by Jacob Whaler
Contents
TITLES BY JACOB WHALER
JACOB WHALER READERS CLUB
TITLE PAGE
QUOTES
1FINGER OF GOD
2VOICE
3MOLECULE
4CREEP
5ZERO
6JEWEL
7TRIBE
8LAST UNIVERSAL COMMON ANCESTOR
9INSPECTION
10SNOOPER
11SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
12BIOJAZZ
13NEURON SPIRALS
14DESTROYER OF WORLDS
15MEAT LOCKER
16CHAINS
17HERO COMPLEX
18THE NEW QAARA
19RICE
20WOOZY
21FUKUSHIMA
22SMOOTH TUBE
23FIREBALLS
24COURTYARD
25GYROPODS
26HOMO AUDIRE
27WRONG COLOR
28THE DIVIDE
29TOXIC DUMP
30KILL ORDER
31MANTA RAY
32RED AND VIOLET
33MOSES
34ONE MIND
35SMALLPOX
36BRIGHT FUTURE
37BACK
38CURRY
39HOSTILE TAKEOVER
40MIL-SPEC
41KILLER
42NIGHT WITHOUT DARKNESS
43SIGNS
44THE CORE
45ARMY
46MARIONETTES
47SLEEP
48THE PROPHET
49CONTACT
50BACTERIA
51BARRICADE
52ALICE
53PERSONAL
54ORIGINAL PLAN
55NEW BEGINNINGS
56PARTING
57MONSTER
58OUT OF THE GROUND
59THE FINDER
60NEW EARTH COLONY
61INDIAN PRINCESS
62GLOBULES
63ANOTHER VOICE
64LOOK AWAY
65SHATTERED GLASS
66CRUNCH
67REVOLUTION
68STATE OF EMERGENCY
69RISING STEAM
70SHINJUKU
71THE VOTE
72FAILURE
73LOW MOAN
74CONTINGENCY PLAN
75NO WINNERS
76CHILD’S VOICE
77CHRYSANTHEMUMS
78POP
79EFFORTLESS
80THE WAY
81EPILOGUE
JACOB WHALER READERS CLUB
STONES SERIES
COPYRIGHT
PLEASE REVIEW
PHOTO CREDIT
TITLES BY JACOB WHALER
STONES: DATA (STONES #1)
STONES: HYPOTHESIS (STONES #2)
STONES: EXPERIMENT (STONES #3)
STONES: THEORY (STONES #4)
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LUCA
A Novel
by
Jacob Whaler
We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep.
— William James
Invisible threads are the strongest ties.
— Friedrich Nietzsche
1
FINGER OF GOD
Frank Mercer wants the world to end.
“How many days before the deep space Cloud swallows Earth?”
He’s waited years to say it aloud, and now that the words tumble from his lips, he relishes the sweet texture of each syllable.
Just inches away, a young woman draws in a sip of air. “Not long. Five days.”
Sitting in a dark room, Mercer slouches in a chair, legs outstretched, feet crossed at the ankles. With a jet-black suit, carbonite gloves and hair the color of obsidian, he’s invisible except for his pale face and the whites of his eyes.
Born in the emptiness of deep space and voyaging through perpetual dark, the Cloud reminds Mercer of himself. Utterly alone.
But not for long.
Soon the Cloud will rain down chaos on the world, giving Mercer what he craves. The chance to remake civilization, culture, life. Everything.
His hand dips into a bowl of lemon slices still bleeding fresh juice. Running moist fingertips over them, he selects one and lifts it to his mouth, biting and swallowing the pungent liquid, extracting the pulp in a practiced play between teeth and tongue. His hand twists, dropping the empty peel to the floor.
Lips on the narco-pipe, he breathes in until his lungs fill, juts out his lower lip, drops his head back and exhales a stream of fluorescent purple smoke that blooms into a billowing mass, turning inside out as it floats up to the ceiling like a rising jellyfish. Thousands of particles hang in the air and glow before burning out, melting into the blackness that consumes them.
Another deep drag, and he feels the cool stimulant pour into his blood and flood his brain. It’s a special blend of molecules fabricated in some back alley lab in the bowels of the Fringe, the sprawling slum just outside the City and an inexhaustible source of cheap labor and black-market pleasures. The muscles of his chest loosen and lift, as if filled with dark light. Only his feet keep him anchored to the floor.
Next to him, the young woman moves.
Even in darkness, he can see her neon white hair, a curtain of silk flowing down her back. Body rigid and tense, she tries to hide her fear of the dark.
Just the way he likes it.
She shifts in her seat.
He hears the lush friction of black leather pants moving on soft skin.
“After Earth pierces the outer layer of the Cloud, it will take a little over seventy-two hours, three full rotations, to pass completely through.” She drops her eyes to the slate in her hand. “Would you like to see the real-time image?”
“Of what? The Cloud or Earth?” Mercer smiles as the woman squirms. It’s pathetic how hard she’s trying to impress him with her subtle fragrance of roses and vanilla. As with all the women before, it does nothing to affect him. No attraction. No interest.
Only one woman has ever gotten any traction on his emotions. He met her once. Six months ago.
The truth is, the smell of roses reminds Mercer of his overmedicated, underachieving mother when she was still alive, and it’s making him ill. Without turning his head, he stares at the woman out of the corner of his peripheral vision and increases magnification to 10X. A tiny aperture opens wider inside his right pupil until he can see her pores.
And there it is. The telltale sign. A slight moistness on her forehead, just above the left eye. She’s nervous in his presence. He senses in her a dearth of self-confidence. Like all the others.
Good.
His optical nerve upgrades are working well today.
“Sorry, I meant Earth and the Cloud.” The woman leans forward, fingers trembling. “They’re close. We can finally look at both on the same scale. Here is the latest image from our array of solar probes.” She brushes her hand across the slate’s glass surface, and there’s a half-second of silence before a holographic image of a luminous pool of blue light fills the empty space at the center of the room. It’s lopsided and organic, a sea of microscopic points packed densely in the center and thinning at the edges. Tendrils radiate out in the shape of a free-floating algae. One long arm stretches down toward Earth like a shooting star, as if reaching to touch it.”
Mercer stares, lips open,
breath still. “Behold, the finger of God—”
The woman leans forward. “I have superimposed the blue color so we can see it. In reality, the Cloud is—”
“Colorless.” Mercer takes another pull on the narco-pipe and blows a column of smoke into the holo image as his optic input automatically adjusts for brightness. For a moment, bits of blue and purple mix together. “Yes, I know. Invisible. Almost impossible to detect. Deadly. Exquisite. More beautiful than I could have imagined. When did NASA’s sensors first find it?” A chuckle tumbles from his lips. He already knows the answer and enjoys the predictable effect his laughter has on the woman. She tenses into her chair. The moisture under her left eye congeals into a tear.
“Three days ago.” She forces a smile. “All hell is breaking loose. Fourteen government agencies are in a race to be the first to figure out the composition of the Cloud, how it might affect the Earth. Whether we’re all going to die. And that’s just here in the City. Other countries are going crazy, too.”
“But they still have no clue what’s coming, do they?” Mercer squints his eyes and squeezes everything out of his vision except for the purple Cloud. “We must spare no effort to keep it confidential. That is your prime directive. No leaks will be tolerated.”
“Based on our surveillance, our information is completely secure.”
He works hard to suppress a grin. “I’m surprised the government has managed to keep the presence of the Cloud from the public this long.”
“Haven’t you seen the latest reports on the Mesh?” The woman’s eyebrows rise, pulling up the corners of her mouth.
“You know me better than that. I don’t have time for the Mesh. Such a colossal waste of time. I access it only when necessary. My people that do that for me.” He’s lying, of course. It would be a mistake to let his people know the full extent of his awareness.
“You better have a look.”
“Really?” Mercer sits up and begins another long drag on the narco-pipe. “What’s going on?”
“There’s been a leak of the news. From government sources.”
Mercer stops mid-inhale. Green smoke curls out of his nostrils. “What do you mean?” He waits for the news he’s already seen.
“It’s all over the Mesh. Mysterious Floating Nebula Approaches Earth from Outer Space. US Government Fears Mass Hysteria and Launches Cover-up. It's caused a small uprising in the last few hours. Riots here in the City at the center of Times Square. The China block claims it’s another US experiment in space gone awry, evidence of our continuing incompetence and declining relevance. The White House has been forced to call a press conference to make an announcement. It begins in thirty seconds.” The woman slides closer to Mercer so her shoulder just brushes his. “That’s why I came to your office. I thought it best if we viewed it together.”
“Any idea what the president’s going to say?” Mercer is getting nauseous at the stench of the woman’s perfume. Perhaps it’s time to dial down his olfactory implants.
She brushes her finger against the slate, and the holo of the blue Cloud with its long arm reaching out for Earth slowly dissolves from the center of the room. “The usual lies. Don’t panic. We have everything under control. It’s nothing serious. That sort of thing. All they know at this point is there might be a connection between the Cloud and the unusual uptick in electrical storm activity over the last couple of days.” Her gaze moves into the darkness at the center of the room. “Here we go.”
“I think I’m going to enjoy this.” Mercer relaxes back into his chair with a sudden hunger for popcorn.
The image of an older woman, mid-sixties, dressed in a crisp white blouse, appears on the holo. She might be sitting down or standing. The golden glow of her recent thyloxl treatments can’t hide the tightness in her face, epitomized by two thin lips. She’s trying hard to form a relaxed, bland expression, and it’s not working. A poor actor whose job is to quell panic. The Great Seal of the President of the New United States floats on a bluescreen below her.
Mercer grins. “Gonzales never was any good in front of the cameras.”
“My fellow New Americans.” The president suppresses an almost imperceptible tremble along her jawline by pressing her teeth together and then relaxing. “We have all been unsettled by the wild rumors making their way through the Mesh. I’d like to reassure you now that there is absolutely nothing of concern. We have everything under control.”
2
VOICE
Darkness.
From the stained futon on the floor, the girl stares up at the ceiling, squinting her eyes just enough to allow the four walls of the cell to fade from view.
She imagines she’s floating in space.
As the world opens to her, she listens, eyes drifting shut, lips relaxing into a smile.
Emerging from a sea of sound in her mind, a single Voice calls out far above her, farther than her thoughts have ever stretched before. Farther than the forest engulfing the Institution, the only home she’s known since her mother left her here years ago. Farther even than the endless water beyond the forest.
A vast ocean of tiny blue dots, the Voice floods her mind. It teems with anxiety, reaching down to her, long fingers extended, searching for an answer. Its deep resonance enfolds her like a blanket.
The girl’s eyes flip open.
The Voice echoes in her mind again, and this time, she opens her mouth. Dry words spill from trembling lips.
“My name is Luca. Who are you?”
No response. She tries again.
“You need something. What are you searching for?”
Silence.
A pinprick of red light begins to flash from a round sphere on the wall to her left, piercing the darkness of her peripheral vision.
The men in white uniforms will be here soon, but Luca doesn’t care.
The heavy smell of mold hangs in the air, rolling off the sides of her cell and mixing with the stench of urine from a plastic bucket in the corner. Behind her, in the long hall on the other side of the metal door, shrieks and cries begin to ring out, as they always do at night. But on this night, there are more of them and louder than usual.
The other girls, the ones who still try to hear, have noticed the Voice. They’ve spoken to it.
The same as Luca.
The men in white know. They always do. The little red light tells them when the girls talk to the voices. Then they come to make their rounds. To make the girls stop. To make them hurt.
Luca isn’t scared. The men will come and the men will leave. The voices will stay. And Luca will do what she always does.
Listen.
Maybe the big Voice will come back.
She searches the darkness for the familiar cracks in the wall beyond her feet. Following them up, her gaze comes to rest on two rectangular slits at the top, just below the ceiling. Three inches tall and ten times as long, the holes are like a pair of squinting eyes, her only visible connection to the world of voices beyond the Institution. Cool night air flows down through the openings, reminding her of the Voice in the sky.
She tries again to make contact and opens her mouth. The words come out at a slow and deliberate pace.
“My name is Luca. Where are you?”
The red light flashes again, faster, unrelenting, urgent.
She steels herself for the beating. Body still aching from the last one, she tries to forget the words of the men in the white uniforms as they bend over her, grinning, laughing.
Ignore the voices in your head so we don’t have to hurt you. When you stop talking to the voices, you can leave. You can be free. You can go home.
She had tried, once.
But not anymore.
Ignoring the voices, sealing her mind off from the world around her, is more painful than the cuts and bruises that follow when she lets the voices in and speaks back to them, making the red light flash.
A long time ago, Luca had already reached the only possible conclusion: it’s easier to ig
nore the men in white and the pain they bring. Embrace the voices. Embrace the connection with all of them.
With great effort, Luca closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. She’s never felt a Voice so far away. There have been other voices in the sky—flocks of birds or the occasional air transport flying overhead. But nothing like the Voice that boomed out of the darkness.
Letting her breath slowly escape, she closes her eyes and casts her mind up and out farther than she ever has before, like a single point of light rising to join the stars and spreading out into a loose net to catch whatever might be there. A whisper of terror brushes past her like the fluttering of butterfly wings.
What will I find? What will it do when it finds me?
She chooses to ignore the fear.
All her senses open like a giant antennae.
When it blasts into her mind the third time, the Voice is like the low roar of the foghorn on the coast every night, an hour before dawn. The resonance of sound and color lingers as an afterimage on the back of her eyelids and in her brain. She is sure of one thing.
From out of the deep, the Voice is coming.
Luca lifts her body away from the futon to a sitting position. The men will be here soon. It’s best to be ready when they come.
The wind rages outside. She knows what it is. The tiny voices of animals and insects have been in her mind, telling her of the oncoming wall of a new storm.
Shrieks and cries in the hallway behind the door die down.
The men in white uniforms don’t like walking the hallways during storms. They go back to their rooms where it’s warm and dry and quiet. Good food and laughter and the Mesh. They always leave Luca and the others to face the storms alone.
The wind and rain will wash the air clean.
Lightning flashes. Rain descends in straight, diagonal lines that shoot through the two holes into her cell. The song of cicadas in the cool night air goes silent. Luca closes her eyes and feels the splashes on her face, each an explosion of ecstasy. Lifting her palms up, her whole body drinks in the sensation of falling droplets of water. And she listens.
But the Voice is silent.
Like the beating she will receive from the men, the rain is violent but short.
