Seichan joined Gray, following his fingers, nose to nose. “This is impossible. Didn’t you say angelic script was devised by someone in the sixteen-hundreds?”
Vigor nodded. “Johannes Trithemius.”
“How could it be here?” Gray asked.
“I don’t know,” Vigor said. “Maybe at some point the Vatican did send someone all the way to Cambodia to follow Marco’s trail like we did. Maybe they returned with etchings of this script, and Trithemius somehow got ahold of it. Devised his script from it. And if he knew Marco’s story of glowing angelic beings, it might be why he claimed the script was angelic.”
Gray turned to Vigor. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”
Vigor watched Gray step back, retreat a few more steps, his gaze fixed to the wall.
He sees it, too.
Vigor took a deep shuddering breath, trying to restrain what he suspected. “Trithemius claimed he gained knowledge of the script after weeks of fasting and deep meditative study. I think that’s exactly what happened.”
Seichan scoffed. “He just happened to dream all this up, a match to the ancient script here.”
Vigor nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Remember what I told you before, about how angelic script bears a striking resemblance to Hebrew. Trithemius even claimed his script was the purest distillation of the Hebrew alphabet.”
Seichan shrugged.
“What do you know about Jewish Kabbalah?” Vigor asked.
“Just that it’s some Jewish mystical study.”
“Exactly. Practitioners of Kabbalah search for mystical insight into the divine nature of the universe by studying the Hebrew Bible. They believe that divine wisdom lies buried in the very shapes and curves of the Hebrew alphabet. And that by meditating upon them, one can gain great insight into the universe, into who we are at the most basic level.”
Seichan shook her head. “Are you saying that this Trithemius fellow meditated and came up with this purer form of Hebrew? Stumbled upon a language — this same language—” She patted the wall. “A language that links to some great inner wisdom?”
Gray cleared his throat. “And I think inner is the key word here.” He waved Seichan to step back, to join him. “What do you see? Look at the whole pattern. Does it look familiar to you?”
Seichan stared for a single breath, then snapped, “I don’t know. What am I looking for?”
Gray sighed and stepped to the wall. He ran a finger along one of the cascades. “Look at the way it swirls down in spirals of broken helixes. Picture this section all by itself.”
Seichan squinted. “It looks almost biological.”
Gray nodded. “Follow the strands. Don’t they look like double helixes of DNA? Like a genetic map?”
Seichan remained doubtful. “Written in an angelic language?”
Gray stepped away, his eyes still on the wall. “Maybe. In fact, there was a scientific study that compared patterns in DNA code with patterns found in human languages. According to a Zipf ’s law — a statistical tool — all human languages show a specific pattern of repetitive word usage. Such as the frequency of the word the or a. Or the rarity of other words, like aardvark or elliptical. When you plot a graph comparing the popularity of words against the frequency of their usage, you get a straight line. And it’s the same whether English, Russian, or Chinese. All human languages produce the same linear pattern.”
“And DNA code?” Vigor asked, intrigued.
“It produced exactly the same pattern. Even in our junk DNA, which most scientists consider to be biological garbage. The study has been repeated and verified. For some reason, there is a language buried in our genetic code. We don’t know what it says. But—” Gray pointed at the wall. “That may be the written form of the language.”
Vigor ran a hand along the carving, breathless with awe. “It makes you wonder. Could Trithemius have tapped into that language during his meditations?” He straightened as another thought struck him. “And consider ancient Hebrew, how its characters are similar to angelic script. Could early written languages have somehow been derived from this, arising out of some inherent genetic memory? In fact, it makes you wonder if this language isn’t the Word of God, mapping out something greater in all of us.”
Vigor shifted his light, sweeping it to cover the breadth of the vast chamber. “But either way, all of this. All this angelic language. What is it telling us?”
“I think it’s a genetic blueprint,” Gray said.
“But a blueprint to what?” Seichan said.
“Probably a turtle,” Kowalski mumbled.
Vigor snorted at the man’s joke, but both Seichan and Gray reacted with surprise, glancing to the man with matching expressions of incredulity.
“What?” Vigor asked, sensing something important.
Gray stepped closer, dropping his voice. “I think he may be right.”
“I am?” Kowalski asked.
Gray expanded upon his theory of the cavern below. “The turtle’s shell represents the cave. But what about the turtle itself? According to the story, it represents an incarnation of Vishnu, an angelic being.” Gray waved to the wall. “And here is evidence of some strange biological process, some secret knowledge. Beyond merely a viral disease. I think the coding on the walls is some diary of that process. Possibly still incomplete.”
Vigor studied the wall, the blueprint.
Before they could contemplate it further, a commotion arose from above.
They shifted in a group back to the center. It looked as if the demolition team were close to finishing. Their leader had coiled all his charge wires and cinched them into an electronic detonator so they could blow it all from above.
Overhead, Vigor spotted a woman climbing down the ladder. It was difficult to discern her features through the glare of the sunlit shaft.
Still, Gray recognized her, stepping forward. “Lisa…?”
Farther above, near the lip to the shaft, Nasser appeared, accompanied by a frantic, half-naked woman. She fought forward, as if to throw herself into the pit, but she was restrained by the barrels of four rifles, kept at bay.
Vigor gaped up at her.
Dear God…
She glowed.
Her skin shone out from the shadows.
Impossible.
“Cover the eyes!” she screamed below, pointing an arm down into the pit. “Cover the eyes!”
Vigor could not comprehend what she was talking about.
Gray did. The commander swept from Vigor’s side, dragged up a tarp used by the demolition team, and tossed it over the sculpture’s eyes like a blindfold, cutting the flow of sunlight to the cavern below.
Up top, the woman collapsed as if the strings suspending her had been cut. She dropped to a slab of the broken altar.
Nasser frowned back at her.
Lisa stepped from the ladder and joined them. Her gaze remained above, but her words were for them all. “I’m sorry.”
11:05 A.M.
Ten minutes later, Gray watched the last of Nasser’s men mount the ladder and climb up. Above, a ring of rifles pointed down at their group. The last satchel of demolition equipment vanished over the lip, hauled up on one of the two ropes. The other rope still dangled, taunting.
“Why are they leaving us down here?” Lisa asked.
Gray eyed the rigged sandstone face. “I think we’ve just become obsolete,” he mumbled.
Lisa remained quiet, then mumbled an apology. “I had no choice.”
She’d already explained her sudden, unexpected appearance. A desperate act, born out of the necessity for a cure. The attempt had to be risked…even if it meant delivering the cure into the hands of the Guild.
“And Monk,” Lisa said with a choke. “He gave his life…for this.”
“No.” Gray put an arm around Lisa’s shoulders. He couldn’t even acknowledge that reality. Not yet. “No. Monk got you all here. And as long as we’re alive, there’s still hope.”
&nbs
p; Nasser returned to the edge of the pit. “We’re just about finished here,” he announced, not so much gloating as simply stating a matter of fact. With all the cards in his hand, he kept his tone cold and civil. “Monsignor, you mentioned earlier how the scientific trail and historical trail merged at these ruins. It appears you were most astute. Here we have the two halves of Sigma joined.” He waved below — then turned to Susan, who still sat in a stupefied slump, head hanging to her chest. “And it seems the Guild’s efforts have also joined. The survivor from the scientific trail here…and the source of the Judas Strain below.”
Gray slipped his arm from Lisa and stepped forward. “You may still need our help!” he called up, knowing it was a wasted breath.
“I’m sure we’ll manage. The Guild has abundant resources to fit these last pieces together. We’ve managed to reach this point, starting with only a few words in an ancient text. A text, I understand, that came into our possession because of your actions, Commander.”
Gray’s fist tightened. He should have burned the Dragon Court’s library when he’d had the chance.
“Of course, it was the Guild’s efforts afterward — through the employment of marine archaeologists and satellite imagery — that uncovered one of Marco’s sunken ships off the coast of Sumatra.”
It took Gray a moment to realize what Nasser was implying. “You found one of Polo’s ships?”
“And we were lucky. One of the keel beams, encased in insulating clay, still contained biological activity. But we couldn’t understand its full capacity without an in vitro trial, a real-world scenario.”
Gray felt his blood go cold. If Nasser was telling the truth, the outbreak at Christmas Island hadn’t been a matter of chance exposure. “You…you purposely contaminated Christmas Island.”
He glanced to Seichan for confirmation.
She would not meet his eyes.
Nasser continued. “From the study of sea currents and tidal patterns, it required just planting the beam off the coast and observing what happened. In fact, we were monitoring and collecting samples when our patient here stumbled onto the scene. She and her party. The first human subjects. Of course, the currents eventually carried the tide to the island. As planned. A perfect localized and contained scenario.”
Lisa mumbled, “Then with the cruise ship, the Guild saw the opportunity to reap what they’d sown.”
Gray sank back.
Seichan mumbled behind him. “Now you know why I had to stop them.”
Gray glanced to her.
But she had failed…they’d all failed.
11:11 A.M.
Susan drifted in a haze, as if in a waking dream.
Fire danced across her brain.
Since baring herself to the raw sunlight, she had passed beyond an edge. She felt it inside her skull. She was no longer fully herself — or maybe more herself than ever before.
She had become unmoored as a lifetime of memories rebuilt inside her. Her past swelled up out of recesses long thought lost and inaccessible. They knit together, one day to another, one hour to the next, blending into a seamless whole. Her past came alive again, not just bits and pieces, but the full spread and panorama of it all.
And she could remember it all as a single moment: from the crush of her skull as she was squeezed out of her mother’s womb…to the beat of her heart now. She sensed the traces of air over her naked skin, every current, scribed into memory, indelible, adding to the whole.
It was all held in a suspended, shimmering bubble.
And beyond that thin surface…more.
But she wasn’t ready to venture there.
She knew there were steps still to be taken.
Below.
With the fiery eyes closed, the panic inside her subsided to a dull glow.
Floating between past and present, adding moments with every breath, new words slowly dropped into the pool that was her life, overheard from a step away.
…it required just planting the beam off the coast and observing what happened…when our patient here stumbled onto the scene. She and her party. The first human subjects…
NO.
The single note rang through her.
With her life held in that endless moment between one breath and the next, she was again underwater, weightless. She saw the finger of age-blackened wood protruding from the sand. Her thoughts from then returned, as if she were still in those waters. At the time, she had supposed earthquakes had shaken the keel beam free, or perhaps the recent tsunami had stripped away the sand, exposing it.
Now she knew the truth.
The beam had been planted there.
Purposefully.
To kill.
She remembered how excited she had been to tell her husband, who loved diving wrecks. Just the memory of him filled her senses.
Gregg.
Now she knew the truth.
Why he had died.
And the truth was fire.
11:12 A.M.
Lisa leaned against Gray, his arm over her shoulders. She stared up at the rifles. Nasser was saying something, but she didn’t hear, lost in her own guilt.
Gray suddenly flinched.
Though she hadn’t moved, she snapped back to the moment.
At the rim of the well, Susan’s head slowly lifted, her blond hair parting from a face lost in fury. The guards’ attentions remained focused on Nasser. Past Nasser’s shoulder, Lisa watched the soft glow of Susan’s skin flush fiercer.
Her eyes burned with an inner fire.
Nasser must have sensed something and had begun to turn.
Lisa did not see Susan move.
One moment the woman was seated on the crumbled bit of altar — the next she was latched around Nasser, hugging tight to him, cheek to cheek in an intimate embrace.
He screamed — a wail that tore from his throat.
Smoke curled between them.
One of the guards reacted, clubbing Susan from behind.
She dropped loose, head lolling.
Still screaming, Nasser shoved her away.
Over the edge of the pit.
“Susan!” Lisa called up.
She tumbled in a tangle with one of the loading ropes used by the demolition team. A hand snatched out, instinctively catching herself. But she had no strength. She slid down the rope, too fast. The caustic acid of her skin flared in the shaft’s direct sunlight, triggering some chemical reaction in the synthetic rope. It smoked and melted as she slid along it. Susan twirled as she plummeted, almost in free fall.
No one dared catch her.
Gray swung to the side and dragged the cloth tarp from the stone face. He whipped one end to Kowalski. His partner understood.
Overhead, the rope snapped, burned through where Susan had grabbed.
She dropped in a limp, boneless fall.
Unconscious.
Gray and his partner caught her, but her weight still ripped the tarp from their hands and she struck the floor hard. Using the tarp, Gray swung her out of direct sight, only her legs visible from above. He dropped beside her.
Nasser screamed down to them. On hands and knees. His cheek still smoked, flesh blackened. His bare arms looked like seared steak, weeping and bleeding. “I want that bitch!”
Gray stumbled back into view. “Neck’s broken! She’s dead!”
A war of emotions played across Nasser’s face. It settled on a near-mindless rage. “Then you’ll all burn!” He rolled back. “Blow it all up!”
Gray waved to everyone. “Back…out of sight.”
Lisa obeyed, stumbling from the light and into the shadows.
A few bullets sparked, chasing them.
Lisa stared toward the rigged explosives. The electronic detonator was beyond their reach, out in the open. They would be shot if they dared approach.
Gray dragged the tarp, hauling Susan’s limp form. “Behind the foundation pillars! They may offer some protection. Crouch low, find anything to cover your head and face!”
/>
They scattered.
Four pillars, six of them.
Gray took Susan with him.
Lisa found herself huddled with the monsignor behind one of the sandstone pillars. He pulled her down, shielding her with his body.
Lisa placed her palm on the pillar. It was three feet across. She had no idea of the strength of the blast to come. She turned to Vigor.
“Father, will this protect us?”
Vigor stared down at her face and didn’t answer.
For once Lisa wished a priest would lie to her.
18
The Gateway to Hell
JULY 7, 11:17 A.M.
Angkor Thom, Cambodia
Gray cradled Susan, keeping her wrapped in the tarp.
She moaned and stirred. She had taken a good crack to the head when she struck the ground, but Gray had lied to Nasser about her neck being broken. The bastard, in his agony, had not questioned it, maybe had even hoped for it.
Gray had hoped to use the woman’s body as a bargaining chip.
But that was not going well.
Up above, Nasser shouted, maddened by the pain. From the look of his blackened skin, he had sustained third-degree burns across large swaths of his body. And now he wanted them to suffer in kind. An eye for an eye. But apparently the demolition team hadn’t been prepared for such a sudden order. They were scrambling, giving Gray’s party a minute or so of a reprieve.
Taking advantage of it, Gray shifted Susan’s weight, seeking to better protect her behind the pillar. If she was the potential cure, she had to be preserved. He tugged the tarp more thoroughly over her head. It parted briefly, revealing the soft glow of her naked skin beneath. Away from the bright sunlight, the sheen to her skin had begun to dim. He paused for a beat, amazed at the strangeness. As he drew the drape closed again, he noted the wall ahead of him.
The scrollwork of angelic script shone with an exceptional brilliance, fluorescing under the weak glow. The light emanating from the cyanobacteria in her skin must shed wavelengths in the ultraviolet range, igniting a fluorescent compound etched into the carvings.
The Judas Strain sf-4 Page 43
