Penner ignored this, peering closely at the analyzer window. Despite himself, he was getting into the problem. He realized he didn’t care any longer if his boss saw the unorthodox tools he was using.
“Well?” Hufnagel urged.
“Just hold on, sir. The analyzer is determining just how strong the encryption is. Depending on the bit depth, I can run a side-channel attack, or maybe . . .”
The analyzer finished, and a stack of numbers popped up. Despite the warmth of the server room, Penner felt himself go cold.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
“What is it?” Hufnagel asked instantly.
Penner stared at the data, confounded. “Sir, you said less than an hour. An hour until . . . what, exactly?”
“Until the Britannia collides with the Carrion Rocks.”
Penner swallowed. “And if this doesn’t work—what’s plan B?”
“Not your concern, Penner. Just keep going.”
Penner swallowed. “The routine’s employing elliptic curve cryptography. Cutting-edge stuff. 1024-bit public key front end with a 512-bit symmetric key back end.”
“So?” the IT chief asked. “How long is it going to take you?”
In the silence that followed the question, Penner suddenly became aware of the deep throb of the ship’s engines, the dull slamming of the bow driven at excessive speed through a head sea, the muffled rush of wind and water audible even over the roar of cooling fans in the windowless room.
“Penner? Damn it, how long?”
“As many years as there are grains of sand on all the beaches in the world,” he murmured, almost choking on the words from the feeling of dread.
63
THE THING WHICH HAD NO NAME MOVED THROUGH SHADOW AND audient void. It lived in a vague metaworld, a world that lay in the grayness between the living world of the Britannia and the plane of pure thought. The ghost was not alive. It had no senses. It heard nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing.
It knew one thing only: desire.
It passed through the mazelike passages of the Britannia slowly, as if by feel. The world of the ship was but a shadow to it, an unreal landscape, a vague fabric of shade and silence, to be traversed only until its need had been fulfilled. From time to time it encountered the dull glow of living entities; their erratic movements were ignored. They were as insubstantial to the thing as the thing was to them.
Vaguely, it sensed it was approaching the prey. It could feel the tug of the living being’s aura, like a magnet. Following this faint lure, it made an irregular progression through the decks of the ship, passing through corridor and steel bulkhead alike, searching, always searching for that which it had been summoned to devour, to annihilate. Its time was not the world’s time; time was but a flexible web, to be stretched, broken, shrugged off, moved into and out of. It had the patience of eternity.
The thing knew nothing of the entity that had summoned it. That entity was no longer important. Not even the summoner could stop it now; its existence was independent. Nor did the thing have any conception of the appearance of the object of its desire. It knew only the pull of longing: to find the thing, to rend the entity’s soul from the fabric of the world and burn it with its desire, to consume it and satiate itself—and then to cast the cinder into the outer darkness.
It glided up through a dim corridor, a gray tunnel of half-light, with the flitting presences of additional living entities; through clouds heavy with fear and horror. The aura of its prey was stronger here: strong indeed. It felt its yearning grow and stretch out, seeking the heat of contact.
The tulpa was close now, very close, of its prey.
64
GAVIN BRUCE AND HIS LITTLE GROUP—NILES WELCH, QUENTIN Sharp, and Emily Dahlberg—followed Liu and Crowley toward a port-side hatchway onto Half Deck 7. It was marked Lifeboats; a similar hatch would be found on the starboard deck. A crowd milled before the hatch and, as soon as they appeared, converged on them.
“There they are!”
“Get us on the lifeboats!”
“Look, two ship’s officers! Trying to save their own asses!”
They were besieged. With a shriek, a heavy woman in a disheveled tracksuit grabbed Liu.
“Is it true?” she shrieked. “That we’re headed toward the rocks?”
The crowd surged forward, sweaty, smelling of panic. “Is it true?”
“You’ve got to tell us!”
“No, no, no,” Liu said, holding up his hands, the grimace of a smile on his lips. “That rumor is absolutely false. We’re proceeding on course to—”
“They’re lying!” a man cried.
“What are you doing here at the lifeboats, then?”
“And why the hell are we going so fast? The ship’s pounding like crazy!”
Crowley shouted to make himself heard. “Listen! The captain is merely bringing us into St. John’s at all possible speed.”
“That’s not what your own crew is saying!” the woman in the tracksuit bellowed, grabbing the lapels of Liu’s uniform and twisting them frantically. “Don’t lie to us!”
The corridor was now packed with excited passengers. Bruce was shocked by how wild and unruly they had become.
“Please!” Liu cried, shaking off the woman. “We’ve just come from the bridge. Everything is under control. This is merely a routine check of the lifeboats—”
A younger man pushed forward, his suit coat hanging open, the buttons of his shirt undone. “Don’t lie to us, you son of a bitch!” He made a grab at Liu, who ducked aside; the man took a swing and struck Liu a glancing blow to the side of the head. “Liar!”
Liu staggered, dropped his shoulders, turned, and, as the man came back at him, slammed his fist into his solar plexus. With a groan, the passenger fell heavily to the floor. An obese man charged forward, his bulk heaving, and took a wild swing at Liu while another grabbed him from behind; Bruce stepped forward, neatly dropping the fat man with a counterpunch while Crowley took on the second passenger.
The crowd, momentarily shocked by the outbreak of violence, fell silent and shuffled back.
“Return to your staterooms!” cried Liu, his chest heaving.
Gavin Bruce stepped forward. “You!” He pointed to the woman in front, wearing the tracksuit. “Step aside from that hatch, now!”
His voice, ringing with naval authority, had its effect. The crowd shuffled reluctantly aside, silent, fearful. Liu stepped forward, unlocked the hatch.
“They’re going to the lifeboats!” a man cried. “Take me! Oh God, don’t leave me!”
The crowd woke up again, pressing forward, the air filling with cries and pleadings.
Bruce decked a man half his age who tried to rush the door and won enough time for his group to pile through. Within moments they had pressed the hatch shut behind them, shutting out the crowd of panicked passengers, who began pounding and shouting.
Bruce turned. Cold spray swept across the deck, which was open to the sea along the port side. The boom and rumble of the waves was much louder here, and the wind hummed and moaned through the struts.
“Jesus,” muttered Liu. “Those people have gone frigging crazy.”
“Where is security?” Emily Dahlberg asked. “Why aren’t they controlling that crowd?”
“Security?” said Liu. “We’ve got two dozen security officers for more than four thousand passengers and crew. It’s anarchy out there.”
Bruce shook his head and turned his attention to the long row of lifeboats. He was immediately taken aback. He had never seen anything like them in his navy days: a line of giant, fully enclosed torpedo-shaped vessels, painted bright orange, with rows of portholes along their sides. They looked more like spaceships than boats. What was more, instead of being hung from davits, each was mounted on inclined rails that pointed down and away from the ship.
“How do these work?” he asked, turning to Liu.
“Freefall lifeboats,” Liu said. “They’ve been deployed on oil platforms and
cargo ships for years, but the Britannia is the first passenger vessel to use them.”
“Freefall lifeboats? You can’t be serious. It’s sixty feet to the water!”
“The passengers are buckled into seats designed to cushion the g-forces of impact. The boats hit the water nose-down, hydrodynamically, then rise to the surface. By the time they surface they’re already three hundred feet from the ship and moving away.”
“What kind of engines you got on these?”
“Each has a thirty-five diesel, capable of eight knots, and they’re all supplied with food, water, heat, and even a ten-minute air supply in case there’s fuel burning on the water.”
Bruce stared at Liu. “Good God, man, this is perfect! I thought we were going to have to launch old-fashioned boats on davits, which would be impossible in these seas. We could launch these right now!”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” Liu said.
“Why the hell not?”
“The problem is our forward motion. Thirty knots. That’s almost thirty-five miles an hour—”
“I know what a knot is, damn it!”
“It’s just that there’s no way to know how our forward speed might affect the boats. The rules are very emphatic that the boats have to be launched from a stationary ship.”
“So we launch a test boat, empty.”
“That wouldn’t tell us how passengers might be affected by the lateral g-forces.”
Gavin Bruce frowned. “I get it. So we need a guinea pig. No problem. Give me a portable VHF and put me in there. Launch the boat. I’ll tell you how hard it hits.”
Crowley shook his head. “You might be injured.”
“What choice do we have?”
“We couldn’t let a passenger do that,” Liu replied. “I’ll do it.”
Bruce stared at him. “No way. You’re the bosun. Your expertise is needed up here.”
Liu’s eyes darted toward Crowley, darted back. “It might be a rough landing. Like being in a car, hit broadside by another moving at thirty-five miles an hour.”
“This is water we’re talking about. Not steel-on-steel. Look, somebody’s got to be the guinea pig. I’ve taken worse risks than this. If I get hurt, at least I’ll be off the ship. As I see it, I’ve got nothing to lose. Let’s not waste time.”
Liu hesitated. “I should go.”
Bruce frowned with exasperation. “Mr. Liu, how old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“And you, Mr. Crowley?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Children?”
Both nodded.
“I’m sixty-eight. I’m a better test case because my age and condition are more in line with the other passengers. You’re needed on the ship. And,” he added, “your kids still need you.”
Now Emily Dahlberg spoke up. “One occupant isn’t a sufficient test for the launch. We’ll need at least two.”
“You’re right,” Bruce said. He glanced toward Niles Welch. “What about it, Niles?”
“I’m your man,” Welch replied immediately.
“Wait a minute,” Dahlberg protested. “That’s not what I—”
“I know what you meant,” Bruce replied. “And I’m deeply appreciative, Emily. But what would Aberdeen Bank and Trust say if I endangered one of its most important clients?” And with that, he took the VHF from Liu’s unprotesting hand, moved to the stern hatch of the nearest orange spaceship, and turned the handle. It opened on pneumatic hinges with a soft hiss. He stepped into the dark interior, nodding for Welch to follow. After a moment, he poked his head out again.
“This thing is fitted out better than a luxury yacht. What channel?”
“Use 72. There’s also a fixed VHF and SSB radios on board the lifeboat, along with radar, chartplotter, depth finder, loran—the works.”
Bruce nodded. “Good. Now quit standing around like a bunch of sheep. Once we give you the signal, say a Hail Mary and pull the bloody lever!”
And he closed and secured the hatch without another word.
65
C ONSTANCE GREENE OPENED AN ANCIENT SANDALWOOD BOX AND took out a bizarre, fantastically complex knot tied from gray silken cord. Superficially, it resembled an obscure European knot known as a Mors du Cheval, only it was far more complex. In Tibetan it was called dgongs, the “unraveling.”
The knot had been given to her by Tsering on her departure from the Gsalrig Chongg monastery. It had been tied in the eighteenth century by a revered lama, to be used in a particular kind of meditative exercise to expunge attachment, to rid oneself of evil thoughts or influences, or to aid in the joining of two minds. In Constance’s case, the knot was to be used for cleansing herself of the stain of murder; now, she hoped it would expunge the stain of the Agozyen from Pendergast. The knot was never to be untied in the real world: to do so would be to release its power and transform it back into a mere silken cord. It was an exercise of mind and spirit only.
The stateroom was dark, the curtains drawn tightly closed over the balcony windows. Marya—who had been unable to find a doctor—stood by the salon door, anxiety and uncertainty flickering in her eyes.
Constance turned to her. “Marya, please stand guard outside. Don’t let anyone interrupt us.”
The woman nodded, then turned and quickly left the salon.
When she heard the door close, Constance placed the knot on a small silken pillow that lay on the floor, illuminated within a circle of candles. Then she glanced over at Pendergast. With a dry smile, the agent took his place on one side of the knot, while she sat down on the other. The knot lay between them, one loose end pointing at her, the other at Pendergast. It was a symbol, both spiritual and physical, of the interconnectedness of all life and—in particular—of the two entities that sat on either side of the knot.
Constance arranged herself in a modified lotus position, as did Pendergast. She sat for a moment, doing nothing, letting her limbs relax. Then, keeping her eyes open and contemplating the knot, she slowed her breathing and decelerated her heartbeat, as she had been taught by the monks. She allowed her mind to settle into the moment, the now, discarding past and future and closing down the endless flow of thoughts that normally afflict the human mind. Liberated from the mental chatter, her senses became acutely aware of her surroundings: the boom and shudder of the waves on the hull, the splatter of rain on the glass of the balcony door, the new-room smell, the faint scent of wax from the candles and sandalwood from the knot. She became acutely aware of the presence opposite her, a dark shape at the periphery of her vision.
Her eyes remained on the knot.
Slowly, she released each external sensation, one after the other. The trappings of the outside world vanished into darkness, like the closing of shutters in a dark house. First the room around her; then the great ship, and then the vast ocean on which they crawled. Gone were the sounds of the room, its scents, the slow roll of the ship, her own corporeal awareness. The earth itself vanished, the sun, the stars, the universe . . . gone, all gone, falling away into nonexistence. Only she remained, and the knot, and the being on the far side of the knot.
Time ceased to exist. She had reached the state of th’an shin gha, the Doorstep to Perfect Emptiness.
In a strange meditative state of utter awareness and yet complete absence of effort or desire, she focused on the knot. For a moment, it remained unchanged. Then—slowly, evenly, like a snake uncoiling—the knot began untying itself. The fantastically complex loops and curves, the plunging bends and rising swerves of cord, began to loosen; the bitter ends of the rope withdrew into the knot, tracing in reverse the original convoluted tying, three centuries earlier. It was a process of immense mathematical complexity, symbolizing the unraveling of the ego that must take place before a being can reach stong pa nyid—the State of Pure Emptiness—and merge with the universal mind.
She was there; Pendergast was there; and in the middle, the knot, in the act of untying itself. That was all.
After an indefinite period—it could have been a second, it could have been a thousand years—the gray silken cord lay in a smooth heap, untied and loosely coiled. In its center a small, crumpled piece of silk was revealed, on which had been written the secret prayer the ancient monk had bound up in it.
She read it over carefully. Then slowly, chantlike, she began to recite the prayer, over and over again . . .
As she chanted, she extended her consciousness toward the loose end of the rope closest to her. At the same time, she was aware of the glow of the being opposite her, extending itself in the same manner toward the untied cord.
She chanted, the low, soothing tones unraveling her ego, gently parting all ties to the physical world. She felt the current as her mind touched the cord and moved along it, drawn toward the entity on the other side as he was drawn toward her. She moved along the convoluted strands, barely breathing, her heart beating with funereal slowness, coming closer, ever closer . . . Then her thought met and merged with the glow of the other, and the final stage was reached.
Abruptly, she found herself in a place both strange and familiar. She stood on a cobbled street between elegant gas lamps, staring up at a dark and shuttered mansion. It was a construct of extraordinary concentration, of pure thought alone, more real and solid than any dream she had ever experienced. She could feel the cool clamminess of the night mist on her skin; hear the creaking and rustling of insects; smell coal smoke and soot. She gazed up at the mansion through the wrought-iron fence, her eye traveling over its mansard roof, oriel windows, and widow’s walk.
After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped through the gate into a dark, humid garden, heavy with dead flowers and the smell of loam. She continued on up the walk, onto the portico. Beyond, the double doors were ajar, and she stepped through the entryway, passing into a grand foyer. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, dark and threatening, tinkling faintly as if disturbed by wind despite the dead air of the house. One massive doorway led into a tall library, its wing chairs and couches empty, its fireplace dark and cold. Another passage led toward a kind of refectory or perhaps exhibition hall, silent, watchful.
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