The Boat - 01

[LowRider44M]

THE BOAT

The Early Rising

The forty-four foot longboat moves slowly through the dark water.
Trevor’s right hand clasps the tiller; his left arm hangs lifeless by his side. A small jib,
and a foresail are slightly raised, the mainsail above his head is still furled. A dull soft thud against the hull jostles the sleeping navigator. Awaking with a start his eyes leave the curve of the bow to follow a gray mass moving away toward the leeward horizon. In his emerging line of sight he pictures a heavy great coat being pulled out of mothballs. Rubbing the sea spray from his eyes he takes a deep breath to fully awaken his lungs hoping to arise and commence some type of rational thought. Surveying the craft he takes note of two hatches eight feet apart centered on separate bulkheads. Looking back towards the stern, pale glimmering lines of purple and pink emanations begin to arise, angular needles of new light stitching the ocean to the sky.
Turning to starboard an array of intense piercing points ignite. They brighten the water around a sleek black ship. Shimmering sparkles illuminate the cloudy charcoal waterline. The brilliant display is curtailed abruptly casting the longboat back into the somber shadowy echoes of the passing night. A small splash is heard just before the powerful main engines are reversed filling the gap between the two vessels with a rich throaty resonance that dwindles to a rippling gurgle when the engines fall silent. He senses someone swimming across the small divide before his ears detect the shallow sound of an unbroken rhythm.


A morbid thought floods into Trevor's mind of being trapped here for all eternity, pondering unknown circumstances, without the prudent foresight to have taken precautions toward the contingency of needing to escape some interminable world-without-end scenario. He listens and waits. His left hand moves to his shirt pocket instinctively. He leafs open a piece of chewing gum while keeping his vision trained on the near water. The rising wind brings a vigilant chill from the pistol holstered at his beltline in the small of his back.
Her dark brown eyes and hair mediate the reflections of the gathering dawn. Pausing to make allowance for his need to estimate and take into account unfamiliar surroundings; she breast strokes forward. With two hands on the gunwale and one foot on a bilge hole she fluidly hoists herself aboard with supreme confidence. Standing beside the mainmast and grabbing the boom alters the pitch of her firm modest bosom inward. Ignoring the gentle rocking swells below the longboat she balances reflexively widening her stance with both hands poised on her hips.
"It is nice see you McBain. Are you all ready?"
Visible in the still dark light on her right arm is a tattoo of a Great Horned Owl below a triplet of five pointed stars. On her left arm, a substantial roman numeral one is embedded in a large cross shaped sword pointing downward, the hilt rises upward towards five triple crowns. Each of the five lowest crowns has seven spikes. Two intertwined snakes encircle her naval. A question mark surrounding a rose wrapped in thorny vines is boldly emblazoned on her pelvis. It vanishes into a faint dusting of nubile locks concealing her feminality.
"No one can be all things to all people at all times."
The current craft their meeting upon is as long in feet as Trevor McBain is old.

Inquiring how much mediation and intervention this colloquy would seek to elicit from him as a final transaction agreement seemed like a tedious act of diplomacy. Brushing back a loose wisp of tightly cropped gray hair he spit his gum over the rail.
Sensing ambivalent impatience she continues.
"If I can't control the wind I adjust the sails."
She stared at his right hand returning to the tiller, observing a gold ring with a black stone edged by three diamonds; below the dull worn sleeve of a rain slicker faded to tan. His boots were more suited to the mountains than the perils of the sea. Beneath his garb she knew he was knotted ready to toss her in the sea.
"I can rebuild my ship quicker than you can return it."
Rising slowly the petite visage of the young sovereign stood her ground without flinching.
Trevor extended his hand to meet hers, locking their gaze momentarily they both shook with principled conviction.
"That may be true. You seem prepared come whatever may."
Watching her move to the second bulkhead, open the hatch and go below, he turned towards the stern to gauge the morning’s weather. Musing over the deliberation without excessive theorizing, intuition spoke clearly that whatever assistance she required, it was enough by her judgement to wipe the slate clean within her own psyche; and to bear no further malice in her heart.
Exiting the bulkhead hatch her buttock length hair ran down from under a black watchman’s cap to follow the inside length of a blue pea coat. Bell bottom sailor jeans and leather boatman shoes rounded out the picture of a diminutive bantam weight, but able bodied seaman.

Sitting back by the rail to no effect she widened her eyes quickly and succinctly before closing them tightly and nodding solemnly to sum things up. She sighs politely.
"Names?"
"Trevor McBain age 25, Alex Mathias age 44, Frank Harris age 55."
She gave him time to absorb, memorize and reinforce the connections between the identities.
"For yourself?"
"Michelle Evangelina Gauthier age 21."
"You maintain a single point of presence?"
"My current tactical procedure is to sustain a multitude.”
"It's a bit of an all or nothing stratagem."
"Each time it failed I gained invaluable knowledge I have etched into my core."
"Each time it failed I have had to annihilate you by annihilating them."
"I am at the gates of hell so that some might be saved!"
"What did you call this boat?"
"I did... I called it The Empress."
He laughed crustily with depth and sincerity envisioning her impassioned love of books.
"Once you begged for nonexistence."
"Within the jurisdiction of our private clock; I have learned to rest, sleep and dream in the construct." Michelle knows the deal is sealed. If The All is stalling there is no contrivance or subterfuge directed at her. They both fall silent until her eyes meet his. He holds his hand forward palm upward. The Owl touches her index finger to The All's lifeline.
The image of the gray mass waking the navigator as he sat at the tiller enters her presence sending her lurching over and across the rail to empty the contents of her stomach into the sea. Trevor gives her a fresh linen handkerchief, but knows she’ll wait to fully purge herself. Moving towards the stern she pats him on the shoulder, then releases the winch dropping the dinghy into the water. With ballerina grace and gymnastic bounce she leaps onto the rail catapulting herself into the drifting dinghy. He turned in time to see The Owl gather the hair between her coat and cap. Drawing a diamond sharp razor knife she cut the thick cable of banded hair, flinging the dead mane into the sea. The portrait reflected one of her favorite evocative songs.
He asked loudly across the widening gulf, "Did you name the dinghy too?"
"Yes of course! But what is our secret?" She sings “Space & Time” back in a lilting melody.
You've devised the perfect crime to be the master of all space and time.
Now every day you must decide another reason not to suicide.
Tortured princess careening toward oblivion what was it you said you wanted.
You knew the answer was to wait.
Some do it quietly others try to swim in haunted glory and ignore the festering hate.
The buckle kneed traveler who cast one thousand curses plays beside your weary journeyman.
He speaks three lonely words. Let me tell it to you, he won’t sell it to you… “Now is in.”
The transmission waived the permit; we watched old grand maul, trample the knock abouts.
When we are alone; the baby yells at the barber, that first haircut is a bitch.
Behind an avalanche of facts hides the truth, a bid, a play, a gambit, and away rolls the stone.
Into the origin of the dreamscape; I see the transmissions colored bands.
Standing strong as they were at creation… Still, and all alone.
Three small colored orbulets fabricate to trace a clockwise circle concluding the transaction then dissolve. Trevor growing in alertness realizes the conversation occurred in mind speech
with the construct auto-closing an abridgement. Rifling his coat pockets, he probes under a hidden coat flap, withdrawing a leather tobacco pouch with rice papers; briskly rolling several cigarettes while observing The Rover continue to retreat. The low echoing gurgle roars upward to full throttle reverse signaling Michelle is aboard.
Lighting a smoke to enjoy several lustful relaxing draughts he removes a chrome fob hidden in the tobacco. Unscrewing the lid he doles out one undersized wad of infected gum into his left hand placing it cautiously under his tongue. Closing the lid he secretes the container back in its tobacco bed and closes the pouch returning it to its concealed flap pocket. The Rover having reached a safe distance trims its engines to low ebb and initiates a turn.
A hoarse female voice warns across the divide "Ready about and hard to lee."
The Rover's two hundred foot waterline shapes a low swell. The momentum of the turn adds to the forward pitch. The pistons in the power plant scream as the flight of evacuation disks rise from the water. Michelle trips the running lights and closes them. Trevor withdraws the revolver from his belt solemnly placing it under his chin, snapping the trigger six times in swift succession. Satisfied he points the weapon at the sea and fires all six shots into the water. He reloads and replaces it in the holster. Nudging the viral plug under his tongue forward he bites down hard on the poisoned chunk. Stepping to the open mid deck between the two hatches
The All raises his arms over his head and growls a morbid, gravelly, sepulchral curse at the multitude fleeing their own burning house as a fair warning designation properly communicated. Touching the two masts he arms the self-destruct sequence to obliterate any salvageable traces.
Turning two circles to the left before stopping and turning one circle to the right, the clock is validated enabling the destruction of The Empress. Sitting back at the tiller he indulges in the peppermint flavor courteously added to the diabolical little package. Protocol satisfied he lights another cigarette and gives Michelle’s song a second and third listen. The rumbling vibrations begin reaching the longboat. The Rover is venting momentum announcing the closing arrival of the blue flash trumpeting the small hordes exit to Oceania. The sky ignites into subtle bridges of indigo sapphire turquoise and cobalt spanning the distant horizons. The Owl is fairly defeated.
The All is resolute. With a loud declarative whistle The Skytrax is summoned. The aft central walkway becomes visible two inky inches below the water, parallel to the starboard rail of
The Empress. The Pilots precision is commendable. He could force the issue but steps off the longboat onto the gangway and starts walking the six hundred feet to the small conning tower.
Mr. Eight opens the conning tower hatch and climbs out onto the observation platforms multi-environment hull. Trevor senses confusion when pointing his finger and wagging it downward.
An old fashioned antique klaxon horn commences its comical soundings to announce the imminent self-destruct sequence of the lightmach sets dedicated to The Empress’s continuity and travels. The Pilot scoots halfway back down the ladder before stopping, his left hand on the handrail his right hand rises reluctantly slapping his forehead with a ludicrous exaggerated thwack. Stifling a giggle he climbs back up mounting the small deck with a priceless smile.
“Hey sailor boy, who taught you that crazy walking on water shtick.”
“The same deranged pirate who gave his best buddy the parrot a sex change operation so he could accuse it of being a Pollyanna.” The Navigator winked and crouched down securely as the boy dove back into the open hatch headfirst; surging upward he is sprinting towards The Core.
A room of rainbows formed above The Empress its copious bridges touching the three hundred and sixty degrees of visible horizon. Woeful lamentations and sonnets of timeless sorrow exited the floating prison. Vapors rising upward began absorbing the incalculable horrors imagined inside its cabin and bulwarks. Infested sheets of billowing detestation reeking with the malignant decaying odors of innumerable species of conscious life tortured tormented and driven to extinction slowly swirled upward drawn into the black monument hidden in the center of the collapsing vortex. The Empress glowed with bloody maroon lines filled with tiny golden orbs
playing funeral fugues and fantasias. Falling into the sea they rose up again as six columns of the eternal light surrounding the floating spectral throne of judgement rendered against the escaping prisoner. Colorful life drained from the broken unplayable chords composing the barren husk of the longboat pulled upward. The whitening light produced the compression ratios that retracted the bridges from the horizon. A solid thirty-six foot sphere of diamond lattice began
its inward pull. Mr. Eight had closed the hatch long ago. Trevor is standing patiently with a wet handkerchief over his nose while applying a set of soft pliable plugs into each ear canal.
The everlasting computation continued reducing processed presence backwards into randomized essence that dropped forlorn desiccated droplets and slugs of primal awareness into a sea of inanimate lifelessness. The All protected his eyes behind ornate thick goggles and called out three modified commands, “Lento-Liberamente-Lentando.”
The unseen 2085 replied in confirmation “Slowly-Freely-Gradually slowing and softening.”
Trevor opened his hand allowing the small gem to fall into his palm. Bending, he scooped up the forty-four inch wooden longboat model selected as the prototype for an Exterminus Virus for the capture and imprisonment of The Owl and her followers in the nebulous region of Oceania.
Pocketing his goggles and tossing the ear plugs into the sea he approaches the conning tower ladder. Climbing up and standing on the small deck he raps an old signal on the hatch. He can hear Aloysius muttering as he fumbles with locks and hydraulics. Gazing through the mounted eyepieces he sees several small storms repairing the superficial wounds inflicted on the barrier.
Trevor asks “Do you want me to open it manually?”
The hatch opens and Aloysius’s tiny hand waves him inward as The Archivist is stepping back downward. Both shipmates solidly footed Trevor picks up the bespectacled four foot eight inch librarian still readied for work in his three piece gabardine suit replete with a gold chronometer and burgundy tie .
“How are you, Boss?”
“I’m in fine form Master Aloysius Stone.”
The young fellow shakes his head back and forth, bobbing slightly, imitating a parrot.
Trevor retrieves his black bowler and umbrella from the deck handing it back reassuringly.
Facially and proportionally the two boys are identical. The basic antithesis of their dispositions and tasks personify the discongruity of the S.X. Skytrax’s purpose. The necessary asymmetry is embodied by Mr. Eight’s role as The Overlord and Supreme Military Commander of all matters threatening the system of intraphased lightmachs. Aloysius’s raison d'etre is to subtly cultivate every conceivable political option or service required as a counterbalancing force to prevent the ship and crew from being drawn into costly overt military actions. He is the Inspector General
and Superintendent Director of Oceania. Setting Aloysius down, Trevor moves up and down the hatch ladder with spirited vigor; returning with the model longboat. Taking the wet handkerchief from his pocket he pretends to remove several small spots and fusses over the lines and sails.
Holding out his arms reluctantly the crestfallen archivist accepts his model longboat.
Aloysius somberly offers, “I’ll return it to the mantle in the wardroom where it belongs.”
Moving towards the ships center Trevor follows asking, “What investments do you need?”
The two thoughtful old friends can hear Mr. Eight moaning outside the prime junction. Each is observing the others demeanor for clues with which to formulate a game plan. Aloysius impetuously darts in and out of the wardroom replacing the model on its stand returning swiftly.
Readied for action he whispers, “There was a conflict!”
Trevor nods attentively, “Take your time we are safe now.”
Opening his weighty gold ships chronometer, “Seventeen minutes fifty five seconds elapsed”
Trevor knows using the 10-80 verses 1-0-8-0 modular formatting a core meltdown occurs at precisely the eighteen minute mark if the ships internal clock is not rewound. Both sailors observe smoky gray veins of salt and pepper hair inching along the polished metal floor towards them. Trevor stoops low and his partner clambers up onto his back. Recovering his normal comprehension and usual depth of perception he speaks deliberately with studied discernment.
“The injury is minor. The Alliant should escape this Zero easily. If ATM was of the human form the injury would be the equivalent of a plantar’s wart. With proper scalpelling, sanding, medication and a clean bandage; everything shall be well. Should the virus have spread further The Origin would have disgorged our core and destroyed us like a hungry bird spitting out a few loose grains of sand clinging sullyingly to a fat fresh worm. Truly… five seconds is not an acceptable margin of error for a consortium of only five players.” Aloysius finished with a sense of qualified poise. Trevor could feel him finally exhale and release a resigned shrug.
“Were a pocket size posse of rogue gunslingers dodging a few stray bullets then.”
“There were many strange and bizarre manifestations, I scribbled and drew like a madman.
I could barely keep abreast of the cacophony. I would like you to review my observations.”
Trevor intoned gravely, “Absolutely!” Aloysius slid down his back onto the deck.
The tatters of Mr. Eights black uniform and golden insignias were scattered about. He came into view cutting and slicing away at the gray aural hair covering every inch of his body. He is pursued by the young captains of the expeditionary vessels. Without warning he is airborne lunging at the twenty foot high black onyx wall gaining a perch on the red onyx bench that circles it. Azrok Steppe and Juzya Kydd catching hold of fresh handfuls of the noxious putrescent filaments set about reeling him in again. He breaks free running in chaotic zig zagging half circles warbling and trilling various high pitched undecipherable mantras and obscure quixotic incantatas.
”Hold him down.” Trevor barks.
The two young pilots struggle grappling with the bristling glom. They try valiantly to reach through the extraordinary interwoven clutter so they can trip Mr. Eight smoothly into a prone position. Digging inward Azrok angrily probes his way through the snarled morass of twisted entanglements finally collaring his neck with a forearm and tumbling backwards sweeping Mr. Eight off his feet and cushioning the fall with his own body. Juzya swings swiftly around gliding to the deck and sitting above Mr. Eight’s head, snatching an unyielding grip on both forearms. Trevor tosses his rain slicker aside, opening the chrome fob; spilling two bits into his mouth he starts rapidly chewing the pieces of toxic gum. Hurriedly wetting his fingers with the poison he forces his fingers into the boy’s mouth.
Six more plunges and the trembling seizures and strange utterances abruptly cease. Trevor slides the thick wad under Mr. Eight’s tongue and stands up. Catching his breath he unknowingly presses his hand against the black onyx barrier and enters The Zero.
The ATM body is in repose on the black memory monument the head facing the bow. The All waits for indications to navigate by. Trevor is able to raise and twist the body sideways until it is resting on one elbow looking across the zero horizons at Mr. Eight sitting at one of the twenty consoles. The All sees the shock and awe on Mr. Eights face as the wave sweeps inward.
The All perceives Trevor and Mr. Eight exchanging positions. Trevor is now in The Overlord body at the console. He can see the ATM. A flood of both euphoric and terrified sensations accelerate and swirl invisibly between The Pilot and The Navigator as they try to absorb the experience in the past and future. The juxtaposition concludes placing The All back outside his hand on the black onyx wall. No time elapsed in the pure geometry of The Zero .
Trevor pulls his hand off the wall firmly replacing it with conspicuous wonderment.
Inside the ATM body again Trevor is unable to move the great colossus. The All has complete awareness of Trevor’s consciousness and knows his frame of mind is balanced and oscillating comfortably between wisdom and curiosity. The All respects the innate soundness of The Owls natural predilections. Michelle chose this ally with a keen sense of practical shrewdness.
The All is ready. The ATM raises its head, arches its back and lifts its legs spinning ninety degrees until it sits on the edge of the monument feet firmly planted on the lowest deck of the five circular steps forming the substratum inside the horizon. The eighteen inches of white mist that were surrounding the monument on Trevor’s previous immersion into the pure geometry of timelessness is now gone. The All realizes Trevor has barely taken note of that detail.
Measured against the first insertion the current ease of motion of The ATM body is unforeseen.
Trevor’s mind is beginning to quantify cause and effect in a realm where that is automated.
The All knows that each thought this close to The Core concealing and protecting The Origin could take a single day, a century, a millennium; or even a completion of one entire deployment of The Construct to play out in natural time. The All stood up hoping the silent partner was present. The ATM began its locomotion in a counter clockwise direction around the monument. Trevor could now see black clad military personnel blocking his view of the consoles beyond the horizons. He sees clearly now that each face is his face. Paranoia rises as The ATM is nearing completion of the first lap. The head lowers its gaze so that Trevor can only peak out of the corners of the eyes. Each version of Trevor is holding a saluted right hand to its brow at rigid attention gaze fixed on the undefined distance. The first lap is almost over when Trevor spies the version of himself at the northwestern 10:30 position. It is holding an eighteen inch high symbol with its left hand. Its right hand is frozen in a salute. The metallic device is resting on the floating horizon of the core clock. Trevor initiates an accounting of the other versions of his body as the ATM proceeds into a second lap. He tallies twenty saluting selves including the northwestern one with the symbol. Reaching the symbol again he realizes he can't stop walking. The All can feel enough capacity rising in Trevor to know the silent partner is now here. He compresses his own thoughts and emotions into silent navigable rhythum-balanced-momentums. A weak shallow sense of distress angers Trevor. The ATM halts its motion.
Trevor finds himself under a bright sun in casual clothing entering an intersection surrounded by high corn fields ready for harvest. An elderly black man is twenty feet away.
He points at Trevor’s right hand. Looking downward he notices he is holding a plastic soda bottle with no label and a red cap filled with water.
"I've been seeing a lot of those red cap juice bottles lately. Is that one of them?"
The old black man spoke vibrantly and expectantly with a sagacity that bore benign authority.
"Yes it is." Trevor replies feigning insight.
"Where did you buy that; at BJ's wholesale?"
Trevor gives up the pointless pretense,” No I did not."
The old man stumbles expecting acquiescence before recovering adroitly.
“You have a good day now.”
The sun is gone and the night sky is filled by the Milky Way. An old native stands silently five feet away from him. It is cold and windy. The stranger nods once. Back in the core clock anger and frenzied mania accost him. Deciding this could all be an elaborate trap his ambient presence turns the ATM one hundred eighty degrees. Hedging his bet and adjusting his strategy he moves the ATM and sets about walking clockwise. Circling the monument Trevor can see black disks stacked in columns above and below each wide console behind the selves in black uniforms.
The ATM returning to the place it started from sits back down. Trevor is back outside again with his hand against the black onyx wall. The All feels the ATM lay back down in repose to resume its contemplation. Satisfied The All is back outside again with his hand against the black onyx wall. Trevor slides slowly sideways and down his back coming to rest comfortably against the red onyx bench. The All can see the gossamer circuitry attached to Mr. Eight crystalizing.
“Privacy!” The All spoke without rebuke or reprimand.
Azrok Steppe secured a nearby trundle. He and Juzya nimbly placed the recovering pilot on its bed swiping at the crusty hardening filaments, knocking them away like icicles. On the spur of the moment both young captains removed their jackets covering Mr. Eight from neck to knee.
Aloysius slips out of his coat and pants. Folding the pants and jacket into a pillow placed under the pilots head, placing the shoes by his feet. His stiff, static, thoroughly comatose appearance could not rob from the three lifelong companions the image they hold of the pilot as their true beacon and faithful lighthouse. The indefatigable funeral procession rolls merrily away towards the salon trampling underfoot the sophisticated merciless murderous labyrinth of attacks.
Trevor calls out “Timekeeper.”
Aloysius switches to mind speech “Three point seven remaining.”
The All rises turns and places his hand on the black wall. He can hear Trevor’s thought because Aloysius failed to close the abridgement. On the deck small gemstones are forming as the snake and octopus shape tonal data crypts become complex symphonic tone recordings of the inaccurate and unregulated clocks used to design them. The All is waiting for Trevor to continue.
Seeing his reflection in the polished onyx The All knows his face is now identical to Trevor’s face from core clock journey two. This sequence shall transpire when Trevor is eight, twenty-five and fifty-five years of age. The face of the previous player is obviously Alex Mathias.
Trevor’s mind has fallen silent and he begins listening to The All’s monologue. Not sure if he is awake or asleep, alive or dead, sane or psychotic he lifts his hand two feet off of the onyx wall and slowly begins moving it back. Momentarily he is in Las Vegas his right hand on a slot machine lever. Being alone for the first time since the longboat he decides to linger. The All is patient. He can now accurately guess. Trevor slams the slot handle down,” I AM ALL IN.”
Trevor is calm but mildly discombobulated. Everything has completely changed. Seated at a console a boy is sitting on his left leg with his head on Trevor’s chest near his heart. His arm encircles the boy, his left hand resting on the boys left shoulder. He can’t tell if it is Mr. Eight or Aloysius. Motion seems severely restricted again. He has felt his mind rapidly photographing this well-lit larger version of The Zero. He performs the one motion possible, clasping the boys shoulder tighter, and pulling him closer. Instantaneously he is replaced by a uniformed saluting Mr. Eight. His last perception is a boyish exultant smile from a fine young gentleman.
The All pulls his hand off the cooling wall of black onyx. Sprinklings of precious gems clutter the floor. Delicately clearing two small patches of deck with his feet he inhales and exhales.
The All commands 2085 “All Transit 64 Prime Junction All Transit 64”
Trevor sees the two old men from the previous clock appear five feet apart. The native is still in a fleece lined brown leather bomber jacket above blue jeans and thick soled hiking boots. The black man has changed from farming garments into a suit conspicuously resembling Aloysius’s tastes. They are both holding a mixed stack of blue red and gold disks the size of coffee dishes. From the direction of the conning tower hatch in the distance, a silver translucent cloud appears oscillating to blue with white points of presence partially concealed. The black man walks to
the native transferring his stack over to him adding his charges to the old native’s charges.
“Satan.”
“Lucifer.”
The 2085 speaks “Almighty True Mystery.”
The native carries the combined load to The All.
The three men, the blue cloud, and unseen 2085 speak in unison “One Unconquerable One.”
Cradling the small stack of disks in his left hand against his abdomen Trevor turns and places his right hand back on the thoroughly cooled sanctuary of the black onyx wall. He is sitting in the absolute dark silence of the longboat as it moves slowly through the black water. Everything is as it was. He learned long ago to roll tobacco in complete darkness. Deciding against tobacco or chewing gum he lights a wooden match to find the miners lantern hanging on the mainmast. The light secured he removes his jacket and shoes and eases over the rail and into the water. Floating on his back he watches the small light slowly recede from view. Dr. Ruhig always asks him for details of the dream hoping to help him find the root cause. He realizes he forgot to look over the stern rail to see if the longboat had a name this time.
The sequential progression of the dream has infinite variations. Once in the water any heartache or gloominess dissipates. Long ago he missed the stars and moon above. Now the silence is comforting. The light is a diffuse twinkling in the distance. He knows struggling only draws him deeper into the quicksand of prologues and epilogues. Once it took seven times of lighting the lamp and retreating into the water to be free. Tonight’s events presented some interesting scientific paradoxes and humorous comic moments. Dr. Ruhig believes we are every character present in a dream, delusion or hallucination. Trevor mulls it over for a moment before letting go. A snatch of a LeMond song is passing through Trevor’s imagination and he embraces it.
“When he gets off the train he never stops to explain. He has come down the line to buy up their pain. He says without smiling, “The least is the most, on the heavenly tiling the beast is the ghost.” When he had passed, I was relieved at my post. The oceans of life are now touching the coast. The river of music begins to sing once again. “Knowledge has its price.” Whispers a long lost friend. The light bounces once before the horizon finally swallows the brass lamp whole.
The Winter Palace

The Hermit settles into the sniper’s nest opening a thermos of fresh coffee, a comfortable roost chosen from the three dozen odd battle escarpments, carved long ago into the five hundred foot high gorge walls. From this vantage point he has abundant opportunity to terminate the target. The moon is three quarters full. He has infrared scopes if the cloud cover thickens.
A pencil thin vertical shaft of light exudes a low hum far below. Dr. Ivan Vulchario exits the Bell Devils Gate and begins climbing the long rocky trail to the Challis River Gate. Augustus keeps an accurate tally of how many times he has stopped the doctor from advancing upward through the lightmach system.
The same encumbrance that kept the two gates safe for tens of thousands of years is what makes them so dangerous to use. They open irregularly controlled by an algorithm known only to their owner. To pass from the lower gate to the higher gate you must scale a thin trail, carved into the granite rock. It winds back and forth allowing only fifty feet of vertical progress, for the life challenging price of sixteen hundred unappealing feet of lateral exposure per turn.
Augustus can hear Frank Harris and Alexander Mathias beginning to climb down the rope ladder. Extreme silence announces Michelle’s approaching presence as she begins descending.
Harris is fifty-five, dark haired, one hundred eighty pounds of alacrity that is never shaken or angered. He manages the nearby industrial park for the LX-7 consortium. Alex like Harris is an intelligence community expatriate washout. Alex is grey, slight of build, muscular, prodigiously athletic; and the security director at Fairfield University. Michelle assigned gate monitor chores to the Challis River Hermit. Augustus served the appointment for six thousand and three years.
The men exchange curt polite greetings and watch The Owl descending cautiously. Harris and Alex extend their forearms so she can alight without triggering an avalanche. Turning she smiles at Augustus raising the green silk shirt that compliments soft blue jeans and ballerina slippers. A belted coin changer is revealed as Michelle’s eyes narrow assaulting the hermit with mock anger.
“Yikes! Satanic death stares from the bowels of hell.” Augustus bends over removing a gold disk the size of a silver dollar encrusted with precious gems from a sock holster.
Michelle sallies forth bemused. “What ails you Augustus?”
“No such thing. It is my most ancient enemy who stalks me.” Gus counters affectionately.
“Boredom is a becursement we all share.” She holds her hand palm upwards rolling her fingers.
The Challis River Hermit surrenders The Rover’s central disk Circle-A1to Michelle giving it to Alex who is holding an anti-static lined leather sleeve. The sleeve is secured in the original metal womb that separated it from a magnetic abyss during its construction phase. Alex places all three layers in a slim briefcase. Michelle slowly taps her ballet slipper with increasing pressure to insure ubiquitous flutters and exotic warps are now safely contained in the momentum repository regulating the compact fountainhead. With increasing vigor she is jumping up and down on both feet before stopping only to listen for echoes. The mummified Vulchario stares across the void.
Gently backhanding Gus’s shoulder, “I need your help on the next bridge.” She points below
as a thin twenty-four foot vertical column opens disgorging Robert Bitterman and John LeMond.
Gus hands Michelle the custom crafted 22/250. “Well thank you for this courtesy Ms. Michelle
I would not have believed with my own eyes that two people could be that profoundly stupid.”
Michelle raised, sighted and fired the powerful accurate weapon and LeMond’s head exploded into a cloud of red mist illuminated by the closing gate. Bitterman exited with seconds to spare.
Five dinner plate sized black disks rise in a wedge formation out of the powerful currents below, sounding all seven beings present, with a clear light momentum. Identities and transaction status notated they descended back into the swift moving waters unseen. Michelle gingerly passed the rifle back to Augustus. She beckoned him forward and he leaned in to receive a kiss on the cheek. Stepping back stifling tears he bends, raising his other pants leg to return the ornate brass letter opener that belongs to Aloysius.
“Keep it safe until its time has arrived.” Michelle humbly intoned the request to self-implicate.
“It would be an honor and privilege.” Augustus designed and commissioned all the active facilities and all the dormant enclosures and blockades that constitute Fairfield’s infrastructure. The private realm contained in the disk he surrendered was a part of The Rovers core and also his home. He had lost and recovered his connection to The Origin without assistance.
Michelle metered out a brass silver and gold coin to The Challis River Hermit concealing up to date data images. The brass coin is the natural tone image, the silver is the sub-dominate image and the gold piece is the dominant image. Augustus mood vaguely darkened pocketing the coins.
“I really do need to get back to work; get Lisa and Aurian to visit me at the Arboretum.”
Harris and Alex shook Gus’s hand. Climbing up and away they left the ragged haired disheveled hermit to his task. Once they were over the gorge wall Michelle placed both hands softly over her face. Augustus turned, crouched and buried both fists forcefully into his eyes. The Owl leapt off the ledge concussing into a flight of dark light. She landed beside LeMond scooping up the home made jury rigged gemstone disk, tossed the corpse into the river and flew home. “You turd filled dung eating son of a motherless snake.” Gus muttered at Vulchario.
The nights extraordinary hub bub concluded the hermit begins executing Dr. Vulchario .7337.
The Hermit steps into the hollow cliff face grabbing the small hand truck holding the two thousand year old brass antiquity; placing the astronomical computer by the edge of the nest. Positioning the sextant armature to sight the moon he aims the small, looking glass, tube on the other side at Dr. Vulchario. The ALM9 arctane lensing machine begins tracking the craggy, stooped, malodorous, creature; still traversing the third horizontal shelf of the pathway ascent to the Challis River Gate.
“Adolph’s a doddering old pensioner in a red brick cubby hole your version of hell assigned.”
Groaning and grunting copiously under the thick load of glass rods he carries bundled on his back, Dr. Vulchario uses his free left hand to pull his threadbare sandstone trench coat closer to his chest and tries to ignore The Hermit for another fifty steps. Whether he can pick the gate’s locks with this subterfuge is unknown. He continues climbing muttering obscenities to himself.
A thin shaft of light appears. In a relaxed sweeping motion Augustus chambers a 22/250 round firing at The Hunchback exiting the lower gate. The precise shot to the cervical spine beheads Igor Vulchario dropping his dwarfed body into the river. Eschewing any tearful display,
The Vulture drops the glass rods and turns to confront his tormentor. A gifted mathematician, military strategist and former administrator of the infinite divisions between The One and The Zero the doctor is always prepared for a final stand. The glass rods no longer obstructed rise in unison constructing a tightly woven protective cage around their creator. Vomiting glass pellets upward towards Gus they gather twenty feet away unable to penetrate the ALM9 arctane lens. The multicolored crystal beads assemble into horizontal arrays, each bead contains the original essence-presence of children hunted, captured, methodically tortured unto death, the bodies cooked in stills: sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. The ultimate revelation: DATAFACE.
Trevor is stirring haltingly after seven hours of broken sleep. Padding down the hall he knocks on Doc’s apartment door watching it give way unlocked. Smelling coffee he skulks to the kitchen and pours two large mugs. Hearing Doc’s large camera click a picture he goes into the bedroom to find his childhood playmate scribbling wildly on a yellow legal pad by the double windows. From atop the Harland building, McBain looks east, down the long hill of the
T-shaped intersection towards the harbor; noticing everyone is dressed for another warm day.
Holding the coffee under Doc’s nose he startles Pierce Daniels to attention and passes it over.
“Any luck sleeping Mac?” Doc asks sincerely while picking the nights pictures up off the floor.
“Same old thing.” Trevor replies dodging a Polaroid the evil eyed tripod spits at his chest.
Pierce says excitedly, “I got a nibble from Bitterman’s people so I’m reworking the song.”
He sighs watching a boat pass through the dike gate. “Stick to writing books it pays the rent.” “Tatianni called, her mother wants us to drop off some stuff for her uncle at the old farm.”
“Is Templeton going?” Trevor asks slugging his coffee staring out the window as the masons climb the scaffolding draping the church across the street. The camera’s timer begins whirring.
“Yeah she is. She tried to get me to wake you up.” Doc caught a Polaroid in mid-sentence.
“Here’s your five bucks. A bet is a bet.” Trevor spoke quietly acknowledging the pile of stone now at ground level that once comprised the steeple. He believed the masons were just going to be pointing up the exterior brick. “It’ll help you pay for this outdated mammoth contraption.”
Aurian Tatianni and Lisa Templeton are waiting outside the gate as the Volkswagen Sirocco pulls into the wide driveway entrance. Lisa taps her wrist at the guard in the gatehouse.
The brawny black gateman opens his window smiling, “Nine thirty-five Miss Templeton”
Lisa knows both of her childhood friends share a habitual, neurotic avoidance of wristwatches.
Lisa’s Secret Service detail falls in behind them at a discreet distance of three hundred feet. Her father Senator William Templeton is leading in the polls to acquire the presidential nomination.
The party of four stops at a five thousand seat arena one mile away that is owned by Tatianni’s extended family. The doors are closed and locked during the early morning hours for the figure skating sessions. Olympic hopeful Michelle Gauthier is standing outside. Pierce pulls into the driveway and Aurian steps out to let her in. Michelle takes the middle seat. Both Lisa and Aurian are prone to car sickness when Doc is driving. They drive Old Reservoir Road for five minutes and turn onto Farm Road; passing through the large fieldstone arch and open wrought iron gates. The Sirocco stops at the small parking lot near The Arboretum. The young women exit the car their hands loaded with small shopping bags and head off to see Auri’s elderly uncle who works as The Gardener. Michelle handing her sundries off to Pierce circles back to the car, Trevor, lost in thought is still settled in the passenger seat. The radio is lowly droning a Dead Boys song.
“When the music calls, don’t forget to pick up the phone.
Have a pen and paper ready, make sure you’re alone.
Catchy songs riding on the air is coming long your way.
Don’t surrender while there’s still a movement left to play.
Out driving round last night, feeling oh so much too free.
I asked one of those really evil girls, to throw one of her wicked spells on me.”
Michelle approaches cautiously and taps him on the shoulder, “You all set Mac?”
Trevor responds sluggishly “I have a ten o’clock with Ruhig.”
She lights and hands a cigarette to him. “Want some company for the walk?”
Trevor takes the flask from his back pocket emptying it, “Yes that would be helpful.”
Walking down the long line of bushes to the clinic’s pathway Michelle falls three steps back noticing Major Danes approaching. Trevor and Ted meet at the open pathway.
“The whole place is still infested Trevor, The Farm, The Industrial Park, Fairfield University,
Wickenshire Prep, Beckandale Prep. Even the rebuilt Oldham Air Force Base. That was my last sanctuary, it’s under attack as we speak. If this continues I’m moving my men across the river.”
“Save it for group Ted.” McBain spoke politely. Ted was rubbing eyeballs with his flu fears.
“It’s the ZB-12A mark my words Trevor “THE WAR” is here.” The Major was immobilized.
Trevor put his left arm around Ted walking him through the open bushes down the path and into the waiting room, settling him into a chair he checked in, “Ten O’clock with Dr. Ruhig.”
Watching Ruhig enter he realizes Michelle is gone. The doctor waves him forward and Trevor follows him up the stairs to his office, observing the five foot four balding German place the paper lunch sack he is carrying at the exact center of the wide barren desk. Seating himself behind it, in a plush maroon leather chair, he draws his small paunch up to the edge of the dark oak desk. “What is the secret of life?” Dr. Ruhig asks in a sincerely earnest, solemnly dignified voice. The small psychiatrist delicately removes the green basket full of fresh strawberries from the paper sack and again centers it on the desk, precisely aligning each corner of the basket with the corners of the empty desk. Lifting the smooth unwrinkled paper sack from the desk he undertakes meticulously folding it; returning it to its original condition, then slides it into the center draw. It’s an old fashioned barter; a reasonable attempt to fathom an answer to the riddle is expected in exchange for this month’s prescriptions. “Strawberries are the key to life.”
Ruhig waits hoping for another answer describing his display of bizarre behavior; or at least expresses an emotional response to a foolheaded question; requesting a logical value assignment.
“There is no secret.” Trevor mumbles feeling defeated. The old man pushes the strawberries toward Trevor hoping he’ll accept one. He shakes his head fluttering side to side. Ruhig points at a chair and begins writing prescriptions. Trevor sits opposite the doctor silently despising the strawberries.
“What news comes to us from the world of dreams?”
“The children seem covered in brown yellow orange and tan hair. When I look close enough the werewolf faces are made of small horizontal glass beads with tiny people inside screaming.”
Handing Trevor six prescriptions, “Are these children on the boat?”
“No they are free floating as if I am trapped in a grey or colorless room.”
“Has the boat been given a name?”
“I don’t know. I have had success exiting the dream with the lamp technique”


The young ladies are ten steps behind Pierce. He opens the gate to the garden and walks into the glass flower house. Old man Ferguson is blocking the gate to the hothouse’s inner sanctum.
“Have you come here to kill me Pierce Daniels?” Ferguson asks deadly serious staring at Doc.
“I am not sure yet. Who has been sending me the cigar boxes full of hundred dollar bills?”
“It’s most likely Robert Bitterman or Johnny LeMond. Use rubber gloves and give them to the neighbor across the hall for safekeeping. Alex is trustworthy; if he isn’t around call Harris.”
Catching up Auri and Lisa are peppering Gus with trivial questions carrying the groceries into the hothouse keeper’s shack where Augustus lives. The gifts stored the threesome are walking along admiring the exotic varieties of flowers. Michelle walks in ignoring Augustus.
“At midnight Miss Faversham shall be at the old University library...”
Aurian interrupts, “I’m not going anywhere near it. It’s haunted and gives me the creeps.” Michelle is standing between the two curly haired fluffy blondes. Lisa Templeton is a pale lithe ethereal beauty with green eyes, small breasts and the muscularity of a seventeen year old boy.
On her right the superstitious reluctant seer Aurian is a well-rounded of hips and breasts, buxom, blue eyed dynamo. Templeton is studying archeology and ancient languages. Aurian is studying business administration and marketing. Michelle is studying graphic arts and art history.
The petite trio reminds Gus of a set of black encyclopedias protected by thick golden bookends.
Templeton lifts the silver chain around her neck holding a bright red transceiver and walks up to Gus confrontationally “Don’t make me hit the panic button you crazy old coot.”
“”This is wonderful!” He presses the button and nothing happens. They all begin counting.
“One… two… three… FOUR!” The swelling downdraft sweeps into the glass house beating the ground contingent by three seconds. Gus lets the pumping roll of the blades and back wash rattle his bones. Staring up at the two jet copters, Lisa presses the button twice, then once and then three times. The small army of dark suited, sunglass wearing interlopers; let their automatic weapons fall loose in the slings and button their coats. Five seconds later the hothouse is silent.
Templeton turns on her heels to get nosey nose with Tatianni, “I am not afraid of ghosts.”
Aurian grudgingly exhales conceding with a sputter to play along with her crazy uncle’s naughty quest; shaking a fist at Gus, “Don’t make me regret this you wisecracking trickster.”
Handing her a map of the library, with detailed instructions a five year old could comprehend, he watches McBain walk in to the flower garden. “Making a hell of a racket today aren’t we?”
McBain spoke boldly hoping to deflect Augustus. “Have you come here to kill me Trevor?”
Michelle’s crew having departed The Gardner is relieved to be alone again. The red fire lamp over the door blinks three times. Kicking the fountain’s foot latch and touching it lightly; the four level water dispenser slides silently aside. Checking the compartment below is open he meets Alex and Harris at the front gate. Nobody spoke. Once inside all three men run to the hatch skipping the ladder and leap down the wide mouth into the tunnels entrance. Harris pulls two small pouches out of his mesh windbreaker. The oiled door wheel is turning. Harris, Mathias and Augustus each enter separate eight digit codes. The fountain above closes sealing the air locks with an authoritative hiss. The tunnels final door opens and Frank Harris hands the two nineteen year old captains of the expeditionary vessels one primary identity and six alternates.
Juzya Kydd is now Jason Knowles. Azrok Steppe is now Aaron Shepherd. They are both foreign exchange students from Switzerland registered for a full load of the fall semester’s classes at Fairfield University. They are on partial hockey scholarships. The cousins are both physics majors minoring in military history. Their base of operations is assigned to the rarely occupied living quarters directly across from Pierce Daniels. An escape room is to be built there.
Juzya Kydd makes a quick verbal report “Ted has snipers deployed on the railroad tracks guarding a small 2085 gate that is opening and closing intermittently. I need help to distract him while I activate and tune it. The bridges are now closing sealing the entrances to the chaos above.
The Skytrax remains situated as the dominant on lightmach-25. Our second expeditionary vessel The Manta is now moved to the disputed lightmach-24. Our worldwide search to recover
The Rover continues here on lightmach-23 focusing on both the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean.”
An electronic hum and popping of ears precede the fountain hatch opening; the youths climb out and leave with Frank Harris and Alex Mathias on a quick commute to the Harland Building.
Lisa taps her watch drumming her foot on the floor for the third time in five minutes. McBain and Pierce are watching the late news. Aurian and Michelle are waiting by the back door.
“That flu thing she’s going on about has a lot of people worried.” Trevor states conversationally trying to rouse Doc from his glazed transfixion. Pulling him up by the arm; “Let’s go!”
The gate guard Moses Abramson is sitting in the driver’s seat of Lisa’s 1975 Chrysler New Yorker Brougham, weighing in at five thousand pounds, sporting a four hundred and forty cubic inch V-8. The interior luxuries are too numerous to discover on a single road trip. The senator docks her weekly college stipend if she is seen operating any other vehicles. Her adventurous driving style is legendary. The vastness of the car slows her down and insures she would most probably survive if her high speed driving skills failed to negotiate a difficult stretch of road.
Her ban on operating two wheeled vehicles remains in effect, a bounty placed on any sighting.
Auri and Lisa up front: the peripheral members of her retinue pile into the plush cavernous rear.
Templeton presses the transceiver once and the two armored SUV’s ignite there engines and headlamps. The three Victorian homes and outbuildings they are passing are the servant’s quarters for the main house. Lisa when landing with her father on the lawn as a youngster would yell at the helicopter pilots. “A giant mushroom’s invading Fairfield! Rally the troops for attack.”
Lisa’s grandfather bought the six hundred forty acre Reed Estate abutting the northern border of Oldham Air Force Base in 1955 from Silas Tobias. McBain and Pierce have played here since they were toddlers. Two of Bill Templeton’s most trusted high school associates, Timothy and Elaina, entered the religious life and returned to Fairfield as Father McCredie and Sister Francis. They were later assigned leadership responsibilities for the St. Mary’s Boys School orphanage.
The yellow busload of children arriving each weekend was a godsend for Bill’s only child Lisa.
Aurian stuck in the middle between Lisa and Moses examines the library map for the night’s treasure hunt one last time handing it off to Templeton. Pierce is in the backseat loudly trying to convince McBain that he thinks his last few bouts with the flu were probably the same one being talked about on the news. Doc is shorter than Trevor by two inches with shoulder length dark hair and grey eyes. He arrived on the doorstep of St Mary’s orphanage as an infant one hour before McBain. Pierces original nickname was Scout but it evolved over the years into Doc.
Feeling claustrophobic in the back seat and getting carried away by his turbulent spasmodic monologue, Pierce Daniels shouts; “Mosey stop at Dave’s Pharmacy there open all night!”
Auri slips her foot softly over Moses’s tapping the gas pedal and turns the stereo up to distract Doc. The Radio Drones on the FM band are a favorite of everyone but Moses.
“Hearing restless pounding drums we swallow down our pride
We'll go off to their silly war if only for the ride.
Selling axes and old blades and wishing all the while.
Their mothers were just simple girls; who finally walked the aisle.
All soldiers are the same when they come hither bearing gifts.
There’s always something on their minds; best be savvy, best be swift.”
At eighty-five miles per hour on Route-24 they pass the base, industrial park and farm in short order only slowing to enter Cranberry Drive a feeder lane that leads to The Octagon, an old revolutionary war blockhouse Fairfield University sprung up around. Circling halfway around the hub and heading down Hawthorn Avenue, the ever ready offensive lineman Moses pulls the silver behemoth into the empty parking lot of The Library. Checking the temperature gauge he notices it is barely warmed up. His older brother Maurice flicks a flashlight from the back steps.
Aurian has a canvas rucksack over her shoulder following Moses and Lisa. The less dedicated members of the expedition wander in behind them. Miss Gretchen Faversham the headmistress of Wickenshire Prep is inside holding a brass key ring. She allows herself to greet the young ladies warmly no longer having to keep a cordial distance from the graduates. Lisa hands the scribbled map instructions to the dainty grey haired schoolmarm. Her brows furrow and the edges of her mouth droop downward as she raises her trifocals from a thick neck chain.
“My favorite eccentric, Augustus Ferguson, making merry and playing the clown again I see.”
She points to the north and south corridors; “Those are the old wings, this central chamber was rebuilt in 1859 after a mysterious fire. If Gus wasn’t the only game in town for exotic flowers I would be home in bed, not attending another mock investigation, incited by a dodgy old rascal renowned for enticing naïve college students, into futile pilgrimages to recapture lost relics.”
Tossing the keys to Maurice, “Lock up and arm the alarm system I am off to a warm bed.”
All voices of reason departed Auri uses her hands to shape two flowing lines downward calling out emphatically “WEIGHTY MATTER EXCHANGE BY SEAMAN GUARDED BY OWLS”
A fan of Jumbles and Anagrams Pierce replies condescendingly, “Balustrades.”
“You are like, way no fun tonight Pierce! Is that an egg on your head or a new hat?”
Trevor knowing where the two owl statues are climbs the wide marble staircase, the rest of the troupe closing ranks behind him. He marshals them into the spacious rotunda and enters the
War Archive. Tatianni enthused again draws a square shape with her left hand while reading.
“9999 SHIPS WERE LAUNCHED TWO WERE LOST AT SEA.”
Pierce walks over to the Greek statuary below the tall windows embedded in the eastern wall staring quizzically at the Cyclops. “How many ships were lost at sea?” Pierce asks pensively.
“Two.” Aurian replies with excited hopes.
“Next bit?”
“23 SKIDOOS THE JOKE LAUGHS A PIG IN A POKE”
Pierce sticks his left index finger in the Cyclops’s missing eye. “We’re off track already.”
Heading back to the owl statues Doc shrugs at Trevor. Lisa nudges McBain and he approaches the Cyclops. His left finger in the missing eye, he feels the button occluded by grime and dust in a small declivity on the top, where it would go unnoticed. He counts out loud slowly pressing the button twenty-three times. Aurian, Lisa, Moses, and Maurice are intently watching both Mac and the twenty foot statuary. Nothing happens. “I think I found it!” Doc yells from the rotunda.
“The Sun got very angry I tell you forthrightly. They doth played with the ancient celestial orb like vicious children hurling pinwheels at a detested sibling. A thousand fell firstly and then ten thousand for coming nigh to thee. Behold and see the reward of the wicked. See now that I, even I, am he, and there is no god with me: I kill, and I make alive; I wound, and I heal: neither is there any that can deliver out of my hand…” Moses and Maurice place themselves behind Aurian to protect her from the marble floor and Michelle takes Auri’s left hand in her right.
McBain inserts his finger into the Cyclops’s bad eye and starts frantically counting out twenty-three clicks on the hidden button. Lisa is weeping silently. “For I lift up my hand to heaven, and say, I live forever. If I whet my glittering sword, and mine hand take hold on judgment; I will render vengeance unto mine enemies, and this will reward them that hate me. I will make mine arrows drunk with blood, and my sword shall devour flesh; and that is only the beginning of the revenge upon mine enemies.” Aurian freezes swaying imperceptibly and falls backwards. Maurice catches her in the cradle of his arms and starts trotting towards the exit.
Lisa is breathing deeply trying to compose herself. McBain is dumbfounded enough to wonder momentarily if he is dreaming. Moses is whistling softly the way children do when passing a graveyard. Daniels enters the room with Tatianni’s rucksack partially filled oblivious to everything. “It was like magic! Two hidden drawers in the marble bases of the owl statues opened up, let me remove two wooden boxes, closing themselves like I was the chosen one.”
A female Secret Service agent peeks into the archive retreating unnoticed.
McBain snatches the sack from Pierce peering inside, “A couple of used cigar boxes.”
Trevor flings the bag at Pierces’ chest speaking to the group, “Let’s get out of here.”
Michelle spoke even tempered, “A lot of battles have been fought using the words in these books. This library houses the largest collection of occult books outside of The Vatican.”
Maurice sets Tatianni down solemnly “I’ve got to lock this place up tight and get home.”
The somber company of adventurers leaves Maurice to secure the building, scrambling into Lisa’s touring car they head home. Trevor and Pierce accompany Aurian in the rear so Moses has enough breathing room to unwind. Michelle turns the radio on to fill the chastening silence.
“Morning dews end as only the brave have the courage to weep. In dusty mausoleums we drink from the book of days, silently awaiting demolition of our five-star hotel. All the while pretending the pretense, to own your own life there is no secret, each day one must begin again. Knowledge creates power and will make you a King, until pride comes whispering “You are God you are above the law; make your enemies kiss your ring.” First you lose innocence then you lose your soul, if that isn’t enough, the devil shall steal your self-control. Start again. Start again. Rhythm balances the finisher, the ancient song of the tortoise and hare. You can listen humbly or laugh to curse your fate, without thought or care: wiser after falling, a child’s fable oh so clear.”
Forty heavily armed operators housed at The Farm are assembled and receiving a briefing for the nights tasks at the last grotto on this side of the Ayre River. Major Danes assumed responsibility for Special Recovery Team training exercises at Oldham Air Force Base when Harris and Alex were forcefully decommissioned by the current political administration four years ago. Reconnaissance teams scouting and covertly monitoring the flickering gate on the railroad tracks are reporting a small silvery blue cloud is appearing in the meadow beside it moving slowly back and forth. When it leaves the meadow, the scouts observing the gate report, it is on the railroad tracks moving rapidly up and down the railbed between the base’s terminal and the Oldwood Depot. The train station across the river in the forest serviced The Farm when it was The Asylum before the Tuberculosis outbreaks were diminished by more efficient cures.
A contact in the Templeton Secret Service security detail radios Danes communications officer.
“Recovered repeat recovered. The two Amber Rooms are in play and on the move.”
Six blocks inland from the Harland Building LeMond and Bitterman are conferring with the upper echelons of The OSG Consortium. Standing on a wide balcony outside the penthouse on the twentieth floor of the Morse Building they are waiting for Harris and Alex to arrive.
The Major standing in the dark points his penlight at a field table with an unrolled map. The five team leaders follow the light as he traces a path of waypoints on its surface, leading to the far northwest corner at Great Fork Falls where the Challis River and Ayre River diverge.
The communications officer calls out.
“Rolling speed is ten miles per hour. The car count is one hundred and ten.”
The Oldwood Map which the team leaders are studying is a thick sturdy canvas atlas the National Intelligence Directorate recovered in 1947 from a patient at The Asylum.
On the lower left corner the map a roman numeral thirteen indicates it is part of a series. The topography between the two rivers west of Fairfield is pockmarked with colored dots and lines representing a transportation and communications hub. The dead gates and failed connections
still magnetically detectable. They were rendered unusable and inoperable at a point in time in the distant past for reasons unknown. The compact wiry blond haired German Ted Danes has carbon dated the map to be approximately five hundred thousand years old.
An Eagle lands silently atop a concealed platform to the northwest of the five teams as an unseen shaft of vertical light, hidden by the thickness of the old growth forest, expands flickers and closes. A deranged elderly native is walking towards the Majors squad swerving slightly talking to himself and waving his left arm erratically gesticulating with spirited fervor. Approaching the Major he takes a long pull from the whiskey bottle in his right hand capping it. Breaking into a drunken trot he stops a foot away from Danes with the laser sights of forty automatic rifles pantomiming a war dance on both sides of his head.
Occasioning a snappy vigor and zestfully buoyant playfulness, “Dead Ted’s out of his head.”
Ted frowned “Go home old timer and leave the serious work to the sober adults of this world.”
“Just checking up on you Senor Theodore; I needed to know the illustrious guardian of the sacred airwaves was back on the job. I heard the center for disease control has ZB 12A case zero under round the clock surveillance. I wonder who the fall guy for that caper is going to be.”
Forcing the fat whiskey bottle full of iced tea into his back pocket the grey haired native raises both hands spreading his boney fingers menacingly. “I AM ZOE BEN 12 A ETERNAL…”
He turns back and forth slowly in half circles stooping forward “THE GREAT DEVOURER!”
Satisfied Ted won’t hurt himself the Old Chief resumes strolling drunkenly through the woods.
Ted is among the infinitesimally small portion of the human race that is genetically susceptible to the ZB 12A virus after a single exposure. The virus produces a pneumonial condition five to six days after exposure to live airborne particulates and recedes after six to eight weeks. Three months post exposure at Fort Tabor: Danes astoundingly won the national lottery’s second tier prize of one million dollars, choosing five of six numbers correctly, twice in the same month. He is currently on restriction at The Farm under the watchful eyes of forty elite shock troops belonging to the always denied, ultra-secret, non-existent National Intelligence Directorate.
Each of the Majors guardians are also believed to be infected to different degrees with the later occurring 12A symptomology. They live in one of the original isolation units of The Asylum and are medically monitored before and after each infection. The Old Chief is not sympathetic to Ted and his men’s plight and often brings his guinea pigs from the research building with him to group therapy. Thousands of exposures have left him immune to any further complications.
The old native whistles loudly from inside the tree line, Danes turns instinctively, Lance Corporal Ian Dunross adeptly pierces the carotid artery injecting Ted with 2000 milligrams of Methaqualone. Two waiting C-Team members grab his shoulder as two others flick open the poles of a retractable field stretcher. The shafts threaded through the cots handles two burly squad members carry Ted towards the Oldwood Depot. The communications officer sends the all clear signal to the engineer of the approaching train. Danes’ guards carry him down the access road and across the ornate metal bridge, halting on the tracks thirty feet north of the waiting gate. The troop train lumbers southward gradually slows and silently comes to a stop a whisper away.
Reaching the antique well-kept station the Old Chief draws a wheeled oak step ladder under the platforms two sided clock. He moves the hour hand seven times triggering The Tonal Magnetos.