . . . out there in another time, probably misaligned.”
“Maybe dead?” Dal groaned.
“At this time, hmm,” Bosch sighed as he nodded, “yes, actually quite possibly deceased.”
Bell asked, “Your subjects . . . they were human?”
“They were uh,” and Bosch slid a quick glance to Beckman. “They were large laboratory specimens.”
“Large specimens?” Bell asked in a concerned tone.
“As cold-hearted at it may appear, Miss Bellinger,” Bosch said in an attempt to justify Libra’s actions, “you must realize we are attempting to improve this century’s standard of living.”
“I realize that,” Bell said. “But precisely what subjects did you people send out there?”
The doctor bit down on his lip while Beckman’s eyes gazed innocently at his shoes. Paul Danzig made an infrequent contribution to the discussion. “Abandoned dogs,” Danzig said. “Animals scheduled for euthanizing at the city pound.”
Bell shuddered. She gave Sam a look of disapproval.
Bosch waved Danzig off, making it quite clear his associate would have no further participation in the science lesson.
“Please do not doubt our resolve, Agent Bellinger,” Bosch sneered. “Their loss is an insignificant price to pay for the progress of science.”
CHAPTER NINE
Venice, Italy
April 1, 2015
Dom Moreau glanced at the disc and read the coordinates: Forty-five degrees, twenty-six feet and nineteen minutes north. His face took on a defeatist scowl, aware of his failure to travel to the required point of departure.
The malfunctioning converter disc had him locked into a radius of less than three hundred miles of Poitiers, unable to move beyond points north of the 12th parallel. Zurich was now beyond reach - his easterly movement allowed him access only as far as Venice.
Aside from his failure to meet with his associate, Moreau’s mission was complete. He’d successfully spread the Bubonic Plague from China to Europe.
The pandemic hit Pisa in 1348 and quickly traveled to Florence, on to Rome and Bologna. Once in Venice, it rapidly moved into southern Germany and Austria; from Genoa it crossed the Tyrrhenian Sea to Marseilles, France and Barcelona, Spain. It continued through the towns of southern France and reached Paris and England by early June of 1348 and the Low Countries by the summer of 1349. Moreau had indeed ‘completed his mission,’ or so he wanted Libra to believe.
Dom Moreau gazed at the small group of parishioners gathering near the entrance to the basilica. Campion, with his flame red hair, would be immediately recognizable, his crop difficult to conceal even beneath a hat. On the occasion of their first meeting in Dordogne, a local villager had tagged him Denis le Rouge, Denis the Red.
The Dom’s attire drew a few giggles, a few pointers, but a passing young man dressed as a renaissance fair flutist legitimized Moreau’s 14th century attire. He gestured at onlookers and smiled briefly at the flutist. He had a vague familiarity with the Palazzo, having been there on one occasion with Campion.
In 1849 the Palazzo was celebrating its first year of existence. The water level within Venice wasn’t yet an issue. Merchants bustled in a trading frenzy from one business to the next. The colorful Fondaco houses sat several feet higher than the present day’s sinking survivors.
Dom Moreau started for the basilica’s front door. Inside he found a scattering of worshipers, but could see no red headed man among them. He returned to the coordinates opposite the Grand Canal - it was now twelve forty-five. A drunken straggler clutching a grappa bottle appeared just as Moreau was checking his disc. He stumbled forward and said, “Please can you spare some change? My wine - it is all gone.”
At precisely twelve forty-six the bottle shattered at the straggler’s feet. Moreau had dematerialized before his eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
Zurich
March 26, 2015
8.17 A: M
On the morning of March 26 at precisely eightfifteen, an olive-skinned man met with three Interpol operatives. A master of hand-to-hand medieval combat, it was the olive-skinned man’s job to prepare this group for survival in the 14th century. He greeted Bell, Dal and Blake as they struggled assisting one another pulling on hose, adjusting surcoats and tugging chain-mail over their heads.
“Good morning, good morning, good morning. My name is R-A-O-U-L.” He bowed graciously as he spelled out each distinct letter. “You can call me Raoul.”
Blake’s first impression of the massive room was that it could be an indoor arena. Dal took four involuntary paces forward, sparked partly by curiosity and partly by Bell prodding him from behind. As Raoul led them by an array of hanging straw dummies he gestured at the generic warriors. “We’re here to give you a taste of what will likely confront you upon transference.” Raoul’s European features dimmed. “Medieval European fighting styles aren’t as some expect, not the swashbuckling fencing antics of the three musketeers, most unlike rapier oriented movies.”
He moved to an assortment of broadswords, daggers, gruesome metal spiked balls attached to lengths of chain, and a solitary foil. Bell grinned and placed a hand on the foil.
“Yes, Agent Bellinger, we are aware of your fencing prowess, most impressive indeed. This is obviously your weapon of choice.”
He selected two massive swords and passed one to Blake and the other to Dal.
“I wish to see each of you gentlemen attack one of our practice soldiers and make short work of the victim. And please, I would like you to do so in very short time.”
“Why the time frame?” Blake asked curiously.
“You will not have time to procrastinate when you face an enraged Frenchman thrashing at you with one of these,” and he raised the largest of the swords.
Dal asked, “Short fights or else, huh?”
“You will find that a person quickly runs out of breath in the course of battle, Agent Dallas. You will commence with vigor, with enthusiasm, but the energy will rapidly dissipate. Therefore the length of an engagement is of the essence.”
“You’re gonna time us?” Dal asked.
“Yes, I have a stop watch.”
“How long’s an actual fight average?” Dal asked curiously.
“I estimate – hmm – about twenty.”
Dal groaned, “About twenty minutes? There’s no way can I swing one of these for twenty fuckin’ minutes.”
Raoul sniggered, “Seconds, Agent Dallas – twenty seconds.”
Blake gave a smile and chuckled, “Oookay.”
“You’re out?” Blake laughed, “Wha’dya mean - ‘out’?”
There was a long pause. No answer.
“You must be coached in the use of the broadsword,” Raoul said. “The foil will not suffice for either of you. The broadsword is mandatory.”
Two minutes later Bell lunged with her foil while Dal and Blake fumbled about with weighty broadswords. Raoul had each man attack a suspended straw dummy, instructing them in the art of effectively cutting with forceful precision.
“The key to fighting is to rely on footwork,” he grunted as he demonstrated to an exhausted Dal. “You, I can see, have obviously never learned to dance.”
Dal caught Blake’s chuckle.
“Watch me,” Raoul said as he leaped across Dal’s line of vision. “You must be light of foot, use your shield for defense while counter cutting.”
He breathed heavy as he wheeled the sword about, cutting huge chunks of straw from the suspended dummy.
Dal whispered to Blake, “Rudolph fuckin’ Nureyev.”
Raoul pirouetted, leaped back to the other side of Dal, and paused to regain breath. “The art of counter cutting means you must unite movements,” Raoul wheezed. “They must be offensive and defensive at the same time. When you cut . . .” and he severed the head from the dummy, “. . . in the midst of battle with vast chaos of clashing people, each thrashing insanely with no desire other than to separate you from your limbs, your cut must be a defense against the opponent’s blows. With their assortment of medieval weapons, practical techniques can sometimes go by the wayside.”
He sprang between Dal and the demolished dummy, thrust his shield into Dal’s chest and sent him sprawling across the ground. He placed a foot lightly on Dal’s chest and laughed, “If a situation deems it necessary you will need to quickly learn to perform without weapons, perhaps even without armor.” Then in an unexpected move, Raoul lowered the pointed tip of the shield to Dal’s crotch. “This is especially important if your opponent does not adhere to chivalrous concepts. We do not want this to happen, do we?” He made a faked lunge causing Dal to slam his knees together and quickly drop his hands to his groin.
It was a four hour crash-course in self-defense, switching from mace to dagger, ax to broadsword, gaining knowledge of backup weapons and even the use of a shield as a hacking tool, familiarizing each man with balance, developing a greater sense of distance and timing.
Blake, winded from wheeling the broadsword during his ‘counter cutting,’nudged Dal. He flicked a thumb at Raoul and groaned, “The man’s a fuckin’ impala.”
Collapsing into a haystack alongside the sand covered oval, Dal asked Raoul, “What’s with all this hay?”
A large door opened and two enormous simulated chargers were guided out by four of the Libra staff who pushed them along with twenty foot long guiding rods extending back of each equine. They resembled Trojan horses. Each was mounted on a platform and ran along on rubber-tired wheels.
Blake frowned at Dal, leaned on the pommel of his sword, and grated, “You just had to fuckin’ ask, didn’t you?”
Raoul said, “Your resumes indicate all three of you are accomplished riders.”
Blake rubbed painfully at his hip and moaned. “Yeah, we get out once in a while. Accomplished? Yeah – that’d be us.”
Dal reluctantly added, “Annually – like every February 29.” His wisecrack was wasted on the Frenchman.
Raoul placed a hand on top of the pommel. “Knowing how to ride is not sufficient for survival, you need to be agile on horseback. The French knights with whom you may come in contact will identify your skill level by your posture, by your movement. Both qualities are common to professional soldiers, not to peasants or craftsmen . . . and uh, Agent Dallas . . . those qualities are clearly lacking in leap-year riders.”
**** At two fifteen Blake twiddled a pencil and beat out a tentative drum roll with the eraser end. After a few moments of deep thought he took a notepad from a desk drawer.
His apprehension caught Bell’s eye. “What are you doing?”
Dal glanced across, saw Blake writing, and asked sarcastically, “Hey, Sir Galahad, are you making a shopping list, m’ Lord?”
“Whatever,” Blake said dismissively, his body aching from the intense workout. He tore the page from its pad, slowly folded it and tucked it into the pocket of his vest.
At two-thirty they were escorted by the wardrobe assistant; she cast a cursory eye over Dal’s hose as he summarily dismissed her. It was a brief moment but it earned a chuckle from Bell. The woman led them to the familiarization room where they were met by Bosch, Beckman and Danzig.
“You are all most impressive,” Beckman smiled. “Raoul speaks highly of your training session, most especially of yours, Agent Dallas.”
Bell and Blake gave Dal an encouraging smile; Dal interpreted it as sarcasm or at the very least - condescension.
“You are about to contribute to history,” Beckman said. “We will await your transmission from the converter discs at which time we will implement your return, but uh
- along with the Lucifer ampoules of course.”
Beckman spent the next fifteen minutes repeating the procedure and reassuring each that they would indeed return to Zurich – to this very room. After much head shaking and glancing from one to the other, the group made their way to the sterile steel room where the suspended shapes of their predecessors lay. Blake hesitantly stood back and stared at the lids as each was slid from its chamber. He gave further painful consideration to the task at hand.
“Mirrors,” Dal groaned as he peered into the nearest chamber. “It’s a house of fuckin’ mirrors.”
“Yes, of sorts,” Bosch said. “You will see multiple images, just as you would in the house of mirrors at an amusement park. You will also be in communication with our team at all times prior to particle beam injection. Not unlike the movie, Contact.”
“Contact, huh? I can see that. So I’m able to travel back and visit my old man on some tropical beach when uh - when he was a kid?”
“That can be arranged,” Beckman said chuckling. “Perhaps on your next excursion.”
“Whatever,” Blake said, dismissively.
“I’ll hold you to that, Doc,” Dal smirked. “I never did get to meet my old man after he left. Maybe I’ll just consider this assignment a training mission.”
Blake moved to the center chamber. “Guess I’ll play piggy in the middle. This way, when I get back, whichever way I turn I’m gonna see one of your ugly asses.”
They carefully climbed up four steps and descended into their respective chamber. The floor of each was bodymolded in a comfortable chaise impression with a pillow positioned to accommodate their heads. Once in a reclining position they wriggled about in an effort to find the most comfortable setting.
Libra technicians stood by in readiness for the sealing process as Beckman, Danzig, Bosch and le Blanc moved to positions on an elevated viewing platform housing control panels and numerous monitoring screens. Beckman pressed a series of buttons and took one long look at his monitor. He grinned at the clear images of each chamber’s passenger. He leaned forward, looked toward the chambers, and said through a lapel-mounted microphone, “Are we all set then?”
Blake anticipated the rushing sensation Beckman had described. An electric shock-like tingling sensation shot through him and he thought, isn’t so bad. And then the full ferocity of the particle defragmentation hit home.
Their faces contorted as vocal chords strained at full capacity. Their screams went unheard - the Libra personnel were far too preoccupied observing rising and dipping waves on an array of monitors.
And so it began.
*****
The Black Death Chronologies The plague began in Sicily in October of 1347. It reached France in January of 1348; raged in Paris until 1349. It spread to England in August of 1348 and
continued until early 1350. It reoccurred in 1360 and 1369.
Death Toll The European toll is estimated at one third of that continent’s population, a staggering twenty million people.
Cities worst hit were Avignon with a loss of half its population totaling twenty-five thousand citizens. It then claimed half of the Parisian population, another fifty thousand victims. It swept across the Chanel to London where it claimed a third of the population, eighteen thousand citizens. Sienna and Venice lost two thirds of their citizens, while Hamburg lost three fifths of its population. Outside of the cities, two hundred thousand countryside villagers were wiped out by the pandemic.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Maupertuis, France
September 17 1356
10.39 A: M
A hawk swooped down and disappeared into thick grass as it dove on a rabbit, the victim lurching, kicking, failing in its attempt to escape.
“Is this it?” Blake asked no one in particular in a tone of disbelief heavily flavored with disappointment. It was as though he were questioning the soft grass, the clear blue sky, and the strange silence. “This is 1356?” he asked in a bewildered way as he tried stretching his limbs. “This is the fourteenth century and we’re actually in France?”
Birds fluttered from the surrounding grassland, startled by the sudden appearance of the intruders. Blake sheepishly looked to his right and saw Bellinger a few feet away. He felt a rigid stiffness in his neck as he turned left to check on Dal whose eyes were tracking the hawk. Despite the atmosphere of possible danger, there was a bizarre air of surrealism. The whole world appeared to have stopped.
Bell lay there feeling insecure, hoping it was all a dream. “Listen,” she said softly. “It’s so quiet. It’s like there’s nothing here.”
For a few long minutes everything in this strange silent world seemed surreal. Blake stood, made a slow turn, cast his eyes beyond the grassy field and focused on a vividly green towering forest. He thought no pollution, maybe this healthy air makes everything greener.
“My God, it’s so amazing,” Bell said smiling – and for several long moments reality was placed in a far off corner of their minds.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 9
