Matthew Mather's Compendium

by Matthew Mather

  Jake frowned. “Why?”

  After her husband died four years ago, she’d poured all her energy into starting a foster care network. The last time they talked, she was getting funding for a new halfway house and activity center for boys she was going to build in the woods. The same woods Jake and Sean, and sometimes Eamon, used to escape into when they ran from whatever foster home they happened to be in. Anna joked that if that’s where the boys wanted to go, she might as well build them a house out there.

  “Budget cuts. The downturn hit this area hard.” She managed a wisp of a smile. “No money.”

  “Can I help?” Jake always tried to offer Anna money, but she would never accept, saying he needed it for his family.

  She held up her hands. “You know what I’m going to—”

  “Anna!” a voice called from upstairs. A loud screeching and wailing began. “Could you come up for a second?”

  Anna squeezed Jake’s hand. “Would you excuse me?”

  “Of course.”

  Jake watched her get up and climb the stairs. Awkwardly. Slowly. Anna had aged in the two years since they’d seen each other. He usually came every year, at the holidays, but this past season they’d gone south for a beach vacation instead. Jake had been meaning to come up for a visit, but there was always something that got in the way.

  She looked fragile, her hands thin, skin papery, face gaunt. People had a way of aging suddenly when you weren’t looking. For thirty or forty years, through middle age, they would look almost exactly the same, and then all of a sudden the decades would pile on in months.

  But sometimes, it wasn’t time that aged us. Jake could see the worry in her eyes.

  He looked around the room. It was the same as he remembered it. The mantle over the fireplace was stacked with snow globes, many of which he had bought for her—Prague, Hong Kong, Kiev—every place he’d ever visited. On the opposite wall was a mahogany shelf unit that had been there for twenty or more years, with carefully arranged crystal glasses up top, and books and decades-old National Geographic magazines stacked below. The room smelled like mothballs and bread. Anna was always cooking something.

  He picked up an Oreo.

  The door to the den was half open, and in the darkened room beyond, three kids sat on a couch, staring at a television. It was an old tube-model TV set in a heavy wooden case. The volume was set low. The kids stared at the screen, oblivious to the world outside.

  He knew how they felt.

  He’d been one of those kids.

  The wailing upstairs subsided into sobs. Floorboards creaked. “Do you want to go out for a walk?” Anna called from the top of the stairs.

  “It’s raining.”

  “Are you made of chocolate?”

  Jake smiled. Hadn’t heard that in a while. “No, I’m not.”

  “Then you won’t melt.”

  Jake took a bite of the cookie. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He finished it and gobbled a second while he waited. Anna appeared in a windbreaker and sensible rubber boots, holding a large purse and an umbrella. Jake stood and followed her out the front, grabbing his jacket from the closet on the way out.

  It wasn’t really raining anymore, just a light mist. His dad would have called it Scotch mist. Pulling his baseball cap low, Jake stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans as they walked past the beat-up Ford his brother loaned him.

  “I didn’t do those things they’re saying I did.” Jake realized the words sounded familiar even as he said them. Donovan said exactly the same thing to him just before they carted him off in handcuffs.

  Anna reached one arm around him and squeezed. “I know.”

  “The woman who’s accusing me, she worked for me. I was going to fire her—”

  “You don’t need to explain, I believe you.” Anna released him. “You were always a good boy, Jake, and you’ve grown into a good man.” She smiled at him, waiting until he saw her expression before she looked away.

  “Thanks.” It was the first time Jake heard anyone, sincerely, believe him. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Your greatest strength is facing things straight on, Jake, and that’s all you’ve got to do now.” She shook one small balled fist in the air in front of her. “Have you talked to this woman?” Anna might look frail, but she was tough, as hard as the times she’d lived through.

  “I’m not allowed to.” Jake dug his hands further into his pockets.

  He looked at the other houses on the street. Small. Sagging. White clapboard siding with screened porches. This area of Schenectady hadn’t been prosperous in a hundred years, not since Thomas Edison had founded General Electric here in 1890 and sparked the electrification of America. “Elle took Anna and went to her sister’s.”

  “I’m sorry.” Anna sighed and her hands fell to her sides. “But maybe that’s best for now.”

  They walked in silence. The mist progressed back into rain, and Jake pulled up the collar of his jacket.

  “I’m worried that Sean was involved in something illegal.” Jake wasn’t sure how to bring it up, or if he even should. It would only get her worried, but she deserved to know. Sean had been like a son to her, as much as Jake was. “I don’t know exactly what, but it seems to have something to do with my boss and what’s happening at Atlas…what’s happening to me.”

  Anna continued walking, methodically, staring down at her feet as she took one step and then another. “That’s what I thought.”

  “That’s what you thought?”

  “It seemed like too much of a coincidence.”

  Jake stopped walking. “Wait. What seemed like too much of a coincidence?”

  He pulled his hands out of his pockets and put them on Anna’s shoulders, turned her to face him. A question had been nagging at him for a while, and he needed an answer.

  “Why did you call Eamon to ask to see me? Why didn’t you call me directly?”

  Anna stared into his eyes. “Because Sean told me not to.”

  Standing in the rain, she pulled a manila envelope from her purse.

  ▲▼▲

  Jake stared at the envelope, still wet, sitting on the motel table. The ink of the handwritten address had smeared. Sean had written that, probably the last thing he ever wrote, and Jake was probably one of the last people he ever spoke to.

  Why didn’t I take ten seconds longer? Why didn’t I call him back again?

  Jake picked up the bottle of Jameson and poured an inch of it into a glass. Outside, the rain hammered down into the darkness. Cars rushed by on the interstate.

  A simple kiss from your wife on the way to work, your daughter sitting in your lap reading, a call from an old friend—things taken for granted, now things ripped from Jake’s life. He looked around the room. A discolored orange sheet covered the bed he sat on with his laptop next to him, an air conditioning unit jutted out of the wall under the window, tattered orange curtains pulled closed over dirty windows. His gym bag, stuffed with jeans and t-shirts, sat next to an old TV on the dresser.

  He downed the whiskey and stared at the envelope. When Anna gave it to him, he wanted to rip it open. She said that Sean had inserted a note into it, telling her not to call Jake directly, to call his brother and get Jake to meet her in person. Sean’s note said it was a matter of life and death.

  It had become a matter of death.

  On the drive back from Anna’s, the envelope sat beside Jake like a white-hot coal, the rain pelting on the windshield. He’d thought of stopping to open it a dozen times, but each time something had held him back. There was a kind of finality in opening the envelope. It would be the last message he would ever get from his friend.

  In a way, it would be the last time they would ever speak.

  Jake wasn’t ready.

  There had to be answers in the envelope—answers for why his friend was dead, for why Jake was sitting by himself in this motel room. He thought of taking it to the police
. Was it evidence? But he needed to find out himself, first.

  His laptop pinged and Jake reached over to flip it open. He’d set an alert for the start of the Bluebridge quarterly investors’ meeting. Viegas would be speaking. Jake wanted to see what he would say. He needed all the information about them he could get. Clicking a link generated a new window in his browser. The face of Vidal Viegas filled the screen. Viegas introduced himself, detailing the stellar returns Bluebridge earned for its investors.

  Jake sighed and returned his attention to the envelope. He picked it up, then reached inside to pull out another smaller envelope. “Jake” was written in big cursive letters on the front of it. Sean’s handwriting. He looked inside the manila envelope, upended it. That was all that was inside.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the second envelope. A stack of papers filled it, along with another memory key. On top was a letter addressed to Jake:

  Jake,

  If you’re getting this, and you didn’t know you were getting it, then something happened to me. I’m sorry, buddy, I really am. I love you, Jake. You’ve been more than a brother to me. Promise me that you’ll have a big party for me.

  I will. Jake rubbed his face. And I love you, too.

  That’s why I’m dreading what I need you to do. I can’t tell you more right now, but the reason will become clear. You need to get off the grid, dump your laptop, cell phone, credit cards, don’t access any email accounts or online tools. You need to become a ghost. And you need to go to this location.

  The location was a set of GPS coordinates. An attached map showed it up north in Canada, past Montreal. Jake had never been that far north, but he and Sean used to go up to Montreal all the time when they were teenagers. Montreal was a bit more than two hours up the interstate from Schenectady.

  And get in touch with Dean Albany. He can help you figure out what to do. Two things Jake: remember the nuggets, and the key is money in your pocket. You can’t tell anyone what you’re doing, nobody except Dean. Keep this secret. I can’t tell you more, but the other papers in here should convince you that this is serious. Never giving up, Jake, that’s your strength. I’m sorry to say that you’re going to need it.

  That was it, besides the other papers and the memory key. Jake looked at the key, but externally it was unremarkable.

  Carefully, he set Sean’s letter down and inspected the papers. He read the first one. It was a medical chart from Stamford Hospital. Jake scanned the document—heart attack, a list of medications and times and activities. Scrawled at the bottom of the chart was a time of death and a doctor’s signature. Jake looked at the top of the paper to find the name of the patient.

  He blinked. That couldn’t be right.

  Vidal Viegas.

  Jake rubbed his eyes and read the document again. It seemed to be an original. The doctor’s signature looked like it was written in ballpoint pen, but then Jake was no expert. On the bed beside him, in the browser window on his laptop, Vidal Viegas announced a major new acquisition in Japan through the company’s Hong Kong affiliate.

  Jake looked back at the death certificate. It was dated over a year ago. Jake shook Viegas’s hand a week ago at Atlas, and almost ran him down the day before at Bluebridge. Goosebumps prickled across Jake’s arms.

  On the webcast, Viegas smiled and asked if anyone had any questions.

  ***

  From the author

  I hope you enjoyed the start of Darknet! If you want to continue the story, click here to find out what happens to Jake and his family, or search for Darknet on Amazon and continue reading at Chapter 13. NOTE that Darknet is in Kindle Unlimited, so is free to continue reading if you are part of this program.

  NOMAD

  MATHER INC.

  Tomorrow’s books today.

  Copyright © 2015, 16, 17

  Matthew Mather ULC

  ISBN: 978-1-987942-02-6

  Cover image by Damonza.com

  This is a work of fiction, apart from the parts that aren’t.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  Nomad’s great success, including “2015 Science Fiction Book of the Year” by Authors On Air Global Network (2 million listeners in 46 countries) and the amazing discoveries linked to Nomad after its release, is due to many tireless contributors. A special thank you to:

  Dr. Seth Shostak

  Director of SETI

  Dr. Kevin Rauch

  Maryland University Astrophysics

  Dr. James Gillies

  Research Fellow at CERN

  NOMAD

  Survivor testimony #GR12;

  Event +49hrs;

  Name: Dario Holder;

  Reported location: Central Florida peninsula;

  What do I see? (coughing)

  I’m staring out the window of a wrecked home on Sugarloaf Mountain, the highest point in Florida…but Sugarloaf Island would be a better name, and Florida is gone. Just gone, as if we’ve been… (static) I see black water, endless dark skies, no day or night. Only three of us left alive here, myself and two children…freezing…send help…for the love of God, please…

  Transmission ended in high ionization static.

  Freq. 7350 kHz/LSB. Subject not reacquired.

  OCTOBER 16th

  1

  Rome, Italy

  “Big enough to what?”

  “Destroy the entire solar system,” repeated Dr. Müller, a sixty-something, pot-bellied man with thick spectacles below a tangle of gray hair. “And swallow the Earth with it.”

  Ben Rollins wiped his hands down his face to pinch the bridge of his nose between his forefingers, squeezing his eyes shut. Opening them, he brought his hands away from his face together, as if in prayer.

  “Are you serious? Is this a joke?”

  “No joke. We need you, Ben.” Dr. Müller pointed at a chair.

  Ben stared around the wood-paneled conference room he’d been unceremoniously dragged into at three in the morning. Familiar faces, many looking even more haggard than he felt, nodded at him. Ben did a quick inventory: five people he recognized as fellow astronomers, each an exoplanet hunter like himself. He didn’t know the other dozen dark-suited shadows hanging near the edges of the room.

  What the hell was Dr. Müller doing here? Ben hadn’t seen the old man in almost twenty years. And what did he say? We need you? Ben slumped into the chair, his mind off-kilter.

  Dr. Müller—his clothes rumpled, two-day-old stubble on his chin—paused to drink from a glass of water on the podium at the front of the room. His hand trembled. “New data from NASA has confirmed,” he said in his thick German accent, continuing his presentation, “that our solar system is falling toward a massive object we previously mistook for a clump of dark matter in the nearby arm of the Milky Way. However, the anomaly is much closer than that.”

  “What kind of mass?” someone asked.

  “Perhaps tens of times larger than our Sun.”

  “Have you been able to image it?”

  Dr. Müller shook his head. “Thus far we are only detecting it through gravitational effects.”

  “And what does this have to do with me?” Ben asked.

  “We need your data.”

  “Now? At 3 a.m.?”

  “Not now, but tomorrow there’s a meeting. We couldn’t find you earlier.”

  “There’s this new thing,” Ben said slowly, rubbing his eyes. “It’s called email. Why didn’t—”

  “No email. Not secure enough.”

  Ben sighed. “Exactly how far do you think this thing is?”

  “That’s why I’ve asked you here.”

  “But you must have a guess?” Ben held his hands wide, palms up, shoulders shrugging.

  The old man gripped the podium. “Our best guess…” He locked eyes with Ben. “…is that Nomad—”

  “Nomad?”

  “That’s what we’re calling it—whatever it is. It’s heading toward us at extremely high spee
d.” He enunciated each word clearly to make sure nothing was misunderstood. “We estimate it is now twenty billion kilometers away. At most, we have a year, perhaps only months until the anomaly reaches us.”

  A tingling shivered from Ben’s scalp to his fingertips. He expected an answer perhaps on the order of centuries and light years. But not in kilometers.

  And not in months.

  2

  Chianti, Italy

  “A thousand years of family weapons,” Jessica Rollins whispered in awe. “That’s not something you see every day.”

  An array of ancient weapons glittered in a red velvet-lined display case; daggers mounted side by side and below them, a collection of swords. The smell of old wood and damp stone lingered beneath the pine-fresh scent of polished cabinets.

  “This castello,” replied the tour guide, “has been the seat of the Ruspoli family for eleven centuries.”

  Crossbows filled the next display case—ballista said the inscription—with strings and winching mechanisms intact, some of them intricately carved, some worn and workman-like. Several dated to the twelfth century, and below the weapons, inside the case, sat piles of crossbow bolts. Unused ammunition. A collection of pikes, the long spears infantry used to carry into battle, rested against the display cases.

  “Today we will be visiting the armory museum and family crypts below,” the guide continued. His nametag identified him as ‘Nico’. “But this is still a home.” He pointed to the window. “The red brick buildings on the other side of the courtyard are the residences of the Ruspolis when they come out of Florence in the summer.”

  “A thousand years,” Jessica said in a low voice to her mother, Celeste, standing beside her. “Imagine that.” She took a sip of white wine from the almost-empty glass in her hand.