“Please do not move while the scan is being performed,” a disembodied voice told him.
The device scanned once more, then Storm stepped back rubbing the sting from his streaming eyes.
A man with a clean white shirt and a crisp, charcoal pinstripe suit stood beside the security booth. He dressed like a corporate executive, but he did not look like he had spent a lot of time behind a desk.
The cut of the man's tailored suit accentuated his athletic build, and while he was not tall, he struck an assertive posture that made up for his lack of height. Even the tilt of his head communicated a predatory quality. Like that of a raptor checking a living target before taking its first bite.
The government agent rested his fingertips on the shiny black leather belt in his trousers. His bunched shoulders caused his jacket to ride a fraction too far up his back. The narrowed ice blue eyes constantly flicked over each and every move the boy made.
The man's stare reminded Storm of nothing so much as a hungry Tasmanian Devil sizing up a fat possum it had trapped on the ground.
He waited for the security officer to return his ID card, but she didn't. Instead, she was focused on the next arrival standing behind him in the line.
The Tasmanian Devil waved Storm's card in the air to attract his attention.
“Mr. Elliot,” the man said in a relaxed tone. “Follow me.”
For a short man, the agent set a brisk pace through the crowded terminal and into the parking lot. He stopped and turned when they reached a late model, dark blue Commodore. “I'm Roy Davenport,” he said, flashing Storm a tight smile. He opened the passenger door. “Hop inside, mate.”
It was easy enough for Storm to convince himself everything was fine. The car was comfortable. Better even than Franchette's. There seemed nothing threatening about the driver. Storm refused an offered cigarette, but the gesture helped him to relax. He wondered how Michael's old friend, an astronomer wielded such influence over the security staff at Canberra Airport.
“There's been a change of plans,” Davenport told him once they were on the highway taking them to the city. “You will be meeting with Mr. Martyn Boas instead. We are going directly to his office now.”
He glanced at Storm's worried face. “Relax, mate. It's all good.”
Storm gazed up at a flagpole sitting on the apex of a steel pyramid atop the building. It flashed onto the screen before every national news broadcast on the TV.
Davenport turned the car onto a ramp that took them into a cavernous parking lot beneath Parliament House.
“Have you been here before?” Davenport asked.
“No way!” Storm exclaimed. “Never thought I would be either!”
“Well, welcome to the place your elected leaders gather,” Davenport commented with a wry smile.
Storm thought he heard Davenport add under his breath, 'and the unelected'.
“Sorry?” Storm asked.
But the agent was already standing before the opening doors of an elevator.
A stout, red-faced man emerged to stride briskly past them with a reporter and a cameraman in hot pursuit.
“Hey, wasn't that the minister of education or finance?” Storm asked.
Inside the elevator, Davenport winked in reply. He passed a keycard through a slot in a metal ledge set beneath the floor buttons.
An elderly gentleman paused outside the lift, raising his cane and giving a sharp cough to attract their attention.
Davenport stared straight through the old man and let the doors close.
The descent was rapid, and Storm felt his stomach lift.
“You get used to it,” Davenport said when he saw the boy's face.
“How many levels down was that?” Storm asked when an electronic voice announced they had arrived.
“I can't say,” Davenport replied.
The corridor seemed little different to the interior of the elevator. A soft blue glow reflected off an arching metallic ceiling, the light emanating from the metal surface itself.
“Seriously?” Storm asked as they stepped into the corridor. “You can't say?”
Davenport gave a single nod of his head.
“You mean it’s a secret?” Storm asked in surprise.
Davenport was already several paces ahead of him, but the cocky, brash quality had evaporated. He looked almost bent. Like he carried a weight on his back. No, it wasn’t that. It was more like Davenport was adopting the servile attitude of a butler hurrying to attend the bidding of a lord and master.
The corridor ended at an impressively tall metal-framed entranceway. The room beyond was sparsely furnished. It might have been the empty reception area of an office closed for the evening.
Davenport took a single step over the entranceway and stopped. He pointed to a chair at a small table in front of the large desk. “You sit there.”
“You aren't staying,” Storm asked.
“You want me to hold your hand?” Davenport asked.
Storm noticed Davenport looked like he didn’t want to hang around much longer.
“No, I meant…”
“Mr. Boas won't be long,” Davenport said before he left Storm alone. The door closed with a faint hiss behind him.
The desk was smooth and contoured. Perhaps due to the size and shape of it the desk. The surface had a liquid appearance with the black material absorbing what little light was in the room. The illumination consisted of a soft glow from a tall opaque glass that looked like a window framed in a gothic arch.
The minimalist design of his surroundings and dim lighting contributed to the feeling of unease. He sat behind the small table set before the large console, not knowing what to expect, waiting for his mysterious host to appear.
27
Platinum Blonde
The tallest man Storm had ever seen in his life appeared as if he had walked through the wall. Martyn Boas was just over seven feet from the bottom of his heels to the top of his head.
“Davenport got you here safely,” the man said. “I'm pleased.”
The light through the arched window had grown brighter with the giant's presence. It gave the startling Scandinavian-platinum hair on the large head the appearance of a halo.
Storm noticed the shining skin of his host was unlined. It was a face that could belong equally to a twenty-year-old or an extremely healthy seventy-year-old. He really could not tell. There was an absence of every mark of the passage of time Storm might have expected to find in anyone older than thirty years. And yet the man must surely be older than that, otherwise, how would he come to have an office deep below Australia's Parliament House?
The man's alabaster white skin had a sheen. His eyes were large and crystal clear. And he was not only striking physically but also in the way he spoke. His voice had the broad twang of someone from the Warrumbungle Region. It was the kind of voice Storm heard each and every day in and around Coona.
The giant stepped around the large desk and produced a small black wallet, tapping it with the side of his hand. A single thick, glossy white card fell into his palm and he placed it on the table beside Storm. “That's my business card.”
Martyn did not appear the least bit slighted when his business card went straight into the boy's back pocket without so much as a cursory read.
“You might want to learn something of my background,” he suggested, and he smiled.
“Oh,” Storm said. He retrieved the card and read the text. “Martyn Boas. President of Consolidated Rare Earth Corp.”
“Along with other companies I own. I have interests in mining, and what have you, and in some other unrelated areas,” Martyn said. He walked behind the desk that now appeared more like a console to Storm.
In the low light, Storm thought he saw the chair behind the console grow around and behind Martyn the instant the giant sat down.
“I apologize if my appearance shocks you,” Martyn said in his absurd broad twang. “It's a genetic condition I've lived with my entire life. Sometimes
I forget how strange I must look to an average Australian if such an individual could exist. Let's just say an Australian who can stand a fair bit of sun.” The laugh sounded like gravel and water sloshing in a bucket. “Don't you think so?”
Storm shifted in his seat. There was something unsettling about the way Martyn stared at him. He had seen countless farmers appraising stock with the same look on their faces. Now he understood how a farm animal might feel in the stockyards on a sale day.
“I could have let Stuart McKenna meet you, but I decided to do that instead. I hope you don't disappoint me.”
“Prime Minister McKenna?” Storm asked in surprise.
Martyn was continuing to stare at Storm, his head held tilted at an odd angle. It was as if he were a little bewildered by what he saw in front of him. “The Prime Minister enjoys receiving his news first-hand. Straight from the source which would be Michael. But, as it happens, McKenna is not at all capable of assisting in this matter. He's more of a hindrance. So—here we are, with no middleman to muddle things for us.” He got up from behind the console and walked to a cabinet that had simply appeared as he approached the wall. It opened to present him with a crystal decanter. “You are thirsty.” He stood quite still for a whole in front of the cabinet. He might have been trying to remember something. Or, he might have been listening to a sound unheard by Storm.
“Water if you have it,” Storm answered. His head felt like it was on fire.
Martyn brought the decanter along with two glasses to Storm's table. He pulled the stopper and poured a half-glass for Storm and one for himself. “Have you heard of negative ions? This is something similar. It's quite refreshing.”
“I'm supposed to meet Professor Samuel Blenker,” Storm said, ignoring the glass on the table beside him. “Do you work together?”
Martyn pulled back his head and roared with laughter. The size of the man's mouth was startling. It contained a lot of teeth. Storm was no expert on the matter, but it looked like Martyn had far too many.
The giant picked up the decanter and the glass of clear liquid he had poured for himself and took it back to his desk. The chair which had disappeared the moment he stood up, reappeared once more and molded in an instant to the shape of the large body. He took a sip from his glass and set it to one side. His fingers began to trace circles on the console. Below the moving hands, the dark surface responded with a faint blue glow and a humming sound. “What is it you have for me?” Martyn asked and there was an edge to his voice that had not been there before.
“It's actually for Professor Sam...” Storm began before cutting himself short. “It's a short string of letters and numbers.”
He had promised Michael he would not give the information to anyone but his astronomer friend. He had promised he would not give it to the authorities. Davenport had looked like a policeman. Martyn was certainly some kind of official. Damn, but he couldn't believe how bad his head was hurting! It felt like the hangover he came home with the day after Ethan's nineteenth birthday party.
“Take the pen and paper on the table beside you and write,” Martyn instructed.
The pressure in his temples was vicious, but as he wrote the pain lessened. He checked the lines and seeing there were no mistakes got up and placed the paper on the console.
“Drink the water I poured you,” Martyn said. “You will feel better.”
The water tasted bland. Like water. He emptied the glass in several gulps and when he finished, he realized his head wasn't hurting any longer.
“Unfortunately, the good Professor Blenker seems to have vanished,” Martyn informed him. “He never showed up for dinner at his home yesterday evening,” he said. A smile passed like a shadow across his face. “His wife reported him missing this morning. As it happens, his disappearance doesn’t matter to you. Michael was mistaken to think his colleague could help.”
Martyn stood and once more the chair fell away into nothingness. “You will join me for lunch. There is much I would like to talk about and we have very little time.”
Storm knew he should be afraid of Martyn. Here was a man of great power. Physical strength to be certain, but also undoubtedly great political power. Here was a man who scared those who worked under him. And, it was this man who had kidnapped him. And yet, Storm did not fear Martyn. He felt alert but also relaxed. His mind was clear in a way he had never known it to be. More than that, he felt as though a veil hanging over his eyes had been torn aside.
He was curious to learn why Martyn Boas found him so interesting. And, by no small measure, he was flattered by the fact.
28
Above the Sheep Dogs
Heads turned as the boy and the giant entered the crowded restaurant, but the glances from diners were furtive at best. The ministers of parliament and their guests quickly turned their attention back to their lunch in case they might become of interest to the tall man.
Martyn ignored them all, directing Storm up a spiral staircase to a mezzanine floor where a single large table had been set for two.
The scenic windows across the side of the restaurant looked out over a metal and glass pyramid on the flat roof. Beyond Parliament House, the city grid stretched to the edge of a range of hills clad in the leafy cloak of blues and green of gum trees.
“No one apart from the waiter will bother us up here,” he told Storm.
The waiter handed a menu to Storm. He placed a large metal decanter in the center of the table and disappeared down the stairs. Martyn filled Storm's glass to the top then filled his own. “Do you know where we are?” He asked, taking a sip and smacking his lips as though appreciating a fine vintage. “We are in the Members' Guests Dining Room.”
Storm shook his head. “My school took us here once when I was a 6th year, but it was only to watch a debate. It was boring.”
“They call it debating,” Martyn said. “It's all theater. They are playing roles.”
“My mom says the same,” Storm said. “Hey! Didn't we leave Michael's info on your desk?” He had not seen Martyn pick up the paper. He couldn't have read it.
“We don't need it,” Martyn replied and his big silver eyes settled on Storm. “You are wondering what was in the message.”
“It's a code,” Storm said.
“You memorized an email address, a password, and an algorithm. Nothing but a series of steps necessary to complete a particular task. There's nothing cryptic about it.”
“That's it?” Storm asked in surprise.
“A set of directions to locate specific celestial objects,” Martyn told him. “Orbits and orbital changes.” He smiled as if he had just told a joke.
“They think they are able to understand this thing by measuring it. But it tells them nothing! It's less than an infinitesimal amount of the information they really need to begin to understand what it is they behold.”
“They?” Storm asked. “You mean Michael too?”
“Yes, the good Doctor Boulos too. But, I am not talking about him now. I mean those who like to think they control you. The ones who prefer to stay hidden, who listening to our conversation and observing us. They analyze Michael's findings even as we speak.”
He looked at Storm with his strange eyes. “They panic!” He said in a stage whisper.
Storm felt a sudden chill as a thought took hold. Martyn, as big as he was, and with an amazing ability to read his mind—and for all he knew that was nothing but trickery—was utterly insane. He might even be dangerous.
There was a smile on the large face that was at once both sad and awkward. It was not unlike the smirk of a mime artist or a clown. When Martyn smiled, it was plain scary, and he appeared to be enjoying the effect it had on Storm.
“Right now, we can say whatever we like,” Martyn continued. “They won't hear a thing because I choose not to allow it.”
“Who are these controllers?” Storm asked.
“The upper echelons of government are one layer, and they, in turn, are controlled by a layer above the
m. You think you live in a democracy, don't you? But you don't! Elites manipulate your every decision and only allow you the impression that you have choices. But that's all it is. An impression. The elites own all the important companies. All the corporations.”
He turned to glance at the tables below. “Look at them gathered around their trough,” Martyn muttered. His contempt for the politicians was clear. “The politicians obey the elite of this land and they are a very thin layer. I will tell you more about them later. I want you to understand how things really work. I like you, Storm.” He said the last in a matter-of-fact tone.
The nervous waiter reappeared at the top of the stairs a single menu under his arm. “Y-y-you are ready to order?” He stammered to Storm.
“The meat is good,” Martyn advised.
“Ah—yes, a steak,” Storm said, handing the menu back.
“How would you like it cooked?” The waiter asked.
“Well-done, thanks,” Storm replied.
“Are you not ruining the taste of the meat?” Martyn inquired politely.
“I can’t eat raw meat,” Storm replied, and he thought he saw a look of disappointment in Martyn's face. “So what's this thing you mentioned before?”
“A large and complex object moves through our solar system.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Yes, but it's also responsible for rejuvenating the solar system on each of its return visits.”
“How do those elites help us by hiding it?”
“They are not helping you at all,” Martyn said, giving Storm a look of pity. “They are helping themselves.”
For a terrible moment, it looked to Storm as though Martyn was about to laugh again.
“If it's so big, how do they hide it?” Storm asked.
“Behind what you think of as your sky,” Martyn said. “They manipulate layers of the Earth's atmosphere to the extent they are able. They do this in part by dispersing materials in the upper atmosphere. Once in place, they mix the materials to react as required. They activate the material from a ground-based control center.”
Jubilee Year Page 14
