by Alton Gansky
“I don’t know why,” Zeisler said. “What difference would it make?”
“Maybe they serve different functions. If this is a computer like Cynthia thinks, then maybe this substance in the ring is made of different material that doesn’t work with the stuff outside.”
“How does this help us?” Nash asked.
“I don’t know that it does, but I don’t know that it doesn’t, either.” Henry continued to study the pit. “How did you start this thing up, Victor?”
“I jumped in.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s filled with sand. People walk on sand. I put two and two together.”
“But we know it’s not sand, right?” Henry pressed. “What happened after you stepped in?”
“You saw it.”
“I mean the first time. I wasn’t here.” Something was perking in the back of Henry’s brain.
Zeisler sighed. “I jumped in. There was a whoosh, light and particles of sand began swirling around; then what looked like a movie screen or television monitor appeared, except it was flat, two-dimensional.”
“Did anything appear on it?”
“Not a thing. Bad reception, I guess.”
“It spoke,” Cynthia said.
“Not really,” Zeisler corrected. “I was testing it. I said ‘outside’ and it repeated but with a horrible accent. For a moment, I thought it was trying to communicate. Then I switched terms to ‘exterior.’ I guess it understood that better, because the walls went clear.”
“I wonder,” Henry said. “What if you’re wrong?”
Zeisler laughed. “That doesn’t happen too often.”
“I mean, what if the voice you heard wasn’t a bad repetition of your word but something else? When you said ‘exterior,’ did it repeat that?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean . . . What are you getting at?” Zeisler stood and approached Henry. “If it was repeating the word ‘outside,’ then what was it doing?”
“Telling you to get out,” Henry answered. “You were standing where you shouldn’t. Maybe you were in the way, and it was trying to convince you to get your size twelves out of the sand.”
“No. That’s stupid. That . . . that . . .” Zeisler closed his eyes. He opened them a second later. “So the problem I had controlling it wasn’t inexperience or incompatibility. My body was interfering. Of course. I’m a moron.”
“Cut yourself some slack, Victor,” Henry said. “How could you know? Besides I’m just guessing. I have another guess.” Henry extended his hand over the sand.
It came to life.
Henry jumped back. Zeisler did the same, putting even more distance between himself and the ring.
Before them rose the same column of light they had seen before, but this time it expanded to fill the ring. The sand in the pit rose like dirt in a dust devil until the floor of the pit was as clear and clean as the one they stood upon.
“I guess I should have read the directions,” Zeisler said.
“If directions had been provided, I would agree with you,” Henry said, “but we seem to be on our own.”
The floor-to-ceiling column reached up the oddly shaped overhead shaft, pulsed, constricted, and began to expand. When it reached the edge of the raised ring, Henry assumed that it had reached its limit. A second later, he realized he was wrong. The shaft of light with its swirling sand broadened. What had started as a foot-wide column had become three feet in diameter, then twelve as it touched the ring, then thirteen, then fourteen . . . . Henry backed up.
“This doesn’t look good.” Zeisler retreated to the wall.
“You might want to shut that off,” Sanders said, backing away.
Henry scanned the room. Every team member was pressed against the wall.
“How would I do that?” Henry now backed to the wall, too.
The light advanced.
“Let’s all stay calm,” Sanders said. “There must be a limit to its range.”
“Why?” Grant asked, his voice as dry as parchment.
“I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.”
“That door would be nice to have,” Zeisler said. “Real nice.”
The pillar stopped, and Henry let loose a sigh.
Then the light exploded. Henry slammed his eyes closed and covered his face with his arms, hoping to steel himself against the onslaught of sand. He waited for the storm of stinging projectiles, but none came. There was no noise or heat or anything to make him think that something dramatic had happened.
Henry lowered his arms. He had been holding his breath. He exhaled and took a tentative inhalation. No dust. No grit. No smell. He risked opening one eye, fearing what may be floating in the air. Feeling no stinging or pain, he opened both eyes. He was stunned. His eyes took in what he could not comprehend. He looked around for the others. Zeisler cowered near the floor. Sanders and Nash were facedown, their hands covering their heads. Cynthia was standing rigid against the far wall, her hands plastered over her face. Grant was lying on his side, his face pressed against the joint formed by the curving wall meeting the flat floor. All, Henry noticed, were covered in white dust. He glanced at his clothing and saw the same thin layer of powder. Henry was baffled to see that there was no dust on the floor or walls, just the people.
No one appeared to be harmed. Henry took in his surroundings, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He was still in the room. The size was the same, the walls were still curved, and the ring was still prominent. But that was all that was the same.
“Oh, my,” Cynthia said. “Oh, my. I mean . . . Oh, my.”
Other exclamations followed as the others mustered the courage to open their eyes. The ring no longer looked like a fire pit filled with sand. What had been a four-foot-high ring now reached to the ceiling. The dull brown had become the white of a lily. Unlike the ring, the column was fluted, forming twelve flat surfaces. Four disks floated a foot beyond the pillar. They made Henry think of giant chrome hubcaps. A series of lights ran the rim of each disk.
The light in the room had dimmed but still provided enough illumination to see. There was a soft hum from the pillar.
“What is all over us?” Nash brushed himself off, but the dust returned to its place. He could not shed the powder.
“Easy, Nash,” Henry said. “I don’t think it’s hurting us.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Nash slapped at his sleeves and pants. Powder flew in the air but drifted back as if they were iron filings and Nash was a magnet. “I can’t . . . get . . . rid . . . of . . . this . . .”
Henry felt a slight tug on his clothing, and a second later the film was gone from his body. A white cloud of the material coalesced in front of him, forming a recognizable shape. Henry was looking at an outline of himself. The sight of it weakened his knees. He was not alone. Standing before each member of the team was a white ghost of themselves. Most backed away, but Henry and Sanders held their ground.
“Amazing,” Sanders said. “Completely amazing.”
Henry started to speak but had no words to say. He tilted his head to one side, and his ghost did the same. He licked his lips, a nervous habit he thought he had defeated. The thing before him mimicked the motion, but it had no tongue. It also had no eyes. Henry remembered that when the sand light expanded to fill the room, he had clamped his eyes and mouth shut. The powder had not touched those areas.
“I’ll admit to feeling very insecure right now,” Zeisler deadpanned.
“Ya think?” There was abject fear in Grant’s voice.
Henry admired the man’s ability to reign in his terror.
The ghost Henry disappeared, cascading into a small pile of dust on the floor. The other specters did the same. Before anyone could speak, the tiny piles reformed, altering into spaghetti-thin strands that wiggled on the floor. Then they began to migrate toward the column. Henry watched as the white “worms” undulated their way along the smooth surface until they disappeared into the
twelve-sided pillar.
“Okay,” Cynthia said, “I’ve had all of this place I can stand.”
“How did it do that?” Sanders asked. “How can dust just form itself into our identical shapes?”
“Maybe the dust is light enough to float,” Grant suggested.
“If we had been looking at clouds, I’d agree,” Zeisler said, “but what we just saw required some kind of intelligent guidance. We didn’t just see shapes, we saw our shapes.”
“Has anyone looked outside?” Grant asked.
The wall had become transparent again, and Henry could see the desert surroundings were gone. In its place was a blue ocean with gentle waves. Whitecaps floated on the surface like tiny hats. Overhead the full moon shone down with an alabaster glow, creating a river of light along the water. Stars flickered as if they had been there from creation’s dawn. It appeared to Henry as if the room were floating on the deep.
“Whose mind is this from?” Sanders asked.
“I took a cruise once,” Cynthia said. “Maybe it’s from me.”
“It may not be from any of us, and at this point it doesn’t matter.” Henry scanned his surroundings again. “No sense of motion. I think we’re more island than boat.”
“I think it’s important to remember that none of this is real,” Zeisler said.
Nash gave him an angry glance. “The jungle wasn’t real, but McDermott believed it enough. He’s dead.” Nash motioned to the wall that previously held the door.
“The door,” Henry said. “It’s back.”
Behind Nash was the same door they had seen when they first approached the house. Unlike the walls, it was opaque and solid.
“Let’s go before it disappears again,” Nash said.
“And what? Swim?” Zeisler retorted.
Nash reached for the handle but jumped back when a pounding from the outside reverberated through the room.
Someone was knocking at the door.
Chapter27
1974
“I take it everyone heard that?” Nash said.
“Um, yeah,” Grant replied. “Yeah, I heard it.”
Knock, knock.
“Maybe it’s Sanchez and Buckley.” Sanders didn’t sound convinced. “Perhaps they came looking for us.”
“They would have had to swim the last mile,” Grant said. “Real or not, that ocean looks as wet as any I’ve seen.”
Nash looked at Henry, then Sanders. Sanders nodded, and Nash returned to the door.
“Maybe we should ask who it is,” Cynthia said.
“Just open the door,” Zeisler said. “Terror is no reason to be impolite.”
Nash took the knob in his hand and turned it. He pulled it open just an inch, as if he feared the ocean would rush in. No water. He swung it open and let out a yelp.
Henry had to blink several times before he would believe his eyes. His heart quivered, and every nerve seemed to fire at once. Standing at the threshold was McDermott, his hand raised to knock again.
“McDermott?” Sanders hesitated. “We . . . we thought you were dead.”
McDermott stepped in. His movement was fluid, but it seemed wrong. Maybe it was the way he held his head; maybe it was the slight rocking motion; maybe it was because Henry was certain beyond any doubt that McDermott was as dead as a man can be. Henry didn’t believe in ghosts or zombies. Still, there he was.
Henry charged for the door, brushing past the others, and leaned out, the toes of his boots hanging over the edge of the threshold. Water lapped just inches below his feet. Henry turned his head to the right and directed his eyes to the place where they had set McDermott’s body. It was there, two or three feet beneath the surface of the water, his lifeless eyes staring at things they could no longer see.
Henry spun and faced the McDermott in the house. “Monte, come hold the door. I don’t want it to close again.”
“I’m not going near . . . him.”
“I’ve got it.” Cynthia’s words were courageous, but her face looked drained of blood. Henry assumed she feared being locked in the room again more than she feared the McDermott thing.
Henry released the door to Cynthia, closed the distance to McDermott and, beating down fear by sheer will, touched him. A faint layer of dust came off on his hand. “He’s not real. He’s a fabrication.”
“How can you be sure?” Sanders said.
“Because the real one is still outside and about three feet underwater.” Henry walked around so he could face the unexpected guest. McDermott’s eyes didn’t move. They were open and looked natural, except they didn’t move. Arctic water flowed through Henry’s veins.
McDermott looked at Henry, then turned and looked at each member of the team. “You do not fit.” The voice was awkward, stilted; although clearly English, the words sounded foreign.
“What does that mean?” Zeisler said. “We do not fit?”
The artificial McDermott stared at the electrical engineer. “Zeisler does not belong. Zeisler does not fit.”
“Still winning friends and influencing people, I see,” Nash said. But his bravado sounded strained and weak.
The McDermott thing turned to Nash. “Nash does not fit. Nash does not belong.”
“You were saying?” Zeisler said to Nash.
“Who are you?” Henry asked.
“You might want to ask him what he is,” Grant said. “That seems more germane.”
“Grant does not belong. Grant does not fit.”
“What do you mean we do not fit?”
“Sachs does not fit. Sachs does not belong.”
“Um, guys,” Cynthia said from the doorway, “I admit that scared me out of my bloomers, but I wouldn’t be much of a scientist if I didn’t know that we are making history here. We are talking to a nonhuman entity.”
“Wagner does not fit. Wagner does not belong.”
“Not much of a conversationalist,” Zeisler said.
Henry tried again. “What does, ‘does not fit’ mean?”
“Sachs not Keroob; not Kahee. Sanders not Keroob; not Kahee. Grant not . . .”
“What is Keroob?” Henry asked.
The McDermott thing fell silent, as if offended at the interruption. Finally it said, “Keroob is Kahee; Kahee is Keroob.”
“I’m glad that’s settled,” Zeisler quipped.
“Do you have any better ideas, Dr. Zeisler?” Sanders asked.
“No. You can’t reason with someone—or some thing—who is being obtuse on purpose.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Cynthia said. “It’s trying to communicate in a language that is not its own. It’s identifying us as strangers—or worse.”
“Worse than strangers?” Henry said. “You mean, like enemies?”
“I was thinking of an infection.” Cynthia bit her lip. “Since I’m a bioengineer, I tend to see things from how biology interacts with technology. In some ways this place acts as if it’s alive.”
“How so?” Sanders asked.
“It reacts to stimuli, it recognizes foreign intrusion like a human immune system, and it seems to possess the desire to protect itself.”
Henry thought for a moment. “You mean it interpreted McDermott’s actions as hostility and protected itself?”
She nodded. “It responded in like kind.”
“Nash does not fit.”
Henry pointed at himself. “Not Keroob; not Kahee.” He pointed at the McDermott thing. “Keroob? Kahee?”
“Mishmar not Keroob; not Kahee. Mishmar is Mishmar.”
“Yup, we’re getting somewhere now,” Grant said.
“Maybe we are,” Henry said. “At least he—it is answering questions.” Henry walked to the pillar with its free-floating chrome disks. He studied the disk. It was flat and reflected his image. He couldn’t help noticing how tired he looked. Turning back to McDermott, he pointed at one of the silver disks. “What is this?”
There was no answer.
“I don’t think it understands the ques
tion,” Cynthia said. “Maybe it doesn’t understand what a question is.”
“He corrected Henry when he called it the wrong name,” Zeisler said. “Try it again.”
Henry pointed at the disk. “Keroob?”
“Not Keroob. Ophawn.”
A brief elation filled Henry but flickered out as he thought about how long it would take to carry on a basic conversation.
“Does the language sound familiar to anyone?” Sanders asked.
“I can tell you it’s not French,” Cynthia said.
“Or German,” Grant added. “My grandmother speaks German, and it doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard.”
“It sounds similar to a Middle Eastern language,” Zeisler said, “but not exactly.”
Henry was about to ask another question of the McDermott thing when Cynthia screamed. Everyone jumped except the entity. Henry rushed to the door as Cynthia backed away. He grabbed it before it could swing shut.
“What is it?” Sanders demanded as he and the others approached.
“He’s moving!” Cynthia said. “McDermott rose to the surface and began to float away.”
Henry leaned over the lapping waters as far as he dared and saw the body of McDermott drifting away, as if being towed by an invisible cable.
“Out of the way,” Nash demanded. He looked, swore, and wheeled around to the entity. “Bring him back. I’m responsible for him. You bring him back now. Do you hear?” He placed his face close to the McDermott thing.
It remained expressionless. “Does not fit. Does not belong.”
“Bring him back!”
“Stand down, Nash,” Sanders ordered. “That won’t do any good.”
“I can’t let this happen,” Nash said. “McDermott was my responsibility. He has a fiancée back home.”
“He was my responsibility, too, Nash. And you have a family at home. I don’t want to have to explain two deaths, so stand down.”
Nash took a step back and then returned to the door. “I’m going after him.” He began to remove his boots.
“Wait,” Henry said.
“I will not wait.”
“You don’t know if you can swim in that stuff,” Henry argued.
