Shadow Box, page 22
“How’s the prisoner?” Domi asked.
“Seems restful,” Grant told her, stepping away from the little square of glass. “You want to look?”
“Uh-uh.” Domi shook her head. “Seen enough of that ugly mug for a long time, thank you oh so much.”
Grant glanced back to the window for a second, before chuckling quietly. “Yeah, I guess we all feel a little like that,” he admitted.
“Any more clues as to what it is,” Domi asked, “or where it came from?”
Grant shrugged. “Nobody’s told me anything so far.”
Domi smiled at him. “Tough being the hero sometimes, isn’t it?”
Grant laughed at that. “You’re mistaking me for someone else,” he told her. “Hey, have you eaten?” he added, and Domi shook her head. “Let’s go see what’s in the canteen. Ever since I got hit by that knockout gas I’ve been starving.”
Domi accompanied Grant down the long length of corridor, past the twin guardsmen who stood by the stairwell, there to ensure that the creature didn’t break out.
“What happens if it wakes up?” Domi asked Grant as they climbed the stairs together.
“Lakesh has got six tanks of anaesthetic rigged up, feeding that room twenty-four hours a day,” Grant assured her. “It isn’t waking up any time soon.”
Domi ran a hand through her short, pixie-style haircut. “I hope you’re right,” she stated ominously, her discomfort obvious.
BRIGID WAS GREETED with a round of applause as she walked through the wide doors into the Cerberus control center. She was feeling much better now—a shower and a change of clothes had done wonders for her temperament, and the muzzy feeling in her head had all but gone.
“Thank you,” she said as the applause died down.
Brewster Philboyd waved to her from his place at the communications terminal. “Welcome back, Brigid,” he said as she sat at the desk next to his and powered up the computer there. The two of them had worked closely on getting the interphaser operational about a year ago, and Philboyd had always had a lot of time for Brigid.
“Thanks for your help out there,” Brigid said, placing her spectacles on her nose as her computer ran through its boot-up protocols. “We would never have tracked the creature without you watching our backs and fronts and every other part of us.”
Brewster blanched, looking at the stunning figure before him, dressed in a tightly fitted white jumpsuit, the standard wear for Cerberus staff. On Brigid’s rounded, athletic figure, the formfitting suit left little to the imagination.
Seeing his embarrassment, Brigid leaned forward and whispered in Brewster’s ear, “You can stop watching now, Brewster. I think I’m safe.”
Brewster blushed, turning back to his computer, his eyes glazed. Brigid sniggered as she ran through the password screens and accessed the shared mission report files. It came as little surprise to see that both Kane and Grant had neglected to file a report on the field mission in California, and Brigid knew that there was little hope that Domi would ever concern herself with such “boring paperwork.”
Brigid tapped at the keys and added the next case number to her report before filling in the basic details of locations with map references, personnel involved and basic weapons inventory data. An archivist from Cobaltville, Brigid knew the value of keeping accurate records that others might refer to in future—if a Cerberus field team came across another of the black-skinned creatures, her report might be the only information that kept them alive.
She looked at the screen, adjusting her glasses as she ordered her thoughts. Her hand reached across and she plucked a pen from a tub to the side of the little desk. Reaching down to her side, she pulled open the drawers until she found a little notepad, its top page dotted with her familiar, precise handwriting. She placed the notepad on the desk, flipping it to a blank page, and began writing a few key words to get her thoughts together.
MARIAH FALK SAT at one of the plastic-topped tables in the Cerberus canteen, enjoying a late snack, having missed dinner thanks to her brief excursion to Humphreys Peak. She sat there, letting her mind wander as she thought back to the strange little underground rooms that she had been exploring with Bryant and Edwards just a few hours before. As she broke off a corner of the pastry on her plate, Lakesh came walking over with Cerberus physician Reba DeFore in tow, rustling a file of printouts in his hand.
“Hello, Mariah,” Lakesh said. “We’ve just had the results back on that liquid you and Clem brought from your excursion. May we join you?”
“Be my guest,” Mariah said, looking around for Clem. The canteen was his domain, and she knew he’d appear from the kitchens before too long, hurrying to wipe down a table or to check that someone was enjoying a meal.
Lakesh sat, checking through his paperwork for a few seconds, until Mariah caught Clem’s eye and called him over.
While they waited for Clem to join them, Domi spotted Lakesh and came rushing over from where she sat with Grant.
“Hello, lover,” she whispered, draping her arms around Lakesh’s shoulders and pulling him close.
Lakesh turned, a bright smile crossing his face. “Dearest,” he said apologetically, “I’m sorry that we’ve hardly had a chance to speak since your return. I seem to be juggling an alarming variety of pressing matters today.”
Domi stroked Lakesh’s nose, looking him in the eye from just a few inches away. “You’ll make it up to me,” she said quietly. Lakesh wasn’t quite sure if that was an assumption or an order from his dearest companion.
Once Clem joined them, Domi went back to her table and Lakesh turned the papers around to show to Clem and Mariah while he used his pen to point at certain figures printed there.
“What we’re looking at,” Lakesh explained, “is an analysis of the contents of the bottle you brought back from Humphreys Peak. The lab boys are still doing a full battery of tests at the moment, but this is their preliminary report.”
Clem looked at Mariah, then—apologetically—at Lakesh and DeFore. “You’ll have to forgive my ignorance, Dr. Singh, but perhaps if you could talk me through these findings.”
“Of course.” Lakesh nodded, pointing to each value in turn. “What we have here are proteins, carbohydrates, lipids and phospholipids, electrolytes and urea, with a significant amount of water as the base within which it’s all swimming around.”
Mariah looked mystified, but Clem smiled and nodded as though he had rumbled a great secret. “Basic building blocks,” he said, when he saw Mariah’s confusion.
“I’m a geologist,” Mariah reminded him. “When you say ‘building blocks’ I hear ‘column and strata.’”
Clem looked to Lakesh and Reba for confirmation as he continued. “Proteins, carbohydrates, electrolytes—these are the building blocks of life.”
“Clem’s right,” Reba DeFore agreed when Mariah looked to the ash-blond physician for confirmation. “The makeup of this pool you found is very similar to amniotic fluid. Allowing for the contamination of the vessel used, it’s a very good fit for amnion.”
“A…birthing pool?” Mariah said tentatively.
“More like a womb,” DeFore said, “or the discharge of one.”
Clem looked up and smiled. “I don’t think I’ll be needing my bottle back, Doctors.” He laughed.
Lakesh flicked through his papers until he found a sheet covered in architectural diagrams. “I’ve also looked into this kachina that you mentioned, Mariah,” he stated. “You may very well be onto something. The little figurines that Edwards brought back certainly look like kachina, which formed fetishes of many of the strands of Pueblo religion. The kachina were believed to be supernatural entities, spirits that could influence the natural world. Each one was designed to look unique, each with its own significance. Even the colors mean something to the people who made them.”
“What are they made of?” Clem asked.
“The ones you found were constructed from cottonwood root,” Lakesh replied. “The room that you found yourselves in, the first one that you described to me, I believe that that was a kiva, a room used for religious rituals by the Hopi and other Pueblo people. Evidence of these rooms goes back centuries, although there has never been a consensus as to their original designation or purpose.”
“And are these kivas all accessed through a fault line in a mountain?” Clem asked. “It seems rather an impractical way to carry on your worship.”
Lakesh pushed the paperwork across the table to where Mariah and Clem could study it more closely. There were two line illustrations on the top sheet that showed overhead and side views of a circular room very much like the one that they had found in Arizona. The designs showed a single opening at the top of the room, through which a ladder poked, allowing access from aboveground.
“Roof access?” Clem said after he’d looked at the designs. “Very clever.”
Lakesh indicated the drawings. “I’d suggest that the rooms that you found originally had the same type of access, but over the years it’s been sealed off. Whether intentionally or not, we’ll probably never know.”
“You should consider yourself honored,” Clem said, turning to Mariah. “According to these notes, women aren’t generally welcomed in the kiva.”
Mariah laughed before she turned to Lakesh and DeFore across the table, all seriousness once more. “What does this all mean, Lakesh?”
“Hidden rooms,” Lakesh said, ticking off items on his fingers, “evidence of a recent birth, a religion that worships supernatural entities capable of influencing the world. I’d say it means that something was in there and, whatever it was, it’s out.”
“The earthquake freed it,” Mariah realized. “I’m so dumb, why didn’t I realize that from the start?”
“I think you did,” Clem said, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have insisted that we investigate the site.”
Lakesh nodded in agreement, as did DeFore a moment later.
“We couldn’t have got anyone there any sooner, Mariah,” Lakesh assured her. “Your instincts were right on the money.”
“Could this have anything to do with,” DeFore began, considering carefully how to end her sentence without alarming Clem and Mariah, “the item that Kane’s team brought back from California?”
Lakesh looked thoughtful as he considered the likelihood. “Geographically, the two were found relatively close to each other.” He nodded. “It’s a distinct possibility.”
IN THE CONTROL CENTER ROOM, Donald Bry had resumed his post at the communications terminal beside Brigid Baptiste, while Brewster Philboyd took some time to himself. Bry’s ever nervous face turned to Brigid as she scribbled reams of notes on the pad, seemingly faster than the ink of her pen could flow. She tore off another sheet, placing it before her on the desk, where it sat between seven other sheets that were arrayed in a spread like a fan of cards.
“You’re looking busy, Brigid,” Bry said when he saw her finally stop for a moment, tapping the pen against her teeth in concentration.
She ignored him, clearly deep in thought.
Bry turned back to his terminal, then stopped. Something was nagging at him, and he looked back at the notes now covering Brigid’s desk. Slowly, Bry peered at the notes, standing and walking the two paces between the desks to get a better look. There were drawings, diagrams really, of plant life and of little figures. There were words written beside the images, long streams of words, paragraph upon paragraph of tiny, neatly written characters.
As Bry looked at them, reading the notes on the sheet that Brigid had just placed in the center of the array, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t make sense of it, not at all. The notes were written in letters, in words, but not letters or words that he recognized. They weren’t English, that was for sure, but nor did they look Cyrillic or the graceful, sweeping swirls of Arabic, the stern, blocky characters of Chinese.
Finally, Bry spoke quietly to Brigid. “What are you writing, Brigid? It looks…fascinating.”
The beautiful redhead turned at his words, looking at him and yet, somehow, through him.
“Brigid?” Bry prompted again.
“Donald…” The word came breathlessly from Brigid’s lips. “I was…I didn’t realize that you were there.”
Bry pointed to the notes on the desk. “What are you writing? I don’t recognize some of these characters.”
“The words,” Brigid began slowly, as though teasing the sentence from her mind, “are all in my head. I can see them.”
Donald leaned forward, reaching out to Brigid then. “Are you all right, Brigid?”
She looked at him, but her eyes seemed unfocused, the pupils wide as though they couldn’t get enough light. “I can see you,” she said.
“I’m right here,” Bry assured her.
“I can see you all,” Brigid said, ignoring him.
Bry stepped back then, a shiver running down his spine. He turned, looking around the busy room at the other staff as they worked quietly at their terminals. Lakesh’s seat was empty, but Bry had known that when he came back on shift.
“Where’s Lakesh?” he asked urgently, raising his voice for attention.
Over by the mat-trans anteroom, wiping the walls down, Farrell looked up and pointed to the doors. “He went to the canteen about five minutes before you arrived,” he told Bry. “Lab results came in and he was hoping to catch Clem and Mariah, I think.”
Bry stepped over to Lakesh’s terminal, flipping on the trans-comm as he held the communications rig to his ear. A green light winked on on the desk and Bry spoke into the microphone, his voice echoing through the rooms and corridors of the vast redoubt.
“Paging Lakesh and DeFore. This is Donald Bry in the control room. Please could you come here urgently. I repeat, Lakesh and Reba—to the control room, ASAP.”
Farrell’s brows knitted in worry as he looked at Bry, and a number of the other personnel in the room looked similarly perplexed. “What’s going on, Donald?” Farrell asked.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, looking at Brigid as she sat there, eyes wide, staring into nothingness as her hand scribbled out more of the strange notations like a thing possessed, “but I think we need to evacuate this room until we find out.”
Voiced dissent went up almost immediately from the staff, but Bry held up his hands to calm everyone. “I’m ordering everyone out of this room. Please proceed to the exit in a calm and orderly manner.”
“But what about the feeds?” the scientist at the satellite backup monitoring terminal asked.
“I’ll monitor them,” Bry assured him. “If everyone can wait outside this room, I’m sure this will all be over in a few minutes. Thank you.”
It wasn’t often that Donald Bry had to show his leadership skills, but his utter calm in the face of the unknown reassured the other members of staff. They proceeded to follow his orders, lining up in the corridor outside while he and Brigid Baptiste remained within.
Two minutes later, Lakesh arrived with Reba DeFore in tow. “What’s going on?” he asked Donald urgently as they rushed through the double doors into the room.
Behind Lakesh, Reba closed the doors, drowning out the hubbub of urgent conversation from the impatient staff.
“Something’s happened to Brigid,” Donald explained, his voice low. “She’s been writing nonsensical notes, presumably all afternoon, and she seems to be mentally altered.”
The worry was clear on Lakesh’s features, and he dashed across the room to where Brigid sat at her desk, scratching out more of the strange illustrated notes.
“Brigid?” he asked. “Brigid, dearest, can you hear me?”
Slowly, languidly, Brigid turned to face him, her pen still working at the notepad. “Dr…. Lakesh?” she muttered.
“Okay, dear,” Lakesh urged, “keep calm. Stay with it. Stay with us.”
Reba DeFore was already at their side, turning Brigid’s free hand over and timing the pulse there against her pocket chron. “Pulse seems normal,” she said. “Temperature feels fine, but I’ll need my medicine bag to do a proper examination.”
“Then get it,” Lakesh instructed her. “We’ll remain here. And tell everyone outside to wait.”
Brigid’s eyes widened as she looked at Lakesh and Bry, dropping the pen from her hand. When her speech came, it was slurred. “S’funny, Lakesh. I can see two of you,” she explained.
“That’s Donald,” Lakesh told her, looking into her wide eyes. Where he could still see it around the widened pupils, the vibrant emerald-green of Brigid’s eyes seemed to be losing its luster, fading to the yellow of dried straw.
“No,” Brigid said finally. “That’s not Donnie. I can see him, too, by your shoulder. Him…and him. Two by two, like on the ark. All those animals. Poor Noah—God’s stable boy.”
Instinctively, both Lakesh and Bry looked over their shoulders, checking behind them, all around the room. They were alone, just the three of them in all, including Brigid sitting at her desk.
“What are these notes?” Lakesh asked, turning to Bry.
“Like I said, they’re just nonsense,” Bry explained. “Look here,” he added, holding up one of the lavishly illustrated sheets of notepaper.
Lakesh looked at it, saw the strange writing scrawled across the page. The characters seemed familiar and yet different, the way that Russian looks familiar to an English-reader. Much as he tried, Lakesh could make no sense of the curling letters, the bunched words. Beside the tightly packed writing was an illustration of a fat figure, reminiscent of a cherub, sliding down what appeared to be the inside of a plant stalk, a flowering bud sitting atop the hand-drawn sketch.
“This reminds me of something,” Lakesh said finally, wincing as he tried to place the memory. “Voynich,” he said after a long pause. “Look up Voynich.”
