Black Sun Rising (Order Of The Black Sun Book 3)

by P. W. Child

  Sam strolled over to the mini bar. "One quick thing before we go," he said, reaching in and taking out a little bottle. He poured its clear contents into two shot glasses and passed one to Julia Rose.

  "What's this?"

  "Don't know," said Sam. "Booze of some kind." He necked his swiftly, and then smacked his lips. "Ah, grappa, I think. It's a little bit of an acquired taste, but I'm really sure this is the kind of event you should line your stomach for."

  Julia Rose shrugged. "Ok, then." She knocked hers back and pulled a face. "Ugh. You weren't kidding. Wow! That's strong."

  "Yup," Sam said. "Now let's go and see how much free champagne we can get through before they figure out we're a pair of liars and kick us out."

  The entrance to the dining room had been draped with a pristine white curtain with the FireStorm logo emblazoned on it—an image of the sun with its rays bursting out to reach the far edges of the cloth. It looked disturbingly like the symbol in the boardroom where the order had congregated under Deep Sea One. In keeping with the image of the room, it had been picked out in an elegant monochrome. As Sam and Julia Rose approached, part of the curtain was swooped aside by a tall, imposing member of the security team. He nodded politely as they passed through.

  Behind the curtain was a long room with a high, vaulted ceiling, lined with long tables draped in black linens, laden with huge, white covered dishes. Expressionless wait staff stood at ease behind the tables, waiting for the order to step forward and serve, while cocktail waiters wove their way through the ranks of the guests, passing out colorful, exotic-looking drinks in long-stemmed glasses. At the far end hung another set of curtains bearing the FireStorm logo.

  Sam accepted one of the intriguing cocktails and looked around for Purdue and Nina. Though he would not admit it to himself, he was hoping to catch sight of them before they saw him, to see how they acted together when they did not know he was watching. He took a sip of the bright blue drink. What the hell is this? he thought, as he swallowed. Someone needs to show these people how to make a proper cocktail! I haven't tasted anything as weak as this since I was ten years old and nicking tiny nips of my dad's whisky to put in my lemonade. It's as bad as American beer. Practically water.

  He was just about to go in search of a proper drink when the sound of a gong reverberated throughout the room. In front of the curtains at the far end of the room stood Cody Cignetti-Dwyer, his long hair loose and flowing down the back of his tux. He waited for the noise in the room to die down, then smiled around at them.

  "Hi!" He let one hand slide casually into his pocket. "Everyone having a good time? Great! That's just great. I know this is going to be a little difficult with glasses in your hands, but I'd like you all to make some noise to welcome the lady who brought us here today, the woman with the vision behind FireStorm—ladies and gentlemen, this is Sara Stromer!"

  As the crowd around him erupted into whoops and cheers, Sam felt a little uncomfortable. Applause he could manage, but shrieking like a 1960s teenager at a Beatles concert had never been part of his repertoire. Politely, he patted the hand holding his glass with his free hand and smiled in the direction of the platform.

  The curtains parted to reveal Sara, tall and statuesque in a columnar white dress, her dark hair swept into an elaborate updo. She posed for a moment, taking in the ovation without directly acknowledging it, then stepped forward. She raised a slender hand, silencing the room in an instant.

  "I feel a tremendous sense of connection with everyone present tonight." Her words rolled slowly from her lips, her enunciation clear and her tone warm. "Thank you. I thank each one of you for joining us. I can hardly believe that this dream of mine, the meeting of minds, is finally happening—and I am grateful to all of you for allowing that to happen. If you take nothing else away from the Mind Meld, you can at least take this: you have made me unutterably happy."

  Under normal circumstances, her words would have left Sam fighting to stifle a laugh. His tolerance for this kind of thing was low, and it would not have been the first time that he had needed to fake a coughing fit to cover an involuntary snort of derision. But there was something about Sara Stromer that gave him pause. He was sure that a part of it was the precision and control in her delivery.

  Yet there was something else, something Sam could not quite put his finger on. It was something to do with the fact that she really appeared to believe herself. Cody had "snake-oil sales" written all over him, but Sara . . . Sara was wholehearted. When she shifted her gaze around the room, making eye contact with one delegate after another, it no longer felt like a cheap trick being used to sell an idea. It felt personal. It felt real.

  Her eyes locked with Sam's from across the room and for a moment he froze, seized by sudden alarm. Can she tell what I was thinking? he wondered, then dismissed the thought immediately as she moved to the next person. Of course she can't. She's just good at what she does, that's all. I should be taking notes. I could do with being this persuasive when I get home and start looking for a new job.

  "Before I officially welcome you to this dinner," Sara continued, "I would like to make sure that everyone is on equal footing. In this room we have the technologists: the software developers, the engineers, and the programmers. We have the leaders: the politicians, the state representatives, and the chief executives. We have the visionaries: the designers and the spiritually advanced. And we have the people who inhabit other disciplines or who defy categorization altogether. You know that we have brought you here in search of new ways of thinking, doing, and being. You know that I strive to bring people together, to forge and strengthen connections among different types of mind. Look around this room. Take a few moments to make eye contact with people you have never met. Let yourself question who they are, what they do, and what they have to offer this meeting. Resist any temptation to guess how the worth of your own offering compares to theirs. If you are here, in this room, we hold that you are equal."

  Does that include the waiters? Sam watched the little army of staff members, who had retreated to the background for Sara's speech. He expected to see a few eye rolls, surreptitious checks of watches or phones, or just blank, indifferent faces. Instead, the whole line of waiters was rapt. They hardly even blinked as they hung on Sara's every word. Sam had never seen anything like it.

  "To the outside world, people such as you are seen as the elite—high achievers, high earners, and perhaps even household names. To us, you are all those things—but you are also neophytes. No doubt some of you have been through a period of spiritual experimentation. Maybe you've done some meditation, you might even have done a Vision Quest before—but believe me, there is no journey quite like this one. During the next ten days, we are going to work together to turn simple concepts into radical ones. Concepts such as openness, acceptance, and honesty. Everyone believes that they understand these words. Most people would even claim that they practice, or at least they try to, these things in day-to-day life. But we believe that we can all go further. We can do more. We can really live these claims."

  Something drew Sam's eye across the room full of still listeners. Perhaps it was a tiny flicker of movement or perhaps just an awareness of a reaction. Whatever the reason, he turned his head a little and caught sight of Nina in a shimmering blue cocktail dress. To the casual onlooker she might have seemed to be listening with polite interest, but Sam had learned a little about the facial expressions of Nina Gould. That careful politeness was accompanied by a slight raise of her left eyebrow, always a sure sign that in the privacy of her own head she was eviscerating the arguments being made by the speaker.

  Sara extended a slender arm in a sweeping gesture toward the buffet. "The first step in your journey will be to free your bodies from the many poisons and inhibitors that we are guilty of consuming. To help you on your way, we've designed tonight's dinner to reflect the diet of our ancestors. Everything you'll eat tonight is natural, free range, and organic. It's hunted, gathered, and prepared by han
d—we know the origins of this food from start to finish and can provide that information if you like. Your journey into FireStorm begins now. Enjoy!"

  The gong sounded again and the curtains swirled back into place, concealing Sara. As one, the servers surged forward and lifted the lids on the oversized dishes, filling the room with the mouthwatering aromas of braised meats and vegetables. Sam had taken the precaution of remaining close to the tables, so he was one of the first to grab a plate and start loading it. There were whole fish baked in salt, chargrilled chicken cooked with lime and mango, along with roasted beets, carrots, and squash. Slabs of pink steak were piled next to a vast volcanic stone, so hot that the air above it shimmered. One by one the servers threw the steaks onto the stone and seared them exactly to each person's satisfaction. Sam took his well done, with a hearty scoop of avocado salsa on the side.

  "Blue, please." Sam heard Nina's voice behind him, just as he was about to move away from the steak server. He decided to wait until she had her food, then ask her what she had made of everything they had just heard.

  "Really standard nonsense," she said, taking a bite of the barely cooked meat. "Mmm, this is good. This would be absolutely perfect with a decent glass of red wine. I'm not impressed by all this fruit juice."

  "Is that what it is?" Sam examined his newly refreshed blue drink. "I thought it was a bit weak."

  "Did Jefferson not tell you what to expect, or were you just not listening? This is how the whole thing's going to work. The entire Vision Quest. No booze. It's a toxin that you can't allow into the temple of your body or some such shit. Same with anything starchy—no bread, no rice, and no potatoes—nothing agriculture or processed. If you can't just stab it or pick it off the tree, you won't be eating it until you're home."

  Sam's shoulders drooped. "Damn. Jefferson said something about purifying ourselves, but I thought he just meant meditating and stuff. I thought getting off your face on fermented fruit was an accepted spiritual practice in ancient religions."

  "Depends on which ones you're picking and choosing from, I suppose. Where's your protégé?"

  Realizing that he did not know, Sam scanned the room until he spotted Julia Rose at the other end of the tables, heaping her plate with grilled asparagus and courgette and chatting to Cody. "Over there," he said, nodding toward her. "On the case, by the looks of it. How about Purdue, where's he?"

  "Upstairs ordering room service. He has a migraine."

  They lapsed into an awkward silence. The natural next step should have been for Sam to dig for a little more information about Nina and Purdue's relationship, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it, and she couldn't quite bring herself to volunteer it. Instead they picked at their food and watched the other delegates. Some had splintered into little groups of people they already knew. Others were clearly feeling more isolated and either standing alone, feigning interest in the catering or the draperies, or attempting to start desperate, socially anxious conversations.

  Sara had reappeared and was gliding among the delegates, pausing for brief conversations in which she would lay a delicate hand on the subject's arm or shoulder, or clasp their hand in hers. Her exchanges with them were intense, her gaze locked with theirs, and then in a moment she would be gone, moving to the next person. To Sam, it looked like a lot of hard work. He found himself speculating about what a life like hers must be like, with every aspect of her work persona so carefully cultivated and so well performed. He was extremely glad that no one expected him to be so poised or so groomed in everyday life.

  "Sara! Hey, Sara!" Cody's nasal Valley twang sliced through the gentle babble of small talk. "We have a question over here that I think you should answer—and I think everybody would want to hear it."

  All eyes turned in the direction of his voice. Julia Rose was cringing next to him, her hands half-raised as if she had tried and failed to stop him from attracting the attention of the entire room. Sara strode toward them, the crowd parting before her.

  "A question?" her voice remained smooth and gentle, though it carried to ever part of the room. "By all means . . . Julia Rose, isn't it?"

  Julia Rose's eyes widened. Evidently she had not expected Sara to have any idea who she was. "Um, yes . . . " she gulped, then took a deep breath and tried to recover her composure. "I don't mean to be rude, Ms. Stromer—"

  "Sara."

  "Sara. Ok. I don't mean to be rude, Sara, but I was just asking about the rumors about FireStorm. You know. The ones about people not being allowed to leave once they get involved and having to give really personal information and money if they want to progress to higher levels."

  For a long, long moment, no one made a sound. Sara, smiling beatifically, tilted her head to one side in apparent contemplation of the question. Then at last she straightened and spoke. "Thank you, Julia Rose—not just for asking those questions in the first place, but for having the courage to ask them openly, in front of the whole group. That was a brave thing to do. Before I answer, I would like you to do something for me. I would like you to drink with me. Will you do that?"

  Julia Rose nodded with a confidence that Sam was sure was false. Sara snapped her fingers and one of the servers scurried off and returned with a small stone bottle and two carved obsidian glasses. Into these, Sara poured a creamy white liquid. She held one out to Julia Rose, then locked eyes with her while they drank. It's just two people drinking, Sam thought. It's funny how making it a bit ritualistic gives it power. I can see it's affecting Julia Rose—she's totally caught up in all this, I can tell. Poor girl can barely stand up straight. Still, she'll learn a lot.

  "Now, to answer your question," Sara continued. "Of course, we don't force anyone to stay in FireStorm. Joining us is entirely voluntary, and there are some people who come to our earliest courses and decide that what we offer is not for them—at least, not yet. Once people have joined, they tend to stay. It's not through any coercion, but through a simple lack of desire to leave us. As for the sharing of personal information . . . What we do, what we encourage our members to do, involves a high level of self-awareness and trust. Those things can't be achieved without getting a little personal—but again, these are free choices that our members make."

  She turned in a slow circle, taking in the whole room. "No doubt there are plenty of you who have questions just like Julia Rose's, but who felt less able to ask. Or perhaps she simply beat you to it. Either way, this is why we have brought you here. The best way to understand FireStorm is to experience it. There are questions to which you'll never have a satisfactory response without living the answer. That's what we have chosen to give you. We hope that you'll choose to give us your trust in return."

  As she finished, she stepped toward Julia Rose and enfolded her in a tight embrace. Julia Rose froze briefly, taken by surprise—then, to Sam's astonishment, wrapped her arms around Sara and allowed herself to be held close.

  ☼

  Chapter Eight

  As dawn broke the following morning, Sam joined the line of FireStorm delegates staggering out of the Verbena into the first rays of Las Vegas sunshine. It was too early to be up, and judging by the amount of squinting and groaning that was going on, Sam had not been the only one to retreat to his room and drain the mini bar following the welcome dinner.

  "Mr. Sam Cleave?"

  Sam lifted his head to see one of the hotel's perky young employees flashing her perma-grin at him. She was one of three people standing a little way outside the Verbena, between the doors and the waiting luxury coaches. Two others were holding large trays full of Starbucks cups. The girl who had spoken picked up one of the drinks and held it out. It had his name written on the cardboard.

  "Breakfast tea with a little milk and three white sugars, is that correct?" She pressed the cup into his unresisting hand, then a look of horror flashed across her face. "Oh no! It's four, isn't it? Four sugars. Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Cleave. Here!" She dived into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out an extra packet of sugar and
a long wooden stirrer. The smile returned. "You have a great trip, now!"

  The young woman turned her attention to the person behind Sam, greeting him by name and reciting the type of drink she had anticipated he would require. He wanted to stop and ask how they had learned what he liked to drink, especially because he never frequented coffee shops, other than greasy spoons. Jefferson could have told them, I suppose, he thought, eavesdropping as the person behind him was given a triple latte with hazelnut syrup. But still, it's a lot of effort to go to.

  Drink in hand, he allowed himself to be marshaled onto the coach. It was nothing like his previous experiences of buses. There was nothing resembling normal bus seats—instead the interior was ringed with leather couches. At the far end, a large screen showed landscapes from around the world, accompanied by a gentle ripple of soothing string music. Out of habit, he looked around to see if any of the others were aboard the same coach, but they were not. Jefferson and his family were visible in the coach parked parallel, and Sam saw Purdue and Nina being ushered aboard the same vehicle. Of Julia Rose, there was no sign. Sam guessed that she must be aboard the third coach. Grateful for the peace and quiet, he dropped into a corner and rested his eyes, just for a moment.

  Nina had succeeded in getting her cup of weak, milky tea changed for a double espresso. The tea tasted wrong here, but the coffee was strong and the caffeine hit welcome. Or at least it had been at the time. Now she watched the other passengers beginning to nod off within minutes of being assigned their seats on the plane, and she envied them. She was now alert, her nerves jangled, and her body tense. Sticking to a single espresso might have been a better idea, she thought.