by Orton, D. L.
I follow the logic a bit further. And whoever found it would assume that the near-perfect sphere was important, even if it was found in Ethiopia or Iceland. It’s clearly more valuable than just the material it’s made from. They’d call the police, who would notify the government.
Whoever created that sphere wanted to get the attention of an expert in physics and materials science.
Me.
“Bugger and blast.”
Okay, so they have my attention, now what?
It’s some sort of message.
I look over at the sphere, half-expecting it to start clicking or whistling.
“Who sent you, and what are you trying to tell me?”
The mysterious object remains silent.
∞
Two hours later, I watch as the sphere is lowered into a robotic drill press that would make the MythBusters jealous. The contraption sits deep inside the mountain, crammed into a biometrically sealed and electromagnetically shielded blast room.
Picasso and his crew have rigged up a camera on a boom, and we’re watching from the other side of the mountain, just in case.
The soft riffs of Junior’s cell phone game are audible as we wait for Picasso to run a status check. A few minutes later, we hear a slight mechanical wheeze, and Junior puts his phone away. Picasso sits back in his chair. “Here she goes.”
As we watch, the pressure gauge on the vice increases with agonizing slowness.
I shake my head, surprised that the sphere can withstand that much force.
Ninety seconds later, there’s a single metallic pop, and the artifact shatters into tiny silver shards. A single slip of pink paper flits back and forth to the floor. It appears to have writing on it, but it’s on the bottom side. The Geiger counter doesn’t make a peep, and the indicators on the laser gas analyzer remain steady.
“Expensive way to send a valentine,” Picasso says. He taps a few keys, and we watch a replay of it floating down in slow motion, but the handwriting is at a bad angle. “Looks like we’ll have to wait until the artifact clears quarantine before we can read it.” He doesn’t wait for the next question. “That’ll be at least an hour, probably two depending on the analysis of the enclosing gas.”
Agent Dick leans in toward the monitor, pointing at a blue-green object the size of a small pocketknife. “What the hell is that?”
Picasso pans the camera across the gray metallic fragments and locks in on the capsule.
Junior whistles. “A thumb drive, sir.”
Agent Dick glares at him.
The image zooms out, moves across the rubble, and stops on a dust-covered lump in the back, left corner. Picasso adjusts the camera angle and zooms in. A gray crosshatch pattern fills the display, sharp metallic shards poking into the weave at odd angles.
I recognize the close-up immediately. “Something made of cloth. Probably cotton.”
Picasso raises his eyebrows.
“We used to look at stuff under the electron microscope when I was a grad student,” I say. “Never dreamed it would prove useful.”
Agent Dick shifts his weight. “Any idea what it is?”
Picasso zooms out to normal and shifts the angle again.
“A dirty sock!”Junior blurts out.
Agent Dick scowls. “What the hell would a dirty sock be doing inside an expensive metal sphere, Mr. Smith? Keep your mouth shut if you’re not using your brain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It does look like a crumpled-up athletic sock,” I add.
Picasso pans the camera across more rubble, and I point at a thin, white disk leaning against one of the larger fragments. “How about that?”
Picasso taps some keys and the camera rotates. A button-shaped piece of white plastic comes into focus, a stylized apple with a missing bite etched on it.
Junior laughs. “I don’t think they’ve invented that yet.”
Agent Dick rounds on him. “That will be enough, Smith.” He turns to Picasso. “I want to know what those things are, sergeant, and where they came from.”
Picasso nods. “Don’t we all, Mr. Johnson. Don’t we all.”
Chapter 9
Diego: In a Pickle
The moment I sit down, Anne pokes her head into my office, her long copper hair splashing around the doorframe.
“Hey, dude, you’re late. The Water Project people are waiting for you in Mount Elbert. I started the video on the work we did for Frozen Ark, so you should be good for a few minutes.” She stares at my closed fist. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I start gathering my proposal. “We moved into the cabin last week, and the drive took longer than I expected. Thanks for covering for me.”
She nods, looking skeptical. “Oh, and I got a weird phone call this morning. Guy wanted to know how long you’ve worked here. Said he was with the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement. It sounded sort of fishy to me, so I told him if he left his number, I’d have someone call him back. He hung up.” She crosses her arms. “You didn’t go and piss off some oil sheik again, did you?”
“Not that I know of,” I say, “but thanks for the heads up.”
“No problem. Want to do lunch later?”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks again for covering.”
“My pleasure.” She disappears in another splash of red.
I get up and shut the door and then sit back down, my heart racing. I open up the desk drawer, take out my shell, and set it next to its twin.
So if the one in the drawer is mine, where did this other one come from?
For as much as I can tell, the two are exactly alike, from the shape of the spines down to the subtle pink coloring of the lip.
What are the chances of that?
My phone beeps with a text message.
Now what?
A friend in Legal wants me to stop by—but not until after the place clears out. I reply in the affirmative, stick the shells in my drawer, and rush off to the conference room.
∞
At a little past one, I walk with Anne to the sandwich shop on the corner. After we order, she excuses herself to use the bathroom. I sit down at a small patio table and watch the grade school kids across the street playing soccer.
There’s only one girl in the mix, her long blond hair tied up in a ponytail and her red plaid skirt in stark contrast to the sea of navy blue shorts. As I watch, she crosses the ball and then sprints toward the goal. A boy with the same color hair steps up to her pass, fakes a goal kick, and then feeds the ball in to her though the confused defenders. She angles it into the back corner of the net for a goal. The twins exchange high-fives and then jog in lockstep back up the field.
Strong emotions well up inside me, and it takes me a moment to identify the heady mix: hope and longing.
What an amazing experience it would be to have kids.
Anne sits down with our sandwiches and glances over at the schoolyard. I’ve worked with her for a number of years and respect her both professionally and personally. She’s young, attractive, and idealistic—and she has the organizational skills of a Chinese factory owner mixed with the enthusiasm of a Labrador retriever. But a few months ago, I made the mistake of allowing our professional relationship to cross the line, and things have been rocky between us ever since.
A teacher blows a whistle, and I scan the kids heading in from recess, trying to spot the soccer duo one last time. Anne fiddles with the chips next to her veggie-sub-with-extra-pickles and flushes when I look over at her.
“Diego,” she says, tilting her head to the side and tossing her sheet of red hair back over one shoulder, her eyes focused on her sandwich. “I can’t stop thinking about that night in Jan—”
My phone chimes, and I give her a weak smile. “Sorry. Let me see if it’s urgent.”
It’s from Iz:
Anne clears her throat. “Everything okay?”
“Yep. Just Isabel letting me know she’ll be home late.”
“Ah.” Anne picks up her sandwich. “Must be nice to have someone to come home to.” She takes a bite, and pickles squirt out onto her plate.
The smell of dill and vinegar hangs in the air. I remember that salty-sour taste lingering in my mouth after kissing her. “Yes, it is.” I pick up my sandwich and then set it back down, not feeling hungry anymore.
“What about us, Diego?” She plops an errant pickle into her mouth. “I thought you wanted to be with me—or, at least, you let me think you did.”
I force myself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry if I misled you, Anne. I honestly enjoyed the night we spent together, and I don’t know what I’d do at the office without you, but it was never more than good friends for me. And I told you that at the time.”
She glances down at her lap, tears in her eyes.
Shit.
I put my hand on her arm. “Hey, you’re a beautiful, vivacious, caring woman, and I know you’ll find the right guy: some young hotshot who will have his hands full just keeping up with you.” I wait for her to look up. “But you’re too much for an old fart like me.”
And my heart belongs to Iz.
She swings her hair over her shoulder, avoiding my eyes. “Come on, Methuselah. Let’s get back to saving the world.”
∞
It’s nearly seven by the time I make it up to Legal, but my friend is still there.
“Hey, Diego. Good to see you.” After shaking my hand, he puts his arm around me, pulls me inside his office, and shuts the door.
“Uh oh. What’s up?”
“I got a phone call about you today,” he says. “A guy claiming to be a cop wanted to know if you’re a citizen, who you’re married to, and what your home address is. You in some sort of trouble?”
“Not that I know of, but Anne got a similar call this morning. Did you tell him anything?”
He claps me on the back. “Yeah. To show me the court order or stop wasting my time.”
I laugh. “Thanks. I wonder what’s going on?”
“Well, whoever it is, they’re sloppy. I could hear freeway noise in the background and someone playing Letterpress on a cell phone—hope it wasn’t the guy driving.”
“You’ve got a good ear. Remind me not to get on your bad side, okay?”
He smiles. “Hey, I’ve got something else for you too.” He pulls out a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Have you seen this?”
It’s a dark, poor-quality photo printed on too-thin paper. I study it for a minute, but can’t make out much. “No. What is it?”
“A solid metal sphere about the size of a basketball. Some looters found it in the ruins of the Brown Palace Hotel a week after the fire. Which reminds me, how is Isabel doing?”
“Fine, thanks. Much better.” I take another peek. Now that I know what it is, I can make out the large shiny ball next to a muddy high-top shoe. It does look rather impressive.
He takes back the photo. “You remember how no one could figure out how all those fires got started at precisely the same time in six buildings, blocks apart? No bombs. No arson. No nothing.” He waits for me to nod. “Well, I made a map of where all those fires began and connected the dots. They’re in a line with the Brown Palace, and that line ends right where the teenagers claim they found the sphere.”
“Christ. So this is some sort of projectile that was fired into downtown Denver, blasted through a bunch of other buildings, and then demolished the hotel? How come none of this has been on the news?”
He holds the photo up by the corner. “Hank grabbed it off Instagram minutes after it was posted—you know what a night owl he is. When I went to look at it in the morning, it was gone, and I’ll be damned if there’s any mention of it on the Internet. Nothing. Like it never existed.” He puts the photo back in his briefcase. “Hank dug up the address of the original poster and sent him an email, but he never heard back. Here’s the best part: Hank’s laptop was stolen from his car while he was in Starbucks that morning. He thought he’d just left it at home until it showed up that afternoon.”
“Let me guess, the photo was gone.”
“Yeah, and all references to the guy who posted it. But I renamed the copy I had on my computer, did some light editing in Photoshop so the digital signatures don’t match anymore, and then printed it. Unfortunately, I don’t have any idea who actually took the shot, or I’d ask him what really happened.” He walks over and opens the office door. “Well, I should get going or Hank will worry. In any case, I’m glad you’re not in any hot water. But you might keep an eye out, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I will. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Sure,” he says. “Give Isabel my best.”
I shake his hand again. “Will do. If you hear anything more about the sphere, let me know? And tell Hank I owe him one. Those solar panels he recommended are perfect.”
“Sure thing.” He locks his door and heads toward the back stairs. “See you tomorrow.”
I stop by my office to grab the shells, take a moment to text Isabel that I’m on my way home, and then head out into the falling night, grateful that it’s Friday.
Chapter 10
Isabel: All the Facts
“What a crock of shit,” Stan says under his breath.
I consider pretending I didn’t hear him, but it’s been a long week, and my patience is shot. I set the dry-erase marker down on the conference table and cross my arms. “Did you have something constructive to add, Stan?”
Everyone in the conference room turns toward him.
He takes a slow drink of his soda and sets down the can. “Nope.”
Stan Perkins heads up the business side of the company, and our relationship has always been strained. I do science for the sheer joy of it; he pimps my work for the money.
I fix my face into a bemused smile. “From your colorful remark, I can only assume you don’t agree with my analysis. Or perhaps you didn’t mean to say ‘What a crock of shit’?”
My boss kicks me under the table.
I ignore her. “I know you’re a very busy person, Stan, but perhaps you could spend a minute enlightening us on what you find so ridiculous?”
Stan pushes back from the table and stands up. “I’ve heard enough. If you had your way, this company would go belly up in a matter of weeks. For all your degrees and titles, you can’t predict the future any better than the rest of us.”
“You are quite correct,” I say. “Oslo and Adelaide also ran the statistical analysis, and I simply told you what we all found: The volcanic ash in the lower atmosphere is collecting around the equator due to the Earth’s Coriolis effect. The polar ice is melting at an accelerating rate due to greenhouse gases. If you put those two pieces together, like the popular press is doing right now, it would seem that they cancel each other out. But that’s a logical fallacy. It’s like watering your vegetable garden with boiling water and ice cubes: the average water temperature is perfect, but you’ll end up starving anyway.”
There are murmurs around the table, and I wait for them to settle.
“The Tropics are going to get cooler and the Polar Regions are going to get warmer, and the changes in localized temperatures are going to wreak havoc: Droughts occurring every year, category five-plus hurricanes, snow in the tropics, and massive heat waves in polar regions. And any one of those would mean mass extinctions. You can put your head in the sand as to whether it’s human induced or not, but you can’t ignore the hard data.”
I look over at the director of marketing and then down at the CEO. “If our goal is to preserve and record diverse biomes, now is not the time to be mov
ing resources over to Sales. We should be collecting as much data as possible, before it’s too late.”
The room fills with chatter.
I sit down, suppressing a burp from the excess stomach acid that’s been plaguing me since I started back to work.
Maybe it is time for a job with less stress.
I slip my vibrating phone out of my pocket. It’s nearly 7 P.M., and I assume Diego’s already on his way home. In the weeks since I came back to work, the long hours and constant struggle to keep ahead of the disappearing genotypes have been wearing me down. I read his text and then close my eyes, imagining being in his arms.
God, I’m looking forward to making love with him tonight.
Kelly stands and quiets the room. “I know what Isabel is suggesting will impact the bottom line, but even Stan can’t sell biomes he doesn’t have. If we manage to collect some key organisms before they become extinct, that could turn out to be very lucrative.” She looks at Stan. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
The door to the conference room flies open, and Kelly’s male secretary gapes at us. “Something terrible has happened! A nuclear bomb has been launched, but no one is sure who did it, or where it’s headed.” The cell phone in my hand makes a loud shrieking sound, followed by every other phone in the room. “The President is scheduled to make a broadcast in a few minutes, but they say we need to get down to the basement as quickly as possible.” His handsome face is distraught. “My partner is on a business trip in Europe.”
Stan crushes the soda can in his hand. “Goddamn towel heads got their hands on a nuke, and now we’re fucked.”
Kelly jumps up. “Let’s not panic before we have all the facts.” She nods at her secretary and then moves her gaze around the table. “The video production lab is below ground, and it has a TV with cable. Contact your loved ones, grab your things, and meet me there in five minutes. If you need to leave now, please let someone know. I’ll be down just as soon as I check that we have everyone. Let’s go, people!”
Chapter 11
Matt: The Magic Kingdom
