The woman spoke slowly. “Empathy is all about sensation and tactility. You might be able to reach them the same way. Offer something that comforts him. It may open a path.”
Monk pictured Pyotr and Marta. They had been always touching, rubbing, grazing against each other, but Monk remembered what brought the boy the greatest sense of security and comfort.
Shifting, he wrapped his arms around Pyotr as he had seen Marta do so often. He felt the boy’s heart race like a hummingbird’s. Rocking the boy very gently, Monk huffed in his ear and whispered what must be done.
He willed it with all his heart.
Squeeze the hand brake…
Pyotr stayed with Marta as she struggled with the lever—then felt a familiar warmth coming from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and found a strong heart there, casting a fierce flame. He stared into that fire and sensed what must be done as much as he heard it.
He turned back to Marta and clasped to her, letting her know, too.
But his friend trembled and burned, growing so weak.
Please…
She hooted, scared, but one of her large hands slid up the lever and found the grip there. Long fingers wrapped around it and squeezed. Then she heaved again, shouldering the lever and pushing with her legs.
The lever moved, but it was still heavy. With shaking limbs, she fought it straight up and shoved it back. Something snapped loudly.
A great grind of gears sounded.
Exhausted and spent, Marta slumped to the ground.
“She did it!” Gray said.
On the screen, the hole in the floor began closing, snipping off the stream with a steel iris. The river of water, no longer able to drain below, flooded into the mining chamber.
The chimpanzee was flushed out of the room and into the tunnel, but more and more water followed. Though clearly exhausted and burned, she gained her feet and swung atop the train car. As black water rose around her, she loped back and forth across the roof, scribing a path of panic and distress.
Gray’s heart went out to the poor creature.
“Get that damned monkey out of there, for Christ’s sake!” Kowalski bellowed. He slammed a fist on the broken control board.
But there was nothing they could do. The doors were jammed, and water was swiftly filling the tunnel, which was sealed at both ends. Even if they could open the doors, the radiation level would kill them all. And ultimately, the chimpanzee had already been exposed to many times the lethal dosage.
Rosauro turned her back and stepped away, covering her mouth with concern.
Finally, the old chimpanzee settled to her haunches, hugging her knees. She began to rock. She knew what was coming.
Monk clutched the boy, a single tear running down his cheek.
In his arms, the boy rocked, too, in exact synch with his friend in the tunnel.
Pyotr stayed with Marta as the waters rose. Her heart flashed and swirled in fear. She’d always known the dark water would kill her. He held her now, as she had done with him so many times in the past. He wrapped his warm arms around her and pulled her tight. They rocked together one last time, two hearts sharing one flame.
Marta knew his secret, too.
She hooted softly and leaned her cheek against him.
Pyotr…
I love you, Marta…
As the waters rose to consume his friend, Pyotr looked into the dark sea that filled him, shining with seventy-seven bright lights, swirling around a brighter fire that was his own heart. One of his teachers had told him how planets circled suns, trapped in their orbits.
He understood.
He knew by consuming those stars he could never let them go. This was no nightmare where he stole only a little of their skill. He had crossed a line of no return. As he stared, he saw those stolen lights grow infinitesimally dimmer. He was burning them up, consuming his friends, his sister.
There was only one way to let them go.
It was the other reason he came to Marta.
He needed her.
Pyotr…no…
You must…
He felt her hands reach tentatively to that bright light inside his dark sea. Her long warm fingers wrapped around his own heart.
Pyotr…
But she knew. For the others to live, there was only one path. The others were trapped in his orbit, and if left unchecked, he would burn through them all. The only way to free them was to take away the sun that held them. Then the stars could fly back and return to where they belonged.
So Marta squeezed and squeezed as dark waters rose around her. Focused on him, she was no longer scared. As they rocked, she closed her fingers tenderly, but it still hurt.
Then just before Pyotr’s light fully died, he reached to a single star in that dark sea, slightly brighter still than the rest.
Sasha, he whispered and told his sister a secret.
The boy suddenly slumped in his arms. His small hand fell away from the screen. He saw Marta’s body get washed from the top of the train and swirl off into the darkness of the tunnel.
Monk lowered the boy to the floor. “Pyotr?
The boy stared blindly toward the ceiling, pupils dilated. Monk checked for a pulse. He found one but barely. The boy’s chest rose and fell.
Overhead, small cries and screams echoed down. The other children. They were waking, rising to find a room full of dead bodies.
Gray pointed. “Rosauro, Kowalski, go up and help them!”
Monk glanced to the grainy image from the other end of the tunnel. He watched kids stirring, others already standing. He saw Konstantin help Kiska sit up.
They were okay.
“What about the boy?” Gray asked.
Monk sat on the floor and cradled his thin body. Pyotr breathed, his blood pumped, but Monk stared into his blank eyes and knew the boy was gone.
Pyotr…why?
Gray joined him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe it’s shock. Maybe with time…”
Monk appreciated the offer of hope, but he knew the truth. As he had held the boy, he had felt the child let go. Monk’s gaze returned to the screen full of stirring children. Monk knew. Pyotr had sacrificed his life for them, for all his brothers and sisters.
Gray settled to his haunches next to him, keeping vigil with him.
The stranger seemed like a good man, and in this quiet moment alone, Monk felt a certain comfort around the guy. Not a memory, just a sensation that he could drop his guard without fear.
So Monk felt no shame as tears rolled heavily and he rocked Pyotr one last time, now just an empty shell of a boy.
22
September 28, 4:21 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
Painter crossed through the rabble of tents and wagons covering the national Mall. The Gypsy encampment filled the grassy fields and long meadows of the Mall. The tents were a mix of traditional structures made of hazel rods thrust into the ground and covered in sailcloth, and more modern tents, fresh from a sporting goods store. The wagons were just as diverse, from simple structures to massive homes with smoking chimneys resting on tall painted wheels.
The Romani had come from all around the world to this great gathering. Horses were corralled in makeshift pens, children ran throughout, music rang out, great bouts of laughter echoed. And more and more were arriving each day.
The president had an official thank-you ceremony scheduled for the end of the week. Nothing like saving someone’s life to get them to extend a grateful hand of hospitality. Not to mention saving the world.
Painter followed a path through the chaos as dogs barked and children scampered out of his way. Tourists also shared the crooked alleyways and narrow bazaars, buying trinkets, having their fortunes told, or merely ogling the merry mayhem. Painter glanced up at the Washington Monument to help align himself and continued onward.
Stepping around a corner, a space opened in front of him, backed by one of the largest and most elaborately decorated wagons. Its wooden doors st
ood open. Painter spotted a cozy home with a raised double bed, cabinets brightly painted and lacquered in yellows and reds. There was even a small stove with a fancifully carved mantelpiece.
On the steps leading up to the wagon, Painter found Luca sitting with Gray, deep in conversation. The commander’s arm was still in a sling. A few steps away, Shay Rosauro was playing a game of daggers with a group of Gypsy men. One of her blades whistled through the air and hit the bull’s-eye, knocking off an opponent’s knife. From their plaintive calls for mercy, she must be soundly besting them.
Off to the side, Painter was surprised to see Elizabeth and Kowalski. The woman must have just returned from India to attend the ceremony. She was working with both Romani historians and Indian archaeologists to unearth the flooded Greek temple site.
Painter glanced to the right and spotted the banner across the front facade of the Museum of Natural History. It displayed a Greek mountain temple with a prominent capital epsilon in the center, announcing the upcoming exhibit about the Oracle of Delphi. With all the publicity of late about the archaeological discovery, tickets were already sold out for months in advance, many bought by the Gypsies here, eager to learn more about the origin of their clans.
Luca spotted Painter’s arrival and stood. The Gypsy was dressed in loose pants with a thick belt and matching black boots, along with an open vest over a long-sleeved embroidered shirt. “Ah, Director Crowe! Welcome!”
Painter offered a bow of his head to the clan leader. “Nais Tuke,” he thanked him in the Romani tongue.
Gray also stood. Like Kowalski, the commander was dressed casually in jeans and a light jacket. Over the past days, they had all found themselves coming here. It had been a long couple of weeks of funerals and grim meetings. Painter wandered here almost every night with Lisa. They would stroll through the camp, in each other’s arms, not talking, but listening to the songs and laughter as they passed families gathered around candle-lit suppers. Painter took solace in this fervent and bright reminder of the fullness of life. Painter also found the shared songs and communal camaraderie echoed back to his own childhood, to the tribal festivals on the Mashantucket reservations. It did feel like coming home…if just a bit.
But today’s gathering was more formal and practical.
They all crossed to a nearby plank table. A pair of massive draft horses were penned nearby.
As they sat, Gray asked, “So how did the meeting go?”
Luca stared at him with bright eyes.
Painter had just returned from a meeting with representatives from the State Department, the Russian embassy, and several child welfare organizations. The status of seventy-seven children was the point of contention. There were many claims on them.
“The Russians were happy to concede all authority over to us,” Painter began. “They have enough to clean up as it is. The latest radiological studies from the joint nuclear task force suggest that the partial flooding of Lake Karachay into the groundwater, while locally disastrous and requiring evacuation of lands for miles downstream, will not prove globally catastrophic. The floodgates were closed in time.”
Gray looked relieved. “And the children?”
Painter had visited the hospital this morning. An entire wing of George Washington University Hospital had been cordoned off to handle the children flown in from Russia. The neurology team had spent the last weeks slowly and meticulously removing the implants. As the chief neurologist had originally conjectured, the extraction was a delicate but not exceptionally complicated procedure. The last child had her implant removed a couple of days ago. They were all doing well.
“Testing shows some savant talent remains in the children but at a substantially weakened level,” Painter said. “Whatever communion was shared at the end seemed to have burned out the foundations of the neurological structure that produced their prodigious talent. But contrarily, the change also seemed to lessen their autistic presentation. The children have shown remarkable improvement. Still, whoever takes on the mantle of fostering these children will have to concede to a supervised monitoring of their health status, along with regular psychological evaluations, both in regard to their talents and to their general mental health.”
Painter stared at Luca, who remained stoic, but his eyes shone with hope. Painter finally smiled. “But the unanimous consensus of the panel is that the children will be released to Gypsy families for that fostering.”
Luca pounded a fist on the table. “Yes!”
His loud reaction earned a whinnied complaint from one of the draft horses and an equally firm stamp of a large hoof.
Painter spent another half hour going over further details, which helped sober the man but failed to dim the light in the Gypsy’s eyes. Finally they all stood and began to disperse.
Elizabeth headed out, with Kowalski at her elbow.
“Now that you’re back in town,” Kowalski mumbled to her, running a palm over his shaved scalp. “Would you want…Maybe we could…?”
Gray winced at the man’s efforts and nodded for Painter to move to the side. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“What is it, Joe?” Elizabeth asked, an eyebrow lifted curiously at the large man.
He stammered, cursed under his breath, then straightened. “Do you want to go out on a date?”
Smooth, Painter thought, suppressing a grin.
Elizabeth shrugged and led Kowalski out. “You mean a second date, right?”
Kowalski’s brow crinkled like a washboard.
“I think being shot at, kidnapped, irradiated, and saving the world classifies at least as a first date.”
Kowalski tripped along next to her, his mind catching up at about the same pace. “So you’ll go?”
Elizabeth nodded. “As long as you bring the cigars.”
Kowalski grinned. “I got a whole box of—aw, crap!” He stopped and stared down at his shoes. His left foot had landed squarely in a pile of horse manure. “These are my brand-new Chukkas!”
Elizabeth hooked his arm under hers and headed off. “It’ll wash off.”
“But you don’t understand! The leather is hand polished by…”
The pair disappeared into the throng.
Gray shook his head. “Kowalski’s got a date. I think hell’s just gotten a little bit colder.”
Painter and Gray headed out toward the Smithsonian Castle. Both of them had a ton of work still to do. Sigma command remained in disarray, both politically and structurally. They’d lost some key people during the initial assault, and one entire level remained cordoned off due to the firestorm. Repairs and inspections of the infrastructure were still under way.
But politically things were far dicier. They had managed to capture the neurologist Dr. James Chen, one of the Jasons involved with Mapplethorpe and McBride. Under interrogation, he was helping them weed out the corrupt Jasons from the legitimate scientists working for the Defense Department. But Mapplethorpe was another matter. He had his fingers throughout Washington’s intelligence agencies. It was still unclear if he had been operating solely as a rogue agent or if there were members of the Washington establishment who had supported the man’s action. As a result, intelligence camps were circling their wagons, protecting themselves but still pointing fingers.
Even toward Sigma.
So vultures circled, but Painter had the backing of a grateful president. It would take work, but they’d get things running smoothly before long. In fact, Painter was scheduled to meet Sean McKnight’s replacement tomorrow, the new interim head of DARPA. The president initially offered Painter the position, but he had declined. Sigma needed some continuity. As the joint brainchild of Archibald Polk and Sean McKnight, Painter could not abandon Sigma.
Painter glanced at Gray. “I assume you’ll be spending all day at the hospital tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Kat will need company.”
Monk Kokkalis’s surgery was scheduled for six in the morning. An MRI revealed what had been done to Monk in the
Russian lab, but it remained unknown if the damage could ever be reversed. The Russians had wired a microchip into Monk’s basolateral amygdala. The neurologists believed the chip had induced and maintained a fluid amnesia. It was a technique already being investigated using chemicals, specifically propranolol as a beta-blocker to erase especially strong memories of trauma. The Russians had been experimenting on Monk, using the biotechnological equivalent.
The surgery had been delayed until Monk finished a series of antiradiation treatments. The neurologists used the extra time to study Monk’s case, but they still could not say if he’d ever get his memory back—especially with the other result found during the MRI. In order to install the chip, a small section of Monk’s cerebral cortex had been removed.
Painter recalled the horror on Gray’s face upon learning that and his dismayed words: First his hand, now a section of his brain…it’s like Monk is slowly being whittled away.
“Has there been any indication that Monk recognizes Kat?” Painter asked.
Gray shook his head. “The doctors have mostly kept her away. They believe that, while the chip is still in his head, further stress on his memory, like the emotional connection with Kat, might actually cause more damage than good.”
“Still, she visited him.”
He nodded. “She had to. She went into the room with a group of nurses. Monk conversed with them, but he had no reaction upon seeing Kat. Nothing at all. It practically destroyed her. She has Monk back, but he’s still lost to her.”
“Then we’ll have to pray for the best.”
September 29, 6:21 P.M.
George Washington University Hospital
The man woke into a room too bright. It stung his eyes and pounded deep into the back of his head. Nausea followed, accompanied by a swirl of details. He swallowed hard a few times and forced his vision to steady.
A slim woman in a blue smock patted his hand. “There you go, Mr. Kokkalis. Just breathe.” She turned away. “He’s coming around more fully this time.”
The spinning settled. The pounding of the drum inside his head slowed to a dull pressure. He found himself in a hospital room, remembering in bits and pieces. The operation. He lifted an arm and found it strapped to a plastic splint through which intravenous lines dripped both clear saline and a unit of blood. To the side, monitors beeped and whirred.
The Last Oracle: A Sigma Force Novel Page 41
