The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  Without the boost of energy from the Hive, Mary’s consciousness travelled at a sedate speed through her cell door, down the corridor and located the fire exit leading to the courtyard. She turned the corner of the building leading to a passageway. There was a guard standing next to a high, metal gate, an entrance to a makeshift car park and a demolition site beyond. She recognised him as one of Visser’s henchmen. Instead of a military attire, he wore a standard security guard uniform.

  That would be right, army fatigues would draw the attention of any police on patrol. Further on from the car park were a few trees, tall buildings, factory units and somewhere in the distance her home, her husband and her affectionate cat. Mary directed her mind to ascend, surveying the view from above. A large golf course lay behind the building site, its tree lined fairways like bacterium huddled together on a microscope slide.

  Hang on, Mary. In the absence of companionship, she grew fond of talking to herself. I recognise this area. Her energy responded to her commands and she flew down the street adjacent to golf course, turning left at the first opportunity. Visser has some bloody nerve, setting up a secret base so close to a Police Station. The gall of that man. I’m just a few miles from the university, and our house.

  The use of the word our sent her mind spiralling to thoughts of Parth. How many days had they been apart now? Would he still be publicly mourning for her? I bet he isn’t taking good care of himself. Probably living on junk food and old freezer burnt meals for one from the bottom drawer of the fridge. What if no one is visiting him and he is all alone in his grief, wearing the same shirt for days on end and screening everyone’s calls? What if he is sitting in front of daytime telly every day and slowly losing the will to go on? I have to see that he is alright. I have to know that he will survive until I can escape and get back to him. He would still be at home on compassionate leave – desolate, poor sweet man. Maybe I can get a message to him that I’m alive.

  She soared into the afternoon sky, taking the most direct route to her house; a homing pigeon, in a desperate bid to unite with her mate. Unlike a pigeon though, her sense of direction failed her. She flew over the golf course and housing estates and headed towards a large cluster of buildings she recognised as the General Hospital. Veering past it on the right hand side, street after street of similar looking houses zipped past beneath her, muddling her bearings. I’ll have to get lower and read the street signs. Then I can find my way home.

  Hovering above the tarmac in her road, the excitement of seeing her house tingled her neurons. The days of captivity felt more like months. Despite her physical incarceration, Mary felt a modicum of peace. Like returning from a particularly stressful and disastrous holiday, when all parties present had argued and fallen out of favour, and the remaining time together endured in the confines of a shabby hotel room. That moment when, dragging the luggage to the front door step, and fumbling in bags and pockets for keys that remained hidden for two long weeks, you finally set a foot across a familiar threshold and all antagonism fades.

  She viewed the scene. The wilting pots of Michaelmas Daisies, and hanging baskets by the front door; the wheelie bin, all alone in the street, leaning against the railings of their drive, the neighbours having retrieved theirs days ago. Bless him, he hasn’t bothered keeping up the household chores. I’m not surprised.

  Aristotle, her beloved feline companion, strolled across the grass patch of a neighbour’s house and let himself in through an open window. Turncoat. A few days away and he moves in next door. Wait, all our windows are closed, on a warm day like today. Where is the car? Parth is not here. Mary pushed her consciousness through the roof and made her way through each room, searching for evidence of her husband.

  The bedsheets neat, their en-suite spotless and dry, with no clothes piled haphazardly around the washing basket. Mary moved downstairs. The rinsed bowl and spoon she had used to eat her cereal from on the day of the accident lie upside down on the draining board. It was all precisely as she had left it on that fateful morning. She turned and drifted into Parth’s study. His folders of papers lie stacked in a tray, his chair tucked under the desk. A sudden flash of anxiety came over her. Had Visser arranged for Parth’s abduction too? Searching around Parth’s den, she realised that not only were his laptop and iPad missing, but also the power chargers.

  Oh, thank God. There is no way that Parth would go anywhere without those. I wonder whose house he has been staying at. Who would have taken a grieving widower in? Mary’s mind strayed to Yelena, and shuddered. It was a possibility that she did not want to believe. Her beautiful, intelligent Russian friend, who was in frequent communication with Parth, had blatantly lied to her regarding the purpose of meetings with him.

  Floating through the front door and back out onto the street, Mary decided to pay an ethereal visit to the University’s Neurology department. If Parth was not pining for her at home, he would be doing what he did best – burying his sorrow in his work. She took the most direct route to the campus, straight across the park. Despite her new found abilities giving her an all access pass through walls and ceilings, habit forced her to arrive at the main entrance and follow the well-trodden corridors of her husband’s department.

  ***

  “I’m sorry sir, but I simply cannot allow you to enter.” Simon, the postgraduate student, stood between Cyril Plender and the door to Zone Six. Mary’s consciousness floated above the insignia, recalling the evening when she and Dan had removed the scrappy cardboard sign that read ‘The Crypt’.

  “Do you know who I am, boy? I am the Director of Biomedical, and as such, I have security clearance for every lab and broom cupboard this side of campus. Now let me pass.” Cyril’s greying whiskers looked all the more prominent as his skin flushed crimson in temper.

  “With all due respect, Professor, you are the Acting Director, until Professor Haas returns. It is more than my life’s worth to allow you to enter this zone without proper authorisation.”

  Mary chuckled to herself. It was a refreshing change to see someone courageous standing up to her bully of a boss. She lingered, enjoying the verbal joust.

  “What utter nonsense. Your life will be worth nothing when I have finished with you, young man. I have every right to question the practices and legal implications of every study under my purview.” Cyril had raised a finger, wafting it level with Simon’s nose.

  “Nevertheless, sir.” Mary admired Simon’s resistance. She watched him stare down Cyril, his features unmoved.

  “I want to speak directly to Arora. Fetch him for me, now.” Cyril took a step forward, jutting his chin up towards the lanky student.

  “Dr Arora is unavoidably detained, sir. He is conducting a particularly delicate procedure and cannot be disturbed.” Mary recognised those words. Parth had trained all his research fellows to memorise them for use in just these circumstances. Anytime Parth did not want to speak with someone, his faithful team members would regurgitate them verbatim.

  “That’ll be this mysterious Project Sleepwalk, no doubt. Now let me in, you arrogant little upstart, or I shall speak to the Dean about having your PhD funding revoked.” They eyeballed each other for a painful moment, Cyril squinting at Simon demonically. “Fine! You asked for it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Professor Cyril Plender marched off, punching the double doors open with a theatrical display of anger. Simon watched him leave through the glass panes and then stepped clear when the door to The Crypt bumped into his left side.

  “What’s the rumpus, Simon?” Parth said, habitually arriving at the most opportune time.

  “Plender. Making threats again about Sleepwalk. He is on his way to the Dean.” Simon placed both hands on his cheeks, gulping in the air. He looked grey. Parth took note of his state and squeezed Simon’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. Can you go and finish the extraction? I have some calls I need to make.”

  Simon headed down the stairs into the bowels of Zone Six. Parth walked toward
s his office. Mary was torn. More than anything she wanted to be alone with her husband, to listen to his baritone intonation, to ascertain the depth of his sorrow at her loss, and perhaps find a method to send him a message that she was alive. She longed to feel that contentedness and sanctuary of physical contact with the one person who loved her as intensely as she did him.

  The ache for him grew all the more desperate upon seeing him. That rigidly upright stance, those square shoulders and the way his hair grew to a cute point at the nape of his neck. Parth disappeared through more doors and around the corner. He didn’t seem very upset. Perhaps he is hiding it in front of colleagues. I really want to follow him, but I really want to see what they are up to in The Crypt. Just a quick peek.

  Mary slipped through the security doors and passed the panel of fuse switches and power connections, descending the great length of concrete stairs into Zone Six, The Crypt. A small foyer lay at the base of the steps. To the left was a service elevator. It was a large capacity type, capable of carrying hefty loads. Instead of Up and Down buttons, there was another access scanner. On the right hand side of the stairs, a set of windowless fire doors.

  Curiosity drove her on, squeezing her consciousness bubble through the solid wood and into a suite of high spec labs beyond. These were not the laboratories that she was expecting to find. Each room had a series of large cubicles kitted out with top of the range medical equipment and life support machines. The first two bays that Mary passed, were empty, just a space between the equipment for a hospital bed. She edged forward to the third cubicle in the row.

  There, among the beeping machines and artificial respirators, lie an unconscious man. His shaved head, raised on the special motorised bed, bore the marks of recent operation scars. Protruding from the back of his skull was a tiny transparent tube no more than a couple of millimetres in diameter, clamped at the free end. Mary gasped. This is one of Parth’s confidential studies. Is this Project Sleepwalk?

  Simon appeared wearing a surgical mask, latex gloves and goggles. A technician that Mary did not recognise followed him to the patient’s side, carrying a kidney tray of sterile instruments. The similarities to the scenes she had witnessed in Lars Visser’s base of operations, unnerved her. She watched as Simon inserted the needle of a tiny syringe into the tube, and signal to the technician, who, without fanfare or ceremony, switched off the man’s life support equipment. Mary could feel her emotions falter as the heart monitor flat lined and Simon drew out the miniscule plunger from the syringe.

  “That’s a better fluid yield. The last one was barely enough to test. Can you get the concentration of DMT confirmed quickly, please? Dr Arora is in a great hurry.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mary urged herself to remain unruffled and absorbed. Her previous extracorporeal travels had been of short duration. Any shock to her emotional state would destabilise her subconscious alpha wave generation and pull her back into her physical body. This added to the tension of knowing that Alexi would be checking up on her in her prison cell at any moment, made the urgency all the more critical.

  Parth’s team is deliberately killing patients in order to harvest chemicals from their brains. How can he do that? How can he sleep at night knowing that he is the cause of their deaths? The technician delivered the kidney tray containing the fluid sample to an adjacent lab, then began stripping the body of tubes and cables and making notes on an electronic tablet.

  This is just monstrous. At least Visser’s intentions is to keep the patients alive or he would not have commissioned Plender’s project. There must be another explanation. Parth would never kill people just for an experiment.

  Leaving Simon to his victim, Mary exited the basement, ascended the stairs and slipped through the Zone Six doors. She hurried along the corridor. Parth’s office door was ajar. She could hear him on the telephone, his voice unusually clipped and laden with spite.

  “Hmm, yes I know. Loathsome little prick. Why the hell did you marry him?” There was a long pause. Mary entered the office. Parth slumped over his desk, propping his head up on an elbow. Gaunt hollows appeared in his cheeks as he talked, unconcealed by stubble that almost formed a beard.

  “It does suggest that, yes, but it’s rather more difficult to prove. So far, it appears that the production of melatonin and possibly psi-conducive beta-carbolines in the pineal gland, is affected not only by light and stress, but also by changes in electromagnetic fields” another long pause. “The yield of naturally derived DMT seems to be highest at point of death, but we have been unable to replicate that in semi-conscious subjects.” Parth swivelled around on his chair, leaned over to his lab coat hanging on a hook at the side of a bookcase and removed a black leather notebook. Flicking it open on his desk, he thumbed through the pages, checking his notes. “In Mary’s absence, Dan might be our only hope.”

  Mary’s attention piqued. She moved closer hoping he would sense her proximity. In my absence? Is that what passes for grief, Parth? Don’t you care that I have gone from your life? Her vision fluctuated as she fought the onset of tears.

  “You think I don’t know that? My team are working around the clock on this. They, like myself, have practically moved into the medical facility. At least my staff are making some progress. Which is more than can be said of yours. How many times has Flynn lost him now?” Parth snarled down the telephone receiver. “Wait a second, I can hear someone in the corridor…”

  Mary heard them too. A faint tap tapping, the sound of soft footfalls against industrial linoleum without landing the corresponding heavy heel. They stopped moving. Parth cocked his head sideways, listening intently. He inhaled a slow breath. When he opened his mouth to continue his conversation, new sounds flowed. Sounds that are intelligible only to those who, by happenstance of birth or by deliberate study, learned the Cyrillic script. Then built the words on which great Baltic and Slavic nations were founded. A growling intonation that could easily have been a vinyl record played backwards, for all that Mary understood. The most shocking of all, was that Mary had no idea that her husband was fluent in Russian.

  She gasped her astonishment. The ramifications of this discovery sent her brainwaves into a tumult of confusion and doubt. Her body yanked the ethereal tether to her psyche with such force, the distance travelled took a mere moment, like a bungee strap snapping her back to the launch site. The subsequent re-entry into her physical self, jolted her immediately alert.

  ***

  Back in her cell, Mary wailed her distress in a torrent of tears. In the nine years since she had first met Parth, as an undergraduate at Cambridge, she had not heard him utter a single word of Russian, nor had he ever expressed an interest in learning it. He was proud of being both Indian and British, revelling in the traditional customs of either nation. His studies had been purely scientific, predominately medical in nature. When did he find the time to read languages too?

  With the cruel seesaw of fate tipped, she mourned the loss of his affections, his intimacy, and his love. He showed no ill effects of bereavement, no disruption to his daily routine just an increase in the time he could devote to his work. It was almost fortuitous that she was out from under his feet.

  He had learned and knew the whole of her. Her likes and dislikes, the way that she held people at arms-length with a barrage of searching questions until she made their heads spin. He knew her irrational fear of all her teeth falling out at once, leading her dentist to chastise her for over-brushing. The way she stamped on her slippers prior to wearing them in case spiders had crawled into them during the night. He knew her body and soul, and had protected, cherished and so she had thought, loved her for their entire time together.

  How much of his true personality had he concealed from her? All the care and affection he had shown for her over the years. Had he been acting all along? To what end? Was Parth really in danger from Visser’s threats on his life or was he working secretly with Visser too, but refusing to collaborate with Plender? How did Yelena
fit into it and where had she heard the name Flynn before? A cocktail of perturbing and unanswered questions, garnished with a sprig of treachery and a dash of bitter lament.

  The bolt clanked across and the key turned in the lock of her cell door. Mary snuffled, wiped her face on the bath towel and sat upright.

  “Dear Mary, whatever is wrong?” Alexi was fussing again, a brief dip back into his compassionate persona. “Is migraine very bad? You need me to give you stronger pain killer?” He sat on the edge of her bed. Mary thought for a moment. Another white lie would give her time to think. She nodded. “It is much worse Alexi, but I don’t want to take any more drugs. Please can you ask the guards to switch out the lights? They are hurting my eyes.”

  “Yes, I will. Visser very pleased with you. We work again in the morning.” He patted her back. “You need anything else? Tea, ice pack?”

  “No, thank you. I just need to be alone.”

  Alexi bustled out of her cell. Mary heard the rod slam across and listened for the familiar click. The noise made when the guard presses the bolt handle down between steel stoppers, against the wood of the door. It did not happen. Neither did they remember to twist the key in the lock. Complacency borne from the belief that Mary was too ill to give them any trouble, or that cooperation earlier in the day provided them with evidence of her acquiescence.

  All that stood between her and freedom was a metal rod and a few dozen guards. She lay very still. Alexi growled his orders to the guard monitoring her camera feed. The lights went fully out and all was quiet at last.

  Fighting with the hysteria that threatened to burst forth, enveloping all rationality and common sense, she allowed her sight to acclimatise to the darkness, homing in on the tiny red flashing light of the camera. Keep it together, Mary. She intoned inside her head. I cannot afford to lose the plot now. This might be my only chance to be free. Whatever Parth’s role is in all this, I have to get out of here and somehow alert the authorities about Visser’s intentions.