For a moment she panicked. She was going to die out here in the sand and the heat and the wind. The idea of it brought a new burst of energy. Like hell I will, she thought. All she had to do was think. A memory surged forward: a survival technique she'd learned in the sixth grade during an earth science class. She didn't have a desk to hunker under and what enveloped her wasn't a tornado, but the method of protection ought to work, at least for a little while.
Bianca quickly tucked her legs beneath her buttocks, brought her arms up around her head, and bent forward, keeping her head as close to her knees as possible. It wasn't much, but at least she could breathe a little easier while she assessed the situation.
The wind shrieked and the sand scoured as she tried to remember exactly where she'd seen the central building when the wind knocked her down. If she crawled even slightly out of direction, she'd crawl forever.
Suddenly he was there. His strong arms lifting her up, holding her close. Moments later, he shoved open the massive doors and stumbled into the control room. Never had blinking boards been so welcome. On a nearby screen, she could see the sweeping path of a sensor beam marking out the cube-shaped vaults, the perimeter wall, the West gate opened to the dunes. No doubt that sensor had also shown her huddled figure.
When he set her down, she said, "You were a fool to come out into that storm, Raphael Munoz." Her voice was soft.
"I know." He gently brushed sand from her face and her hair. "Now go wash up. We have work to do." His eyes said so much more.
Bianca nodded and walked away.
Two hours later, she sealed the flow knob at the back of the glass burial case she worked on. When that knob was opened again, revival would begin; through the flow knob, the water of life would drip into the case in precisely measured drops, would turn the powder into nourishing liquid, would cause the blood to flow again, would bring the dead back to life.
Mace looked up into her face. "I almost beat you, Bianca."
"That you did. A little more powder for that one, he's larger than the young man I worked on. Seal the knob tight." She studied his long fingers, his intensity as he completed his ministrations. "You have the four guardian vaults marked for easy identification? I wouldn't want to have to search through five thousand vaults to find you."
He nodded. "You're sure four is enough?"
"More than enough. We'll only be down a hundred and twenty years. Assuming an average life span of seventy-five, with forty of those years spent in guardianship, the third replacement should be the one who will attend to us. Four vaults is simply a precautionary contingency—in case an early death occurs somewhere along the line. You have the date of revival firmly fixed?"
"Yes. June 6, 2259." He glanced up again. "There will be no mistakes. You have my word on that."
"I'm confident there won't be, Mace. Now, help me snap the outer cover around my case then I'll help you with yours," she said.
"Why did he want these double boxed, Bianca? It doesn't make sense to me." Mace shoved the right hand section of carved Thua up and over the glass case while she held the left hand section steady.
"It's symbolic. What is closed off remains subservient to that which is clear and open. Like a belief—or a way of life. These two technicians will be resurrected to serve. They will never do anything else or want to be anything else." She snapped the fasteners closed on the lemon-scented halves enclosing the glass coffin.
Munoz walked up beside her.
"We're nearly finished here," she said. "I saw you by the boards. What were you doing, making sure they're still working?"
"No, I was setting the timer on the Triune control center switch. You'll have ten days to do whatever it is you feel you must do."
"But—what if I need more time? How do I stop the countdown?"
"You don't. It's locked in. The signal is even now flashing along the grid. All over the world, junctions are setting themselves to power-down mode. Not even I can stop it now. Nor would I if I could."
"You had no right, Raphael! Not without consulting me."
"I have every right. Besides, there is nothing to discuss. The Plan is complete. I am tired and it is time to sleep."
Bianca shivered involuntarily. She stared deep into his eyes. "There is no doubt in your mind?"
"None." He touched her lips gently. "Nor should there be in yours. We've been over this many times. The world is at a fever pitch. When the grid shuts down, chaos will begin. The global powers will annihilate each other." His eyes watched her closely. "These bodies are not indestructible, my dear" he said wryly. "They must be protected if we are to use them again. Even in a neutral zone like this one, there will be no time for more than one preparation if Mace is to get the room sealed off before panic-driven diplomats begin to arrive. The Plan is in place, so my work in the here-and-now is completed. You have unfinished business. Just remember, time is growing short so—"
"I know, I know. I'll be back in time. I promise."
His glance strayed toward Mace whose own eyes held commitment to the trust placed in him. Bianca is right, he thought. One more fitting to carry this responsibility does not exist; he'll let nothing stand in the way of rewards to come. With a brief salute to the man who watched him, he brought his attention back to his consort and said, "The years will pass like a dream in the night. When we return, our subjects will have lost their appetite for fighting and everything on Earth will be ours for the taking." His eyes searched her face, roamed her body. "I will miss you," he said softly.
She couldn't stop herself. "And Sefura?" she asked slyly.
He sighed. "Yes, Sefura also. In a way, it's a shame she will be left behind. Her tact and diplomacy have been a source of pleasure for me. Those I will miss most of all." His mouth widened into a grin. "Will it never end, Bianca, the games we play?"
"That would be boring, Raphael. Don't you agree?"
"Yes my dear, I do."
Fingers intertwined, they strolled down a long corridor lined with silent medical labs. He discussed the future resurrection and she leaned into his tall frame as she listened. They returned down the same corridor, stopped before an open lab door. He tipped her face up and pressed his mouth to hers.
They stepped into the laboratory.
Thirty minutes later, she called Mace. Together, they carried Munoz's limp body to the room of death, lowered him to his field of blue with its rippling golden rings. Her assistant strode to the glass coffin on the left and lifted the top. A broad smile crossed her face as she stopped him.
"Not that one, Mace. That one," she said, pointing to one of the carved Thua's. "He will rest beside George. There is another who will sleep in this case."
He stared at her, his hand still clutching the coffin lid. "It's for your sister, isn't it? You're putting Sefura down." Mace barely whispered the words.
Bianca's hands twisted together as she said, "I have to, Mace. I know what's coming. I'd never forgive myself if I left her behind. To wake, knowing that I left her alone, in this time, to face . . . " She bit at her lower lip. "I can't do that. I simply can't."
Without comment, Mace prepared a third case for its Thua cloak, but Bianca knew he watched her from the corner of his eye. Her shoulders shook with concealed mirth. I have not been blind all these years, my dear Raphael, she thought, as she watched the deft movements of her assistant's hands. You wanted my sister—and you shall have her. But it will cost, Raphael. Oh, yes, my terms of exchange will cost. She could no longer hold the laughter; it rolled from her throat in gasp after gasp as deranged phantoms danced in her mind.
Head lowered, Mace never faltered in his preparations.
The storm shrieked around the building three days. Bianca spent her daytime hours pacing back and forth, stopping every now and then to stand like sculpted stone, staring into the burial crypt, muttering to herself as her gaze flitted from coffin to coffin. On more than one occasion, she was certain that Mace watched her with tight-drawn lips only to find his face a smooth mask of indifference when
her gaze rested full upon him.
At night, she spent hours in the small room, reading by the light of the desk lamp or going over and over in her mind what her report to Vittorio Cardinal Morandi would say. No longer would cardiac arrest be the cause of his Pope's death, as originally planned. The sandstorm had given her a better idea. Raphael was inspecting the outlying cubes when the storm rolled in, she would say. He never returned and his body was never found. It had happened before. Dane Wyland could attest to that. It was so much easier to explain and there would be no messy inquiries to deal with. The Vatican could have its funereal pomp. Under the circumstances, an empty casket would never be questioned. She would have to remember to tell Raphael that she had guaranteed his messiahship when next they met. If they met. The thought whispered its doubt and this time she listened.
Early on the morning of the fourth day, Bianca presented Mace with the small golden stag Raphael had brought from Rome, climbed into the skimmer, and waved good-bye. "Five days, maybe less, and I'll be back," she called out. "Be ready." She settled into her seat. Joseph Galen eased the sand skimmer across the compound and into dunes filled with deep shadows.
Bianca stared at the swath of light cutting through the narrow valleys nested between great domes of sand. She wondered how her driver knew where to turn and when.
Joseph reached for his pipe. "Will this bother you?" he asked politely.
"Yes it will. A filthy habit, Mr. Galen."
Without a word, he laid down the pipe. From the corner of her eye, she could see his furtive glances shift in her direction as if he were afraid she would pounce onto his back unexpectedly. Her eyes were closed when the bothersome thought came. Did he know enough about Dane Wyland to . . .
"You worked with Mr. Wyland while he was building the City didn't you, Joseph?" He jumped at the sudden sound of her voice vibrating through the silence.
"Yes," he said cautiously.
"He has asked for permission to marry my sister. I am reluctant to give that consent at the present time for various reasons, one being—"
"Well, I'll be damned," Joseph interrupted. "He finally took the time to find another one." His head nodded emphatically. "You don't have any reason not to say yes to Dane Wyland, Ma'am."
"Another one?" Bianca's head swiveled toward him.
"I didn't mean to imply . . ." The tips of his ears glowed red. "Dane Wyland's a good person, Ma'am," he finished lamely.
"Hmmm. I suppose you would know if the man had a beast to control. I rather imagine living out here year in and year out, with nothing but sand for miles around, would bring it to the fore." She smiled. "I simply don't want my sister to be hurt. To find out she was second choice."
"Oh, it wasn't anything like that," Joseph hastened to explain. "I'd say it was more like a best friend kind of thing," he said. "Why—he even walked her down the aisle when she got married. That would be pretty hard to do if she was a sweetheart, don't you think, Doctor Raborman?"
Bianca's mouth dropped open as an image flashed through her mind. That's where I saw him, she thought. At Victoria Jensen's wedding—he walked her down the aisle.
All these years, she thought. The way to the Dakotans, right under my nose, and he wants to marry my sister. She threw her head back and roared with laughter at the irony of it. Seeing Joseph's pained expression, she sobered with difficulty.
"You're right, Mr. Galen," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "You have no idea how happy you've made me. I'll have a talk with Dane as soon as I arrive in San Francisco."
Joseph beamed at the words.
Chapter 64
Ellery
The newspaper hit the door, landed with a splat into a puddle of water gathered below the second step; its cherry-red band stained purple as it soaked up water like a wick soaks up oil. Gazing out the kitchen window, Ellery watched Delbert Dickson pedal his bicycle in a crisscross wobble. At each house, his arm raised and tossed the banded news with the rhythmic motion of a metronome.
Across the street, the bald headed man stepped from the Tagia and stopped Delbert's pattern. He reached into his pocket and Delbert reached into his bag. A few moments later, after wheeling his bike around the airfoil vehicle with obvious appreciation, Delbert waved a jaunty good-bye and resumed his paper throwing pattern down the street. The man stepped back into his car, slid the bright band from his paper, and dropped it through the open window onto the street.
Ellery smiled. Delbert Dickson—christened Deedee by the neighborhood when he first appeared on the Morning News route—had become something of a neighborhood fixture as he made his rounds.
"I'm only part-time and I'm only temporary," he'd said to each household that first morning while his silver-tipped goatee hopped up and down with each word. "Here's my phone number. I deliver on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On either of those two mornings, you call me if you miss your Morning News—not that crazy circulation department. I'll deliver you a fresh copy and you'll have it read before they can figure out how to get you to the right desk for complaining."
That had been five years ago and he had never broken his promise. The neighborhood loved his jaunty ways and loved the always-changing bands of color he slipped over each paper to hold it tightly rolled. Red or yellow flashing through the morning dawn were the two colors Ellery loved to see.
Delbert Dickson—who wore dark brown contact lenses and had longish hair threaded with gray—was a fountainhead Dakotan. This morning, he threw red.
As she did every morning, rain or shine, Ellery waited until precisely eight o'clock before she opened her door and tucked the paper under her arm as she admired the day. Once back inside the house, she slipped the band from the paper with trembling hands.
Red didn't flash often.
Tears welled and rolled down her cheeks as she read the simple message gathered in the tight roll: We'll be home tonight. I miss you. I love you. Vickie.
Ellery sank to the couch, clutching the message fast to her chest. Through her folded fingers, she could feel the vibration of her heart pounding with happiness.
She held her hands up to her face, turning them back and forth as if the happiness had somehow left a tangible mark. She paused, staring curiously at veins, thick and blue, rippling beneath the fragile skin. Her eyes widened with shocked surprise.
They are old hands, she thought, filled with the marks of life. When did they change? She touched her face, traced the lines embedded in the soft skin. On impulse, she lifted her hem and marveled at the sharp contours of her knees, the leg bones so prominent.
"Without telling me, without asking me, you changed and yet, you serve my needs as faithfully, as strongly as you did when but a youth," she muttered to herself. "Is this the way of it, then? While I stay young, you, body, turn old—prepare for dust?"
Razi-el.
The name threaded its way into her thoughts.
Her hands stilled. After all these years, the name she couldn't remember had come to her. Razi-el. The Angel of Truth, Guardian of the sixth room, the one who placed in Solomon's hands the Covenant Ark with its precious Book of Life—the keys to the great mystery.
She heard Matthew's long ago voice whispering a litany. To the Living Souls he gave a number that was not myriad for they would not perish but be in the manner of everlasting life. I Am that I Am said: the Living Soul perisheth not but taketh for a time allotted My shadow of dust called Man until it shall decay as is the manner of Chaos. Then shall the Living Soul make for itself a new man, each in its turn, as it dwells in the House of Twelve Rooms. For that is the Law of everlasting life.
She heard a child's vow to one day see shadows dancing in the sunlight. She heard a grandfather's promise: if what you’re looking for is there, you will see it. She heard a mother’s wisdom: look beyond what you think is real if you would truly know a thing.
In her mind’s eye she saw dancers on a beach, watched flickering shadows gather into rippling rings of gold as immense power surged and ebbed above the sands, felt ag
ain the warmth of a rose-colored haze, the joy inexpressible, the deliverance from finite to infinite.
How blind I've been. We are the shadows. Shadows cast by a greater self; appearing and disappearing in time’s shifting light. Shadows playing the games of mortals again and again and again.
Eyes gleaming, she dropped the hem and watched it cover the truth of it. "For seventy-eight years, you have wrought for me, Shadow," she said with clear conviction. "I have no complaints. I have no regrets."
She strode toward the kitchen that held so many memories. Years of caution had become routine habit. Dropping Vickie's message into the sink, she gathered an igniter from a cabinet drawer and thumbed it on. Shielding it with her hand, she held the orange flame to the paper—watched the message curl into black dust.
Bianca whispered through her mind, but she refused to bow her head. "It is time, Doctor Raborman. We have reached the room of truth in our house of shadows. I am ready for your challenge." Whistling, she flushed ash residue down the drain.
Ellery waited in the dark, her ears straining for any unusual sound. Twice she rose from the couch and pressed her nose tight against the fog-shrouded glass of the French doors. She had heard the startup blast of the maroon Tagia an hour ago, had seen it glide away from the curb—a dark shape in the flowing mist. As always, she would be without surveillance for a few hours. This time the knowledge held no temptation—she would not bolt. Shivering, she padded to her kitchen and peered at the glowing clock. Three o'clock. Where can they be? she wondered. Vickie said night and now it's nearly morning. She jumped at the sudden yowl of a fighting cat. A can clattered. Somewhere a dog bayed. Another answered the call.
They've been caught, she thought. That's why she isn't here. "I won't listen to that kind of nonsense," she muttered to herself. "They've simply been delayed."
Ellery paced the living room. Going to the deck doors, she eased them open and stepped into the wet grayness. Her eyes searched for movement, a deeper gray. Nothing. A distant foghorn wailed its mournful warning.
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