The Supernatural Enhancements
Page 15
Let us skip forward to the digraph he. These letters fall in the same column of the grid, so the new rule is: Pick the letters below each one of them. Thus he = rh.
Farther on, the digraph ls falls in the same row of the grid. The rule here is: Pick the letters on the right of each one. Thus l becomes n, and s has no letter on its right, so we wrap to the left to find l. Thus ls = nl.
When rendering the encrypted message, avoid presenting it in two-letter blocks in order to hide the digraphic nature of the code. Here is the encrypted message:
ZHAVMFDPBRLCLVRHMCRKZNRKBNXITDLVRHHITQNLRCMX
Use the reverse process to decipher. Remember to change key words often.
A.’S DIARY
* * *
[Cont’d.]
So Playfair it is. That bit about “handicraft fans and cryptography purists” was a big hint—it has “Wells” written all over it. But there’s a more definitive proof. I’ve been staring at that cipher for a week: The only letter that doesn’t appear in it is J.
Sadly, I’m afraid that, despite our efforts so far to abide by Ambrose’s rules and be worthy of his secrets, I won’t be able to properly solve this puzzle. I may have to work around it: crack the cipher. Which, if I succeed, will give me a reason for pride. The manual says that cracking a Playfair “verges on the limits of human patience.” I can see why: I’ve been on it for two hours this evening and the gallery is already carpeted with five-by-five grids and scribbled nonsense in digraphs.
So yes, I smell a thrilling week ahead.
VIDEO RECORDING
* * *
MUSIC ROOM MON DEC-4-1995 01:34:59
The room is in the dark. In a pool of light from the TV screen at the far end, A. lies on the floor, writing in his diary. NIAMH is cuddled up on the sofa, sleeping in fetal position. HELP is taking good care of the leftover pizza.
APPLAUSE and the closing tune of Late Night with Conan O’Brien.
[A. stands up, slips the diary in his pocket. He stretches, then turns to Help.]
A.: Wake me up when Beakman’s on.
[To Niamh.] Niamh. Come on; it’s past your bedtime.
[She doesn’t move.]
Niamh?
[Nothing. He crouches next to her, leans a hand on her side.]
Look, Niamh, I’m sorry, I … [Sighs.] Maybe … Would you rather sleep alone?
[Without opening her eyes, she suddenly stretches both her arms toward him.]
Yeah, I thought so.
[He takes her in his arms, hers fastening around his neck, and he sets out on the long trip to the bedroom.]
[Halfway to the north door, mumbling:]
Stupid three-fucking-story house of doom.
[Niamh scoffs as they enter the dark area toward the door.]
DECEMBER 4
SECURITY VIDEOTAPE: POINT BLESS POST OFFICE
* * *
1995-12-04 MON 09:31
NO AUDIO.
[A GIRL looks right at the camera. Metal loops shine in her exposed ears; a tangled skein of long hair on top of her head faints down in a cascade of delicate curls, which she blows off her face twice in twenty seconds.]
[The EMPLOYEE comes up to the window, hands over a large envelope. The Mohawked girl takes it, bows slightly, and capers away Pippilongstockingwise.]
THE X-FILES
* * *
13—EXT—SHERIFF’S OFFICE—DAY
[MULDER storms out of the sheriff’s office, miffed; SCULLY catches up with him.]
SCULLY
Mulder!
[Reaching him.]
Mulder, I know what you’re thinking, and it’s crazy.
MULDER
[Turns, angry.]
Why? Why is it so hard to believe? Premonition in dreams has been attested since—
SCULLY
In supermarket tabloids! Mulder, dreams are just a by-product of the subconscious mind, which has its own awareness, but not the gift of precognition.
MULDER
Then how do you explain this?
[Hands the file to her.]
MUSIC ROOM MON DEC-4-1995 10:44:29
A. stands facing NIAMH, an arm extended to her, an open envelope in his hand. Their eyes are locked on each other.
SCULLY
[Off guard now, soothing.]
You’re reversing causality. Dreams don’t trigger events—events trigger dreams; our experiences feed our minds.
MULDER
Okay, how was his mind fed this? How can he dream about an event happening halfway around the world?
10:44:53
Same stance. Niamh fishes her notepad from inside her pullover and writes.
—Canada not that far.
LETTER
* * *
Axton House
1 Axton Rd.
Point Bless, VA 26969
Dear Aunt Liza,
[…] There is no sender’s address on the package, but the stamps are postmarked somewhere in Ontario. It contains no written messages, just photographs, but it’s safe to assume that it follows the telegram we received on Wednesday 29.
I’ll be attaching photocopies of some of the photographs. The postcard with the New England–like estate is labeled on the back as Sexton Hall, in Alder Parish, Sudbury. I think I recognize the trees on the left.
In the second picture, the twin girls dressed as fairies in a school play, they have red hair in the original.
In the third one, the family at the wedding, the couple is irrelevant. The same twins stand on the front row left, next to the Saint Bernard. The ones in turquoise dresses.
A TELEGRAM
* * *
From: Daniel Vasquez
Alder Parish, Ontario, Canada
FOUND! STOP PICTURES ON THE WAY STOP NAMES IN DECEMBER STOP DIOSKURI
This is the second telegram we’ve received from a Society member. (Who am I kidding—it’s the second telegram I’ve received in my life.)
Anyway, the first one arrived shortly before Ambrose’s death, from some Edward Cutler (aka Sophocles) in Ibiza. I just reread it; it features a similar structure: “Found! Thank you. I look forward to our next reunion.” It too announced he was sending a CD (the one I forbade Niamh to play again, because every time she does we literally drop whatever is in our hands, and even Help gets so overjoyed he pees on the carpet). Then there’s the letter from Prometheus (aka Silas W. Long), dated November first, which began with a straightforward, “I give up.” And finally, the fax from Tyche in Los Angeles, announcing his surrender as well. Can you feel your spider sense tingling here?
Ambrose wrote to Knox, “As the Host, I call the meetings. Members report to me. The Archives lie with me.” These telegrams and letters are definitely the members reporting.
Strückner said that during the December meeting each member was assigned a task. I’d say Edward “Sophocles” Cutler and Daniel “Dioskuri” Vasquez completed theirs. Silas “Prometheus” Long failed.
Then there’s that ledger page with the twenty code names. It was titled, “1994 Quest Status Report.” Number 4, Sophocles, was marked as “Found!” (The folder containing the CD and Long’s telegram was labeled 4.) Numbers 7 (Cybele) and 15 (Alexandros) were “Found!” too. Thus there should be two other numbered folders somewhere in the house.
We delved into Ambrose’s desks again, this time knowing what to look for. We found number 7, Cybele. It contained, among other things, a copy of a Mexican police file with a mug shot.
Her name is Amelia Ramos. She’s the woman holding the baby and the shotgun in my dream journal.
VIDEO RECORDING
* * *
KITCHEN MON DEC-4-1995 16:39:03
NIAMH staring at A., A. staring down at the papers and photographs sprawled over the counter, dumbfounded.
[Niamh writes on her notepad, shows it to him.]
I believe you.
[A. smirks.]
A.: You believe these people are hunting down their dreams?
[He sighs.]
[She mouths a silent holler, then slaps some papers in his direction.]
[Laughing.] Sorry! Sorry! I had to say it!
[THE PHONE RINGS. Both glance at the alien device on the wall.]
[RING.]
[They exchange looks.]
[RING.]
Okay, I’ll get it.
[On the fourth RING, he picks up.]
Hello, Wells residence. […] Uh, no, sir, he’s not at home; can I take a message for you? […] No, sir.
NIAMH: [Approaching, she writes hastily.]
A.: I’m Jones. [Reading from Niamh’s notepad.] I’m the new … “vailit.”
NIAMH: [Silently shouts the noun at him.]
A.: [Reading her lips.] Valet! I’m the new valet. […] As you wish, sir; I’ll take note of your call. You’re welcome, sir. Good-bye.
[He hangs up.]
That went well, right?
NIAMH: [She writes again, then shows.]
A.: Too British? How’s that?
NIAMH: [Mouths a word for him, wildly overacting.]
A.: [Reading her lips.] Jones. [Again.] Johns. [Again.] Jawns. Jaaawns.
NIAMH: [Thumbs up.]
LETTER
* * *
[Cont’d.]
The thing is I don’t need people to believe me. I need a Scully to confront me. And Niamh can’t do that job anymore—she’s clearly blinded by my sexy delusional blathering.
I could turn to you, but I’d really need someone who spoke to me in more than three lines per letter or one letter every two weeks.
It’s okay. I know just the right person.
Kisses,
A.
DECEMBER 5
AN INTERVIEW IN NEUE WISSENSCHAFT, MAY 1981—PART ONE
* * *
NEUE WISSENSCHAFT: And why crystal balls?
ISAAK DÄNEMARR: Why not?
NW: Well, it seems to stir up undesirable connections.
ID: I see. I don’t know; I haven’t given much thought to the design. At this point I’m too focused on functional aspects to pay any attention to aesthetics. The ball is just a containment unit.
NW: Like a roll of film.
ID: More like a computer disk.
NW: What is the difference?
ID: The film actually contains the little pictures on it. Whether you use a projector or just look with your naked eye, you see them. The disk contains digitized information, ones and zeros. Without a computer to process it, it is useless.
NW: So, what kind of computer do we need here?
ID: A human brain.
NW: Please expand. What is inside the ball?
ID: Broadly speaking, it is a scale model of a neural network. Of course, by scale I mean larger-than-life. It contains a kind of rough synthetic protoplasm based on Opfstau and Hannemann’s collagen; I call it neuroplasm. This is a chemical compound coagulated into a kind of flexible foamy tissue with microscopic pores, which acts like the brain as conceived by the reticular theory.
NW: Just for clarity—are we talking living tissue here?
ID: Well … organic.
NW: Living?
ID: Kind of.
AUDIO RECORDING
* * *
[Against a background of coffee stirrers and speakers.]
A.: Morning, Doc.
DR. BELKNAP: Morning. Morning. Thank you for coming this far.
A.: It’s okay. Niamh likes to drive. And I like the place.
DR. BELKNAP: Ambrose used to like it too. Are you sure you don’t want to take this upstairs?
A.: No. I don’t need therapy anymore. I told you, I have her.
[A slight demur.]
DR. BELKNAP: Okay. Let’s get straight to the point. I read the bibliography you recommended. It’s … eldritch, for lack of a better word.
A.: I don’t know what eldritch means, so I think it’s a great word.
WAITER: Morning, Doctor.
DR. BELKNAP: Hi, Justin. Coffee, please.
A.: Were you aware that these things existed?
DR. BELKNAP: Crystal balls? Containing dreams? I am not fully aware of their existence now.
A.: But you read Bianchi’s article.
DR. BELKNAP: I haven’t seen the artifact. Did you bring it?
A.: No.
DR. BELKNAP: Do you have it?
A.: Yes. In a box, inside a box, inside a box, in the basement. With other boxes. I never understood that penchant among treasure keepers and ancient civilizations of putting the golden idol on an altar in an empty room. It’s like telling Indiana Jones, “Hi, here’s our most prized possession, ready for you to steal.”
DR. BELKNAP: Like where Ambrose used to keep it?
A.: Used to keep that one. There are others.
DR. BELKNAP: Where?
A.: In a vault. We found it last week.
HANDHELD CAMERA8
* * *
The camera follows A. with the map, all echoing footsteps against the sunlight crawling through the western windows high on the wall. They U-turn around the young wooden wine racks, where oak kegs digest their contents and torn spiderwebs swing sadly from the bottles, and pace toward the darker nave of the basement, where old junk comes to live, and a puddle of leaked water at the far end reflects the sunlight and draws waving lines on the ceiling, and the basement is green-blue and cold like an indoor swimming pool trespassed at night.
A. stops by a cluster of retired furniture and discarded paintings on the south wall, checks the map again, drops it to curl into a scroll on the floor. He pushes a large canvas aside, dragging or tumbling other minor framed things propped in front, and the circle of stainless steel behind it eclipses out. The camera zooms in to check the Startrekish lock in the center of the vault door—a minimal disk of the same shiny material, with a cruciform keyhole in which A. fits a four-sided key. The vault clacks open with a hydraulic wheeze; A. reaches for the side, pulls, and swings the massive door open wider. He checks the camera in a close-up, a slightly reddened eye like mist before the tempest.
A. steps into the open mouth, camera following, watching its step, Chuck high-tops going over the high steel sill, and the image fades to black.
A light switch snaps. Crystal balls shine at the camera, their somber surfaces untroubled but for a sticky label apiece, each one nested in its square compartment of the shelves covering the curved wall inside the cast-iron-ribbed vault, filled with ancient file cabinets of wood-faced drawers on black iron frames, each of them marked with a handmade label in a tin frame.
A sort of flat-topped birdbath stands in the center like an empty altar.
AUDIO RECORDING
* * *
DR. BELKNAP: How did you know there was a vault?
A.: We knew Ambrose kept some archives somewhere. Plus we had the blueprints; they gave away the vault.
[Spoon dances in a coffee cup.]
DR. BELKNAP: And you claim that by removing this crystal ball from the room, the dreams stopped.
A.: No; I keep dreaming the same stuff. Mostly. But now it’s really dreams. They lost power. It’s like … it’s my brain re-creating the same scenes. Not my brain being fed the scenes.
[Background conversations.]
You don’t believe me. C’mon. Say I’m mad; we’re not in therapy anymore.
DR. BELKNAP: No, I won’t say that. It’s just … hard to imagine.
A.: Well, you’re a psychologist—
DR. BELKNAP: Psychotherapist.
A.: Whatever; you must know how it works. An artifact containing … raw feelings, unprocessed sights and sounds and pains that the brain interprets—is that too crazy?
DR. BELKNAP: No. It has existed for thousands of years. It’s called a book.
AN INTERVIEW IN NEUE WISSENSCHAFT, MAY 1981—PART TWO
* * *
NEUE WISSENSCHAFT: So you can record dreams in this.
ISAAK DÄNEMARR: Well, it is far f
rom a refined prototype—but yes, I have been able to record and replay. Loose images, at least.
NW: Like your mentor Karl Hannemann’s rampant horse?
ID: Much more than Professor Hannemann’s horse. Bigger notions. Complex ideas. Even complex strings of ideas.
NW: For instance?
ID: Well, it is hard to manage wakeful thoughts, because the stream of consciousness tends to wander. But, for instance, I can make somebody listen to music, and record what images the music evokes in him.
NW: Are we talking just video or audio?
ID: Video, audio, smell, flavor, touch … (Smiles.) You must not think in terms of screens or speakers; I can’t play these thoughts on a TV. I tried that. They play on your brain.
NW: This is better than cinema!
ID: Indeed. Although it is only good for short subjects now.
NW: What is the capacity of one of these crystal balls? In hours of sleep.
ID: Seconds. It is hard to tell; so far I am hardly able to replay anything outside the last ten seconds recorded. All the previous material is lost. The protoplasm is reshaped. Overwritten, in computer terms.
NW: Do you mean that thoughts do take up room?