by Greg Cox
A hurled Coke bottle hit Noon in the chin, tearing a fresh gash beneath his already swollen lips. “Get him!” a young Indian man shouted. With a shock, Noon realized that the shouter, whose face was flushed and distorted by bloodthirsty mania, was one of his fellow students at the university. “Blood for blood!” his onetime classmate shrieked, snatching up another shard of broken glass from the street. “Kill the Sikh!”
A thrown torch spun toward Noon, trailing sparks like a comet. Anticipating its trajectory, Noon jumped to one side, but the tossed firebrand still struck the pavement dangerously close to his feet. He looked in confusion and desperation at the stranger in the doorway. The blue mist now seemed to fill the entire entrance of the plundered shop. “Hurry!” the man called again. “You have to trust me!”
Trust the stranger, when he couldn't even trust another colleague from school? Noon found the entire situation incomprehensible, but what other option did he have. Keeping a tight grip on the handle of his kirpan, now baptized in blood, he flung himself toward the fogshrouded doorway and into the unknown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NOON EMERGED FROM THE SHOWER, HAVING RINSED THE LAST TRACES of kerosene from his hair and body. The bruises and numerous small cuts that marked his face and frame were harder to shed, but he knew that his injuries could have easily been very much worse. He found fresh clothes and first-aid supplies waiting for him, including a brown bathrobe that fit him perfectly. He had encountered so many oddities and impossibilities in the last hour or so that this latest unlikely occurrence piqued his curiosity only a smidgen more. Who are these people? he wondered. And what is their interest in me?
Although grateful for his miraculous rescue, which had almost certainly delivered him from an agonizing death, he remained on guard, mentally and physically. The mysteries accumulating around him were too bizarre and unsettling to accept at face value; he was relieved to see his dagger and wristband, obligingly wiped free of blood and soot, sitting atop the bathroom counter along with a change of clothes. The solid weight of the blade comforted him as he thrust it securely beneath the belt of his robe.
Toweled, dried, bandaged where necessary, and suitably armed, he rejoined his anonymous savior in the office outside the bathroom. The nondescript furnishings offered few clues to his new location, although he noted that all the titles upon the bookshelf appeared to be printed in English. Encyclopedias, mostly, plus a few other routine reference works. His gaze drifted involuntarily to the heavy steel vault from which he had exited that cool, luminescent fog. His skin tingled in remembrance of the peculiar, static-like sensation he'd experienced within the strange blue haze. Now, however, the vault looked empty except for a couple of metal shelves, nor did Noon see any obvious exit connecting the vault with the streets of Old Delhi. Perhaps a secret door? he speculated. He strained his ears, but he could no longer hear the frenzied shouts and screams of the riot.
“Good morning, Noon Singh,” the nameless American greeted him. He was seated behind a marble-topped desk upon which various folders and documents were scattered. A translucent green cube served as a paperweight, holding assorted papers in place. “I trust you're feeling a good deal less flammable now.”
“Yes, thank you.” Noon declined to take a seat upon the nearby couch or plush chair, preferring to stand, his arms crossed upon his chest. Enough pleasantries, he thought, deciding to cut straight to the heart of his concerns. “Who are you and where have you brought me.”
“Reasonable questions,” the man conceded, “although you may find some of the answers difficult to accept.” He was, Noon saw upon closer inspection, a middle-aged Caucasian of maybe forty to fifty years. Streaks of gray lightened his brown hair at his temples. “My name is Gary Seven, and, although we have never met, I know a great deal about you.”
“How—?” Noon began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. His muscles tensed instinctively, fearing the mob had caught up with him at last.
Instead a woman's voice called from the other side of the door. “Is everyone decent in there?” she asked in a distinctly nonthreatening manner. “I have coffee.”
“Thank you, Roberta,” Seven answered, his casual tone implying that Noon had nothing to fear from the newcomer. “Please come in and meet our guest.”
The door swung open, and a blond woman entered, bearing a tray and three coffee mugs. To his surprise, she wore what appeared to be a NASA flight suit. She offered one cup to Seven, who accepted it with a grateful smile, then crossed the room to where Noon was standing. She winced visibly at the sight of his bruised and bandaged face, but offered him a sympathetic smile along with the coffee. “Help yourself,” she instructed him. Like Seven, she spoke English with an American accent.
A sleek black cat followed the woman into the office, only to disappear behind Seven's desk. The sight of the cat jogged a memory deep in the recesses of Noon's past, but he could not immediately place the source of the familiarity. A small portion of his mind fiddled with the puzzle, while the bulk of his attention stayed focused on the here and now.
He stared in confusion at the woman's incongruous outfit. A cloth patch depicting the space shuttle was affixed to one side of her zippered, navy-blue flight suit, while an embroidered NASA nametag identified her as SALLY RIDE. The American astronaut? he wondered, utterly baffled. What was she doing in Delhi, and why did Seven call her Roberta?
“Oh, don't mind the costume,” she said, apparently noting his puzzled expression. “I came here straight from the Halloween Parade in the Village. As you can see, I was going as Sally Ride, the first American woman in space.” She winked at Seven, sharing a private joke. “As far as anyone knows.”
Village? Parade? The woman's explanation left him scarcely less confused. What village was she talking about?
“This is my associate, Ms. Roberta Lincoln,” Seven elaborated. Unlike his female companion, he did not appear to be indulging in any sort of holiday masquerade. “She is also very familiar with your case.”
Noon took a mug from the tray, warily sniffing its contents. He preferred chai , actually, but had been introduced to black coffee by American students at the university. He sipped the beverage carefully, finding it both hot and soothing.
“Hello, Noon,” Roberta Lincoln said, taking a few steps back from Noon. She eyed him somewhat nervously. “I don't know if you remember me or not.”
Did he? Noon examined the woman's face. She was younger than Seven, perhaps in her mid-thirties, but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. His mind scrolled backward through the years, seeking to place her rosy cheeks and bluish-green eyes. Not in Delhi, he concluded, nor Chandigarh, but somewhere else, long ago and far away. . . .
An ancient memory, long forgotten, surged up from the past. “Chrysalis,” he uttered, eyes wide. “You were at Chrysalis, beneath the desert.”
“That's right,” she said. A sober expression replaced her welcoming smile. She walked slowly to an end table, where she put down her tray, before looking at Noon again. Her own coffee cup was clutched between her palms, and she held it close to her chest, as if to dispel a sudden chill. “You were just a toddler then. I'm surprised you remember.”
“I never forget a face,” he informed her, while his heart and soul struggled to cope with the powerful emotions conjured up by the woman's revelation. So many years ago . . . ! His childhood at Chrysalis, his mother's beaming face and proud expression, that final, panicky evacuation and abrupt dislocation—they were like a distant dream to him now, a prior existence he could scarcely recall. “Did—did you know my mother?” he asked.
“Briefly,” Roberta answered, her eyes evading his. “I was there as well,” Seven said, “although, as I stated, we never met.” He took a sip of coffee before continuing. “What's important is that Roberta and I are fully cognizant of the special circumstances surrounding your birth, and of your own unique potential. Which is why,” he explained, “we have been keeping a careful eye on you
for the last ten years.”
“I'll say!” Roberta seconded, slumping onto a fuzzy orange couch opposite Seven's desk. “The papers all claimed that what's-her-name in England, Louise Brown, was the world's first test-tube baby, but we know better, don't we?” A look of sincere relief passed over her face. “Thank goodness that Seven heard about those riots in Delhi. We could have lost you for good!”
Seven humbly accepted the woman's gushing praise. “Fortunately, I have been monitoring the political situation in India for several weeks.” He glanced down at the papers on his desk. “You may be interested to know, Noon Singh, that Rajiv Gandhi, Mrs. Gandhi's son, has been sworn in as the new prime minister.”
Noon nodded. Seven's news came as no surprise; it was well known that Indira was grooming her oldest son as her successor. His gaze fell upon the white push-button phone atop Seven's desk. “I should call my parents,” he stated, “make certain they are safe.”
“I believe they are unharmed,” Seven assured him. “The worst of the rioting is in the capital, not Chandigarh. But you can certainly contact your family shortly. First, though, permit me to explain a bit further about where you are and who we are.”
Khan nodded. He had to admit he was curious to hear more. Was Seven merely an American intelligence agent of some sort, and this place a top-secret CIA safe house in the heart of Old Delhi, or could it be that the Chrysalis Project, for which his visionary mother had given her life, was not really dead at all? His foster mother and father had always discouraged any discussion of the project, hinting ominously that unnamed personages in the government would strike him down—just as they had his unfortunate mother—if he let his secret slip. Nonetheless, he had always known, deep down in his heart, that he had been born to serve some special destiny, that his innate superiority, both mental and physical, meant that he must ultimately make his mark on history, just like Alexander and Caesar and Ashoka. Perhaps, at last, that golden destiny was finally beginning?
“Go on,” he said. “Ms. Lincoln and I represent a private organization, unaffiliated with any of the major superpowers, that keeps a watchful eye on world events. We also attempt, discreetly, to encourage humanity's difficult journey toward peace and progress.” Seven gestured at the assortment of folders and documents fanned out upon his desk. Craning his neck to take a peek at the scattered papers, Noon identified reports on famine in Ethiopia, the U. S. presidential campaign, and an unexplained explosion at a Soviet military base in Severomorsk.
“As you can see,” Seven continued, noting the teenager's inquisitive gaze, “this is something of a full-time job. Fortunately, Roberta and I have access to technology that is not yet available to the rest of the world. It was just such technology that allowed me to remove you from the chaos in Delhi, transporting you here instead.”
“Which is where?” Noon inquired, growing impatient with Seven's cryptic remarks. He wanted to know just how safe he was from the violence outside, and if and how he could leave this place when he chose.
“Are you quite sure you don't want to sit down first?” the older man asked, indicating the unoccupied chair just as his cat reappeared from somewhere behind the desk. The glossy black animal leaped onto the desktop, then settled down to watch Noon through gleaming yellow eyes. If he didn't know better, Noon would have thought that the cat was intent on observing their visitor's reaction to Seven's words.
Another long-forgotten memory surfaced, of an elegant black cat, much like this one, who was also, impossibly, a beautiful woman. This was clearly a childish fancy, however, born of an overactive imagination and the stress and confusion of that final night at Chrysalis. Strange, Noon mused, how vividly the whimsical fabrications of our infancy can linger in the mind, even long after we have outgrown them.
“No, thank you,” he said stiffly, rejecting the chair Seven had offered him. “Please tell me where I am.”
“Fair enough,” Seven granted. His craggy face maintained a scrupulously neutral expression. “You are in New York City, Noon Singh, in the United States.”
“What!” Noon exploded. Anger flared in his heart. “That's absurd! We spent less than five minutes in that tunnel of yours,” he challenged Seven, pointing at the empty steel vault. “Do you think I'm a fool? What sort of game are you playing?”
Seven looked unfazed by the young man's fury, while his cat watched Noon with obvious amusement. “Perhaps you should see for yourself,” Seven said calmly.
Noon was seldom at a loss for words, but now his jaw hung open mutely as he gaped in thunderstruck amazement at the view from the roof of Seven's building.
Where he had expected to see the familiar contours of Old Delhi, perhaps in flames, he saw instead the glittering spectacle of Manhattan at night. Among the towering skyscrapers and fabled concrete canyons, he spotted landmarks recognizable from countless American films and TV programs: Central Park, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building. Horns honked and sirens blared in the busy streets below, while the autumn air seemed cleaner and much colder than Delhi's overheated smog. This is impossible! he thought, astounded and confused, but how could he deny the evidence of his own senses?
Equally bewildering was the cloudy night sky spread out above him, whose crescent moon cast an erratic glow upon the not entirely sleeping city. It had been not even noon when the riots broke out in the bazaar, catching him in those bloody convulsions, yet now the moon was high in the sky and the sun nowhere in sight. “What time is it?” he asked out loud, unnerved at the loss of so many unaccounted-for hours.
Seven, standing nearby upon the roof, consulted his wristwatch. “Quarter to noon in Delhi, one-fifteen in the morning in New York.”
“In other words, way past my bedtime,” Roberta yawned. “Coffee or no coffee.” In contrast, the cat, winding between Seven's legs, looked wide awake.
Noon could not tear his gaze away from the nocturnal cityscape surrounding him. To the west, the leafy shadows of Central Park provided an oasis of darkness amid the incandescent lights of the city; to the east, moonlight rippled upon the murky waters of a wide river. Despite the lateness of the hour, bizarrely costumed pedestrians—clad as vampires, gypsies, Ghostbusters, and other imaginary creatures—still wandered the city streets below, celebrating a far more peaceful Halloween than India had known.
How is this possible? he wondered, his powerful mind battling to make sense of what had happened to him. Had he been drugged, perhaps? Rendered unconscious by that unearthly blue vapor, then shipped halfway around the world before waking here? That struck him as highly implausible, but what other rational explanation was there?
None, he realized. Even as he knew intuitively that Seven had not lied to him. Somehow, through some astounding means completely unknown to modern science, he had been whisked from Delhi to Manhattan in a matter of moments. He turned away from the ledge, toward Seven and his companions, questions burning upon his face even through the bruises and the scabs. “How?” he asked, the engineer in him intrigued by the very notion. “Matter transmission?”
“Something like that,” Seven confirmed. “Although I'm afraid that the world is not yet ready for the secret of this technology. And, I'm sorry, neither are you.”
That's not fair, Khan thought angrily, frustrated by Seven's reticence. He can't dangle this fantastic discovery in front of me, then hold back the crucial details about how it's accomplished! Seven's tone, however, made it clear that he was not about to change his mind on the subject. For a long second, Noon toyed with the idea of trying to force the secret out of Seven or Roberta, but to do so, he realized, would be less than honorable. The man had, after all, saved his life. Reluctantly, Noon decided to respect Seven's decision—for now.
“What do you want of me?” he asked instead. Seven appeared pleased that the teenager had not raised a fuss over the secret of matter transference. “At present, just your continued good health,” he insisted. “It may be that at some later date, however, you might be in a position to ai
d us in our endeavors.” His eyes locked on to the younger man, whom he spoke to with considerable gravity. “You're a remarkable person, Noon Singh, with much to offer the world. Perhaps, someday, we can help you fulfill that potential.”
I see, Noon thought, flattered by Seven's well-informed assessment of his abilities. As much as he disliked being obliged to another person, he was also intrigued by the notion of joining Seven's covert campaign to build a better future. As today's carnage in Delhi proved beyond any doubt, mankind was grievously in need of order and security, of the sort only truly enlightened leadership could provide. He owed it to his country—and the world—to take bold action to bring modern humanity's suffering to an end. “I am in your debt,” he told Seven solemnly. “And you have given me much to think about.”
It took three days for the riots in Delhi and elsewhere in India to subside, and for some semblance of order to return. Finally, though, Seven judged it safe to send young Noon home via the transporter vault. Roberta, who had spent the last few days chaperoning him around New York and environs, was not entirely disappointed to see him go. He's not a bad kid, she thought, but, boy, is he full of himself. Guess that's what happens when you're told from birth that you're superior to everyone else. She waved good-bye to Noon as he stepped into the swirling azure mists of the transporter. Let's hope he g rows out of it .
