by A. G. Riddle
The elevator opened onto a marble-floored lobby with wooden double doors. Yuri placed his hand on a palm reader by the doors, and they swung open.
A slender woman in a black business suit sat behind a raised reception desk. There was no logo on the wall or descriptor of any kind. She smiled at Yuri. “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Jennifer. I’d like you to meet Desmond Hughes.”
She rose and shook his hand.
“Desmond will be staying with us for a while.”
“Welcome.”
“Thanks,” Desmond said, looking around, still not sure what this place was.
Yuri led him down a hall that ended in a tiny lobby with four doors. Yuri drew another card from his pocket, swiped it across a pad by one of the doors, and pushed it open.
Inside was an apartment with modern furnishings. The living room had a breathtaking view of the bay. There was a single bedroom, a study, and a well-appointed kitchen.
“This is home now.”
Desmond nodded absently. “Is this…”
“A hotel of sorts. The top three floors are condos. We own them all.”
Desmond tried to put the pieces together. “I’ll be working at Rapture?”
“No.”
Yuri led Desmond out of the apartment, back down the hall, and past the reception desk. With both hands he slid open a set of pocket doors, revealing the most impressive room Desmond had ever seen.
Desmond wandered inside, staring, unable to speak. Behind him, he heard the doors close.
“I thought you’d like this.”
The library was three stories tall, with a spiral staircase in the corner that led to a horseshoe-shaped balcony on two levels. At the opposite end, a three-story wall of glass provided a view of the bay. The last rays of sunlight were clinging to Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge like seaweed being pulled out with the tide. Long reading tables with glowing lamps sat empty.
“It starts here,” Yuri said softly.
“What?”
“Your education.” Yuri walked to the window. “Your real education.”
“How?”
“With a question.” Yuri faced him. “I will ask you three questions. Each will reveal another layer of truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“The human race. You must understand the problem before we solve it. The answers are in this room.”
Desmond scanned the shelves. Science and history books. Biographies. And tomes with no markings at all. In the corner, he spotted a computer on a podium. A digital catalog?
He smirked. “So once I read all these books, I’ll know?”
Ignoring his levity, Yuri replied seriously. “It wouldn’t help.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“What am I looking for?”
“The answer to a very strange mystery.” Yuri walked to a world map and pointed to Africa. “Six million years ago, an ape was born in Africa. We know one thing for certain about her: she had more than one child. Every human is descended from one of those children. And every chimpanzee is descended from another one of her children. Incredible, isn’t it? Our last common ancestor with chimps lived six million years ago, yet our genomes are 98.8 percent the same. After millions of years, only 1.2 percent of the genome has diverged. It tells you what an incredible difference just a small number of genes can make.”
He studied the map. “The story gets stranger from there. Two and a half million years ago, the first humans appeared—the first members of the genus Homo. Also in Africa. They hung around for about half a million years, then began exploring. Eurasia first, then Europe and Asia.
“Neanderthals evolved half a million years ago—in Europe we believe. They eventually migrated to Asia, where they lived beside Homo erectus for hundreds of thousands of years, perhaps even using similar stone tools to hunt the same game.
“Our particular human species evolved two hundred thousand years ago—again in Africa. Think about it: at the time, there are other human species all over Europe and Asia. These other early humans have survived for two million years. We are the upstart. At first, we seem unremarkable. The order of the world continues.
“Where things begin to get interesting is about seventy thousand years ago. We change—we develop some sort of advantage. A small band of humans treks out of Africa—and proceeds to take over this planet like no species ever has before. Every other human species dies out. The megafauna fall. We remake the world. But perhaps the most extraordinary event happens forty-five thousand years ago—in your homeland.”
“Australia.”
“Yes. Before then, no human species had ever set foot on the continent of Australia. And for good reason. It was isolated, separated from all other landmasses by a minimum of sixty miles of open sea—and that’s if you had a map, and knew which islands to hop to and which direction to take.”
Yuri pointed to a small island in the Solomon Sea, on the eastern edge of Papua New Guinea. “Buka Island. Separated by over a hundred and twenty miles of open sea. Human remains have been found there that are thirty thousand years old. Think about that: a group of humans, thirty to forty thousand years ago, with the ability to make boats and navigate over vast distances of open sea. At that time, it would have been the most advanced invention in history; they would have been on the cutting edge. It would have been like a country landing on the moon in the 1700s—while the rest of the world was exploring in wooden boats.”
Desmond studied the map. “So what’s the mystery?”
“The mystery,” Yuri said, “is what happened to them.”
Desmond waited.
“Forty-five thousand years ago, they were on the leading edge of the human species. Light years ahead. Yet when the Dutch arrived in Australia in 1606, their descendants were primitives, hunter-gatherers. They hadn’t even invented agriculture, or writing.
“Your first question, Desmond, is: What happened to them?”
In the van off Sand Hill Road, Conner sat watching the heart rate monitor. The rhythm had stabilized in the last few minutes.
“What was that?”
Dr. Park looked up from his laptop. “I assume we just saw his physiological reaction to regaining a memory.”
“So he has the memory now?”
Park held up his hands. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because I’ve never done this, for one. I’m monitoring his brain waves. He’s definitely in REM.”
“REM?”
“Rapid Eye Movement. It’s a sleep stage where we see alpha and beta brain wave patterns and desynchronous waves—”
“I’m not here for a brain wave lecture. Tell me what’s going on with him.”
“REM is a unique sleep stage. The body is effectively paralyzed. It’s the stage where we have vivid, story-like dreams. The only dreams we remember occur during this period.”
“So you think the memory is literally playing out like a dream he’s going to remember?”
“That’s my assumption. It seems logical. The implant could simulate dreaming—it would be a good way for the brain to regain the memory. It already understands that process.”
“So you’ll know when the memory ends?”
“Conceivably. If we see a change in brain waves, I think it’s safe to assume the memory has unspooled.”
“Good. Let me know when the credits roll, Doctor.”
Conner would have to drug his brother and interrogate him later—discover what he learned. Hopefully the key to finding Rendition was in this memory.
Through the window, he watched two armored troop carriers barrel down Sand Hill Road, east toward Stanford and Palo Alto. A minute later, three Humvees led a convoy of medium tactical vehicles loaded with troops, who peered out the back, past the canvas flaps, their automatic rifles in their laps.
The collapse of the internet was doing exactly what Conner needed: causin
g chaos. That would buy him some time.
Chapter 7
Peyton squinted at the bright helmet light and held up a hand to block the beam.
The SEAL stepped into the cramped office, toward Peyton and her mother. His mouth was moving, but no sound broadcasted over the comm line.
Lin raised a hand to her helmet, changed channels, and began speaking.
Peyton also switched back to channel one.
“… just got through,” the technician said.
“Good.” Lin’s voice was emotionless.
“Should we proceed to the next office?”
“Negative. Seal the office you just opened per SOPs and prepare for departure. We’re done here for now.”
The SEAL stepped out of the office and disappeared back down the passageway.
Lin turned her helmet, stared at Peyton, and held up four gloved fingers. Peyton switched channels again.
“Can we proceed?”
Peyton studied her mother’s slightly lined face. “What does it do? Your Looking Glass. The Rabbit Hole.”
“It’s very hard to describe—”
“Will it hurt anyone?”
Lin looked pained at the question. “No. It’s not like that.”
“What is it like?”
“It will change our theory of everything.”
Like most children, Peyton had grown up taking her mother’s word as fact. Usually, Lin Shaw’s pronouncements were the final word on matters. Peyton hadn’t been a rebellious teenager; she was the quiet one, her nose always in a book or playing alone. She wasn’t used to conflict. That’s one of the things that drew her to epidemiology. Viruses and bacteria hurt people, but they were microscopic. The fight wasn’t large and in your face, but it mattered. A lot.
Yet here and now, she felt that she had to press her mother. She needed to know that what they were doing mattered—and that it would do what her mother promised. “Will it stop Yuri and the Citium?”
“If I’m right, it will neutralize him.”
“And will it help me find Desmond?”
“No. But I will. I promise you that, Peyton. I know what he means to you. I know what it’s like to lose the love of your life to circumstances you can’t control.”
The reference to Peyton’s father brought a pang of sadness. Her mother didn’t waver though.
“You and I will finish this. Together.”
In the submersible, Peyton watched the depth reading count down to zero. The specially built vessel had no windows, but a flat panel computer screen showed the view from six cameras: one mounted above, one below, and one on each of its four sides. The thick sheet of ice approached, then passed by. The vessel shook as it crested the water line.
Peyton unlatched her helmet the moment her boots hit the deck. A thick white cloud spread out, a mixture of cigarette smoke and the Russian sailors’ hot breath in the Arctic air. The voices of the sailors and research team were a chaotic cacophony, seemingly with no source. Floodlights shone down from the deck above, like four moons beyond the cloud cover on an alien world. Through the din, Peyton could make out some of the arguments—researchers discussing whether they should leave. Something was very wrong.
Lin walked over to the US Navy sailor who was operating the controls that tethered the submersible to the Arktika. “What’s the problem, Chief?”
“Internet’s down, ma’am.”
“A problem on our end?”
“Negative, ma’am.”
“Elaborate.”
The man turned from the controls. “Sat link went down fifteen minutes ago.”
“Ours or theirs?” Lin jerked her head toward the Russians.
“Both.”
Lin’s eyes darted back and forth, as if speed-reading.
“The links are good, there’s just no response on the other end. JTF-GNO. Rubicon. They’re dark—”
Lin spun and shouted across the deck.
“Vasiliev!”
The burly Russian officer emerged from the cloud, anger on his face.
“Sound the alarm!” Lin yelled.
He stared, confused.
“Do it! Now, Vasiliev! We’re under attack.”
His expression softened as if he were putting the pieces together. He unclipped the handheld radio from his belt and brought it to his face, but he never got a word out.
The deck shuddered as the bomb went off. The floodlights went out, and dim yellow emergency lights flickered on, only to wink out when a second explosion rocked the ship. This one lasted longer, like thunder rolling through the massive structure.
The deck seemed to churn with bodies as everyone sprang into motion. The sailors raced toward their muster stations. Their shouting echoed off the metal decks. Peyton thought she heard muffled rifle reports, thumping, rhythmic in the darkness. A gust of air blew the white cloud of cigarette smoke and steam away, like dust blowing in the wind, and with the misty curtain gone, Peyton realized that everyone had stopped moving. They were staring at the helicopter on the deck above. Its rotors were spinning up. The sailors screamed obscenities, knowing their best chance of escape was slipping away.
Lin’s voice sounded, barely audible in the shouts: “Get back!”
The helo exploded in flames and shrapnel. The blast blew Peyton off her feet. Two men landed on top of her. Their weight and the impact with the deck would have crushed her if not for the thick suit. Her ears rang, and blood trickled down her face. She realized it wasn’t her own blood, but was dripping from above—from one of the sailors who’d landed on top of her. She looked up, and saw a piece of metal lodged in his face.
She reached up and pushed against the man on the top. He shifted and slid off. She arched her back, trying to move the other man, but he was too heavy. She rocked back and forth on her elbows, and finally managed to turn and crawl out from under him.
She checked his pulse. Nothing. He was dead.
The deck was a horror scene. Bodies lay in stacks at awkward angles, like a box of matches that had been emptied haphazardly. A fire crackled in the helicopter’s charred wreckage, sending plumes of black smoke down to the lower deck. A few sailors had started to move, like zombies rising from a mass grave, their movements lit only by the green and purple streaks of the aurora borealis.
Their mouths moved, but Peyton couldn’t hear the words—all was silence. No—a dull ringing. Peyton shook her head and crawled to the closest sailor. Dead.
But the next one was alive.
She called to a man nearby, who had just gotten to his feet. But she couldn’t hear her own voice, and if he could hear her, he ignored her. He ran to a lifeboat and began untying it.
Peyton tried to focus. The research team. Below decks. In the dark. She had to warn them, help them get out. And save the data.
What else?
Her mother.
Lin Shaw lay ten feet away. Not moving.
Peyton stumbled across the deck, wincing as her feet dug into the bodies. Only a few squirmed at her touch.
She took her mother’s face in her hands, then slid two fingers down to her carotid artery and pressed, waited, dreading…
She felt a pulse.
Lin’s eyes stayed closed, but her breathing was slowly accelerating. She was coming to. But Peyton couldn’t wait. Her mom was okay, and that was good enough for now.
Peyton spun and searched the deck for her helmet. It was still near the submersible where she had taken it off. She pulled it on and activated the lights.
She moved to the closest hatch, still taking careful steps. Inside, she found a ladder and descended.
The passageways were dark, lit only by her helmet lights. They reminded her of the Beagle, except without the ice crystals and dust motes flying by. She wondered if a watery grave on the ocean floor would be the Arktika’s fate. Or were the attackers only trying to retrieve the data and artifacts?
Gradually, her hearing returned. Voices and footsteps echoed all around her. She had to stop in the passageway
s several times to allow Russian sailors to pass. Soon the corridors were swarming with people. Peyton felt like a pinball in a machine, tossed about with no control.
She was almost to the cargo hold when a hand gripped her shoulder, pulled her back, and pinned her to the wall.
Another set of helmet lights shone into her eyes.
Her mother’s.
Her visor was up, and she was panting, desperately trying to catch her breath. Peyton raised her own helmet visor so she could hear her mother’s voice.
“We have to…” Lin leaned forward and put her hands on her knees. “Get off the ship.”
“Mom, the researchers, the data—”
“No time, Peyton. They’ll sink her.”
“Who?”
“Yuri.”
“He’s here?”
Lin shook her head. She was finally getting her breath back. “His men. I know it.”
Two beams of light rounded the corner, then stopped moving. A man’s voice called into the passageway. “Doctor Shaw.”
Both women turned.
A small smile crossed the man’s lips. “Doctors Shaw, I should say.”
The men were dressed in US Navy working uniforms. Peyton recognized the desert digital pattern—it was restricted to SEALs and other sailors assigned to Naval Special Warfare units. The two men also wore headlamps, body armor, and cold weather gear. Automatic rifles hung from their shoulders.
“Lieutenant Stockton, ma’am,” the first man said. He nodded to his companion. “Chief Petty Officer Bromitt and I have orders to get you off this ship.”
Lin eyed the man carefully, but didn’t respond. Peyton sensed her hesitation.
“Afraid we don’t have much time, Doctor Shaw. If you and your daughter will follow us…”
To Peyton’s surprise, Lin fell in behind the petty officer. Not knowing what else to do, Peyton followed.
With each step, the passageways started to fill. Russian sailors rushed by with flashlights. Members of the biology team strained to see by the light of their cell phones. Archaeologists in white suits lumbered through the cramped corridors, some holding up LED bars and penlights.
