The Auriga Project (Translocator Trilogy Book 1)

by M. G. Herron

  Ixchel spotted her and rushed over. She took the wet cloth from Eliana’s hand and scrubbed a few spots on her face until she was satisfied. Then she demanded a sarong from one of the other women who had clothing to spare and wrapped it around Eliana tightly, covering up the remainder of the purple paint as best she could. Most of the women, especially the younger ones, were sparely dressed. They stared at her and pointed without embarrassment for a moment then returned their attention to the ceremony.

  The men had reached the base of the pyramid. Six figures climbed the steps. When they reached the summit, the chief—it must have been, for the shaman’s headdress he wore was clearly outlined against the large moon—raised his arms. The obsidian knife in his hands glinted in the moonlight.

  Four others bent the shaman backward over a block of stone, one man gripping each of his limbs. The chief called down a few words, a sonorous phrase directed at the crowd of people. Their feverish dancing slowed, gradually came to a stop. A hush washed over the courtyard.

  Slowly, people raised hands into the air. Their thumbs and forefingers closed in circles, each of their other three fingers extended.

  A-okay, Eliana thought.

  The chief plunged his knife down then reached in and pulled out the former shaman’s heart. As he smeared blood on a statue at the back of the platform the crowd erupted once again, and Eliana puked onto her purple feet.

  8

  Lockdown

  “This is crazy,” Reuben said. “You know that, right?”

  They had parked Reuben’s Ford Taurus in the middle of the parking lot in front of a monolithic white building with small windows. A round blue NASA logo occupied the highest corner of the front-facing wall.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Amon said. He rubbed his thumb against the smooth plastic of the transponder prototype in one hand and sipped at the bitter gas station coffee they’d picked up on their way out of town with the other. He’d only slept two, maybe three hours out of the last forty-eight, but the caffeine and the short nap he took while Reuben drove into the hill country had given him a second wave of energy.

  “Tell me again,” Reuben said. “Why not call them like a normal person? Get one of NASA’s nerds to send a sample down to our lab.”

  “It would take weeks to process a formal request. This is NASA we’re talking about. Besides, if I had someone else send the sample, how could I be sure it was from the same meteorite?”

  Reuben pursed his lips. “Valid point.”

  Amon stared out the window through a gap in the rows of cars parked in the lot, eyeballing the front door. Located about an hour outside of Austin, the building was three stories tall with no decoration and zero character, belying the high-tech equipment kept inside. Keycard swipes marked three exits on the sides and back, and one in front.

  NASA owned the building, but since the LTA was originally established as a division within NASA, the sister agencies often shared office space. Thus, Amon, through the Auriga Project, had been granted general access to this and several other NASA/LTA buildings.

  “All I know is that Eliana was wearing that ring when she translocated,” Amon said. “And I got the carbonado here. NASA retrieved the meteorite from Antarctica last year.”

  “A carbonado is nothing more than a funny-colored diamond. Why would a diamond throw the translocation off like that?”

  “What difference does it make if it helps us find her?”

  Reuben exhaled and nodded. “You’re right, but…”

  Amon leaned forward in his seat. “Were there always cameras on this building?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think there were. Wait a minute, that’s Audrey, get down.”

  Amon first met Audrey when he interviewed her for a job at Fisk Industries over two years ago. They had discovered, to their mutual delight, that they were both fascinated with meteorites. She took the job at NASA, however, because Fisk Industries didn’t focus on the kind of work she was passionate about. Amon had always respected that. They kept in touch, however, and when the rare meteorite sample arrived in her lab, she sent Amon an excited email, inviting him down to check out her latest project.

  Fortunately, Audrey didn’t recognize Reuben’s car or happen to glance down at the two men slouching in the front seats as she passed by their window.

  As she approached the front door of the building, a man in a baseball cap and a black polo shirt opened the door from the inside.

  “Since when did they get extra security guards?” Amon said.

  “You’re asking me?” Reuben said. “This is the first time I've ever been here..”

  “My keycard should still work; I’m going to try one of the side doors.” Amon pulled the car door handle.

  “Wait!” Reuben said. “Give me that thing.” He held his hand out.

  Amon looked down. He forgot he had been gripping the transponder. He handed it back and slipped out of the car.

  He tried to appear casual as he stepped quickly between rows of cars, moving through the parking lot to the side of the building. A van door slid open and closed somewhere behind him. He maintained an even pace and kept his eyes down.

  He rounded a corner of the building. At an unguarded side door, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and pressed it against the black square reader. All Fisk Industries buildings had similar keycards securing their doors. They shared a common database of users, a list of every employee with access to a Fisk building. The card Amon kept in his wallet gave him access to all of them, but not necessarily to each room inside. He didn’t, for instance, have access to the lab where the meteorites were stored, but he figured he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  The signal light on top of the reader flashed red. Amon removed the card from the wallet and rubbed it against the reader without the leather of the wallet interfering. Again, a red signal light blinked.

  “Dammit,” he said.

  “Mr. Fisk?” a voice called. A camera shutter snapped carelessly between wheezy breaths.

  He smacked the card against the reader again, and again it was rejected.

  “Dude, it is you,” the voice said. Amon turned and gazed up at a large balding man. Camera straps dragged a windbreaker off his round shoulders. “I told my producer you wouldn’t be all the way out here right now, not with what happened to your wife and all, but I’ve been camping out here anyhow. Shit, am I glad to be wrong. My name’s Carter. Can I get a quote from you?”

  Amon hurried around to another side of the building, trying not to make eye contact with the reporter. He snapped his card against the reader marking the back exit. Red denial winked back at him.

  “Come on,” Amon said.

  The reporter caught up with him, wheezing harder. “Man, you’re quick, dude. The footage of the accident is all over the Internet. I’ve watched it, like, a hundred times.” Three more quick snaps of the camera shutter followed. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.” Ch-chic ch-chic.

  Amon hurried back the way he’d come, skirting around the reporter and shielding his face. When he reached the corner, he broke into a sprint, finally slamming himself into the passenger seat of the Taurus and heaving the door shut behind him. Lynyrd Skynyrd crooned “Sweet Home Alabama” on the radio—Reuben liked the classics.

  “I can’t get in,” he panted.

  “What the hell is wrong with the front door?”

  “Forget it. Let’s go.”

  The reporter lumbered toward the car, two cameras swinging at his sides, his mouth wide and gasping for air like a guppy out of water.

  The front door to the building swung open, and a security guard peered out to check on the commotion. He watched the reporter run like Chris Farley in a sketch comedy then took out a cell phone and held it to his ear.

  “But you told me—” Reuben objected.

  The reporter slid into the side of the Taurus. He held a business card to the window and asked Amon a
question made unintelligible by his panting. Statesman, the card read, the name of an Austin-based newspaper.

  “Go!” Amon yelled.

  Reuben ratcheted the column shifter into gear and sped off.

  Amon wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans the whole way back to the city. “Something’s going on here, Reuben, something bad.”

  “You probably just demagnetized your card with your cell phone. Happens to me all the time.”

  “No, I always keep them separate.”

  “Okay. Well, someone could have revoked your priority on accident, maybe?”

  “What about that reporter camping out there? He said he didn’t think I was going to be there, but someone must have tipped him off.”

  Reuben pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Did he say who?”

  “I didn’t stop long enough to ask.”

  “Look, we’ll get the keycard fixed and come back tomorrow. No harm, no foul.”

  “Something about it doesn’t feel right.”

  Reuben flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right, and I’m being paranoid,” Amon said. “Can I change the station?”

  Reuben nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.

  Amon flipped the radio from classic rock to an AM band news channel.

  The voice of Reagan Gruber, the controversial ultraconservative radio personality, floated through the speakers. “Are you really surprised? His own wife vanishes into thin air on camera and you expect the program to continue to be funded? ON CAMERA. Of course the Lunar Terraform Alliance doesn’t want anything to do with him now. Of course they should shut him down—and confiscate that unstable, irresponsible contraption. This is a matter of public safety, and the Hopper, as that nut job affectionately calls his invention, is a danger to us all.”

  #

  They could tell from blocks away that a furor of activity had taken hold of the campus. It was unusually busy for a weekday afternoon: media vans parked haphazardly in the fire lane in front of the headquarters building with spotlights and cameras prepared and electrical equipment jacked in to solar cells Fisk Industries had probably manufactured. Two pairs of police patrol cars kept tabs on the growing crowd from a reasonable distance.

  “Good thing we’re in my car,” Reuben said. “I’ll park on the east end of the campus. We can get into the labs through Solar R&D without anyone noticing.”

  That turned out to be wishful thinking. Lookouts had been stationed at every entrance, and by the time they reached the entrance to Solar R&D, a mob of hungry-eyed, microphone-waving reporters bore down upon them.

  Amon slammed his wallet into the card reader. The light flashed green, and the door opened inward. Reuben hurried in behind him, and they heaved the doors shut. Two reporters squeezed through, barking after them, but they managed to extricate themselves with the help of a couple Fisk Industries employees who spotted Amon and Reuben and ran to their aid.

  “See,” Amon said to Reuben under his breath once they were out of earshot, “I told you my card wasn’t demagnetized.”

  Reuben harrumphed.

  At the entrance to the underground physics labs, an entirely different kind of chaos held sway. Lucas stood at the head of a gathering of scientists with Wes at his shoulder. He was telling them that their careers at Fisk Industries had come to an abrupt and irrevocable end.

  “Without funding from the Lunar Terraform Alliance,” said Lucas, straining to be heard over the hubbub of objections and curses, “we can’t keep you all on.”

  “I’ve dedicated years to Fisk Industries!” someone yelled from the back.

  “We know,” said Wes. “And you’ll be generously compensated for your service.”

  “This is bullshit!” said Jeanine, which made Amon smile. “Ten years of hard work laid to waste by one single screwup. And we weren’t really even given a chance to figure out—”

  When she saw Amon, she stopped midsentence. Her mouth fell open, her cheeks turned red. “Amon, I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Why?” he said, giving Wes and Lucas a glare. “Everything you said is true. This is bullshit. We weren’t given a chance to figure out what went wrong with the Translocator. That’s why no one is being let go.”

  “Amon,” Wes said, staring him down. “This isn’t your decision.”

  “It certainly isn’t yours.”

  “What do you know!?” said Wes, jabbing Amon in the chest. “Have you brought four companies back from the brink of bankruptcy? Have you spent the last two weeks patching the holes in this sinking ship? While you were tinkering with equations in your lab, Lucas and I were busy keeping your company afloat.”

  Amon held his shaking hands behind his back. Bad luck didn’t come in threes. It used the first three hellish stabs to get you on the ground then kicked your teeth in while you bled out in the dirt.

  “I know what needs to be done to salvage this company,” Wes continued. “Fisk Industries wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for my capital and my political connections.”

  “No one funded us for how well we can give a speech, Wes. They funded us for our research and our solar panels.”

  Lucas pressed his hands together in front of his chest, beseeching Amon to listen. “Please, Amon, we can’t afford to pay these scientists without funding from the LTA.”

  “The LTA will change their tune when we identify the problem with the Translocator and fix it.” And find Eliana. His eyes seesawed between Lucas’ downcast face and the twinkle of avarice in Wes’s eyes. Of course they had been working together—Wes was a master at manipulating good-hearted people like Lucas. It made him immensely sad that those who were supposed to help protect the company were so eager to dismantle it.

  “No, they won’t,” said Wes.

  A chill ran down Amon’s spine. Wes seemed too sure. He turned on Lucas. “Did you tell him?”

  “N—no,” Lucas said. “I swear.”

  “Tell me what?” Wes demanded.

  “Are you working with them?” Amon shot back.

  “With who?”

  “With whoever is behind this trap!”

  Wes McManis cocked his head like a computing machine, calculating with precision, searching for weakness. “You’re losing it, aren’t you? Paranoia. Anger. When was the last time you slept? You need to get some rest.”

  “I need to find Eliana. And you need to back the fuck off.” The words tumbled out before he caught them. Amon felt his eyes bulge.

  Wes edged back. “You really are losing it.”

  Amon swung his head around, looking for support, but even Jeanine was looking at him warily out of the corners of her eyes, like he was a rabid dog.

  Over Wes’s shoulder, Amon saw Fowler and Montoya step around the corner. Half a dozen more men and women trailed them, wearing plastic gloves and carrying forensic kits and computer bags. A cargo mule drone brought up the rear of the procession.

  Amon took note of the equipment: Despite his misgivings about Fowler and Montoya, this was certainly the FBI’s modus operandi. They couldn’t take the arch with that crew, but they could lug away critical equipment, disabling the Hopper until they returned with a large enough container to commandeer the rest. Judging by the size and kind of containers they chose—for, certainly, the drone’s cargo storage had a built-in Faraday cage and a thick layer of electrical insulation—they knew exactly what they were looking for. They’d pack up the main control unit, download the translocation data, and wipe the local backups.

  It would be as if his research had never existed.

  He kept redundant backups for emergencies, but Amon wouldn’t be able to recover from the hardware sabotage. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Amon grabbed Wes by the shirt and pulled him close. Spit flew into Wes’s face as he snarled, and he didn’t care how crazy it made him look. “You bastard,” he said. “You knew they were coming.”

  Wes only smi
led. Amon shoved him back and glared at Lucas. He couldn’t be mad at his old friend like he could at Wes. With Lucas, he was simply disappointed that he had let himself be taken advantage of.

  Finally, Amon took Reuben aside and whispered in his ear: “Watch your email.”

  With no further warning, Amon juked through the gathering of startled scientists and sprinted toward the lab.

  Montoya saw him move first. “Hey!” he shouted.

  The crowd of loyal scientists and researchers closed ranks behind him, blocking Montoya and giving Amon a head start. Amon pumped his arms down the corridor, pausing long enough to throw any fire doors he passed shut behind him.

  The fire doors would merely slow them down. There was only one door that would keep them out. One door, for security purposes, that wasn’t hardwired to the main grid.

  He skidded to a halt inside the automatic glass doors leading to Hopper’s lab. The automatic doors sighed closed behind him. At the control unit, Amon keyed in the lockdown code only he knew. Electromagnets released the blast door, a three-foot-thick wall of solid steel. It dropped into place over the lab’s normal glass door one inch at a time, agonizingly slow.

  Overhead, charges went off in a series of pops and hisses, welding the rooftop telescope opening, which had been used for the demonstration, permanently shut.

  Montoya made it to the end of the long hall. The automatic doors to the lab had been locked when the blast door was released, so they didn’t slide open as Montoya approached. He punched the glass and paced back, made as if to draw something from his jacket, then seemed to change his mind as someone called his attention from behind.

  Through his only shrinking window to the outside world, Amon waved to Montoya. Fowler came up behind him. She stared at Amon with barely contained rage.

  The blast door finally reached the floor and sealed into place with a heavy thunk.