by Deen Ferrell
Her voice softened as gold light from the sinking sun lit her face. She sighed. “I love the sea. I’ve always loved the sea. Perhaps it’s my Polynesian blood.” She held her chin high into the wind. It was a moment when the mask slipped and Willoughby could see past Sydney’s flamboyance and showmanship. There was a longing in her eyes, a feeling of loneliness. She was quick to recover, however, beaming over at Willoughby with a mischievous grin.
“Later tonight, I might come up here—barefoot, with the moon cresting over the brooding waves. I’ll dance for you, Willoughby. I’ll surround myself with my ancient sisters of the sea, singing with the wind at my back and the mists as a veil…That’s when you’ll kiss me. You’ll have no choice. You’ll be mine.”
James Arthur, who had been standing behind her, gave a laugh. “Whoa! Pull those claws back in and behave, child! Willoughby’s barely wet behind the ears and you’re already introducing him to your ancient sisters of the sea?”
Willoughby wasn’t sure what was going on with this conversation, but he wasn’t totally averse to the kissing under the moonlight idea at some point in the cruise. He decided to remain quiet and see where the conversation ended up.
Sydney kept her eyes trained on Willoughby. “Of course,” she said, holding her hands up to the strengthening breeze, her voice elevating slightly. “When I call, they’ll come from the depths. They sing a song, millions of years old, high-pitched and lonely. They’ll beg you to dance, dance, dance, until there’s no more ship and there’s no more ocean, and you’ll be completely under my spell, Willoughby Von Brahmer.” Her eyes pierced him, glinting with wicked fire. She held out a slender hand, one finger curling in a slow, beckoning gesture.
Willoughby felt himself starting to move. He had forgotten to breathe. Suddenly, the hand dropped. Sydney flicked her hair and leaned back over the rail, as if engaged in a completely ordinary afternoon chit-chat. The spell was broken. “With ordinary sailors,” she confided, pleased with the effect she seemed to be having, “I simply turn their hearts to stone.”
Willoughby forced himself to exhale. “I, I think I’ll pass,” was the best he could manage.
Dr. J busted up with laughter. “You think you’ll pass! That was classic, Willoughby. And Ms. Senoya—girl, where is your Mama? Didn’t she warn you against terrifying young intellectuals?”
Sydney glared at the doctor. “Stone it is for you,” she said. She pirouetted in a precise semi-circle and strode gracefully toward the cabins.
Dr. J watched her leave. “Well, well, Mr. Willoughby, old roommate, old pal,” he said with a raspy chuckle, “you seem to be the object of considerable attention on our little cruise. I’m beginning to wonder if you’ll make it home alive.”
Willoughby felt a grin tugging at the edges of his mouth again. “I can think of worse ways to go,” he said coolly. “She’s a bit of an electric personality, isn’t she?”
“Electric?” James Arthur hooted. “Boy, that woman could power the city of Cleveland and still keep Chicago warm! I’d keep a healthy distance from her if I were you.”
Dr. O’Grady interrupted their conversation with an excited shout. “There! Whales!” Willoughby and Dr. J glimpsed dark grey shapes, disappearing quickly under the waves.
“Probably just a school of black sea-bass,” James Arthur remarked, but Willoughby watched with interest, determined to see where the humps surfaced again. He stayed on deck with Dr. O’Grady until it was time for dinner. Twice, he thought he glimpsed something. It was only a speck on the horizon, bobbing up and down, but it didn’t seem to move like a whale or a fish. The truth was, he sensed something. Though he found it odd, he had glimpsed flares of bluish light several times since boarding the ship—complete with number strings. Did that mean there was a time door on board? How could there be on a moving ship? He tried to calm his apprehension, to steel his nerves. They were barely away from harbor and already he had a bad feeling about this voyage.
13
Mark of the Menace
Willoughby sat next to Antonio at dinner.
“You like my ship, amigo?” Antonio winked, slapping him on the back.
“Your ship?” Willoughby eyed the plate of greens in front of him warily.
Sydney had just taken a seat opposite them at the table. “Yes, everything first belongs to Antonio. Then, if we’re good little children, Papa Chavez will come to visit us in his wondrous barking car—”
“Ah, you’ve met Lola!” Willoughby grinned.
“Ah, I’d like to forget Lola,” Sydney rolled her eyes as she continued. “As I was saying, he will visit in his infamous machine and distribute to the peasantry those things he deems insignificant. This ship, for example, built and commissioned by the Corporation years before Mr. Chavez joined us, has been fortunate enough to be designated as significant, and, as such, has become his property.”
“Dearest Sydney!” Antonio beamed, “Such a beauteous vision, with the tongue wagging and the words as sharp as a barracuda’s fin!” He turned back to Willoughby. “Isn’t she something? Look at that practiced pout and the scorching black eyes! I recall when you first laid eyes upon her in that most interesting Times article. What was it you called her—a wild, Japanese anime?”
Willoughby choked on his sip of water as Sydney cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Uh, well, I, uh, meant—I, I don’t remember using the word ‘wild’.”
“But it fits—a wild, caged animal, so tragic in her beauty!” Antonio continued.
Willoughby made swift cutting motions across his throat trying to tell his friend to shut up. Sydney tilted her nose up. “As I remember, Mr. Chavez, last time I visited, you were managing an incredibly empty barbershop; a place where you spent most of your time dusting chairs and polishing ancient hair-tonic bottles. Did you ever actually find a customer—I mean, one you weren’t sent to observe.”
“Charming! Simply charming,” Antonio sang. “Such wondrous foresight in bringing up the very topic I was wishing to discuss! I am most happy to report that I, Antonio Santanos Eldoro Chavez, have already sheared the hairs of four of our most illustrious crew in my amazing little barberhop on this very boat!”
Before either Sydney or Willoughby could respond, James Arthur curtly motioned at a waiter, pointing emphatically at his plate. “What’s with this house plant stuff? We came here to eat food.”
“Your wheat bread and onion soup are on their way,” the waiter said with a smile.
Dr. J winced. “Wheat bread and what?”
T.K., the cabin girl, stepped hurriedly into the room. “Please eat quickly. The captain tells me that Dr. Simon is already waiting for you in the chartroom and is on a tight schedule. I’m sorry, but we will have to postpone your dessert of chilled pummelos until later tonight.”
“Chilled what?” Dr. J moaned. “How about something cooked on a George Foreman grill? That’s healthy.”
“Pummelos are a type of fruit,” T.K. offered indulgently, “and I’m afraid our chef does not cook with a George Foreman grill.”
Dr. J sighed. “Okay. Chilled pummelos it is. Do I get eggs with my wheat grass in the morning?”
“You could have pummelos with the wheat grass. They are a citrus fruit native to Southeast Asia. They taste a lot like a sweet, mild grapefruit.”
“Sweet, mild, grapefruit? That’s what you call dessert?”
T.K. didn’t answer. She just stood quietly by the door as the soup and bread were brought in. James Arthur grunted and stared down at his plate. Everyone seemed intent on finishing the meal as quickly as possible. When Dr. J, with great ceremony, devoured the final crust of bread, T.K. smiled. “If you’ll follow, the room is this way.”
Willoughby rose and pulled H.S.’s card out of his wallet. He glanced at it quickly. Hathaway Simon, the card read, Cryptic Spaces to Distant Places. He jammed it back into the wallet as the others started moving towar
d the dining room door. James Arthur led the way. “There’s tea and crumpets in the chartroom, right? Please tell me there’s more food somewhere!”
T.K. laughed. “The sparse diet is only temporary, Dr. Washington. It’s best to eat lightly your first few days aboard. The Absconditus rolls more than your typical cruise liner. Meals for the first two days will consist mainly of grains, fruits, and vegetables—very little in the way of greasy foods or rich sweets.”
“Just kill me now,” Dr. J groaned.
The chartroom was easily one of the most elegant rooms on the ship. It featured a library, nautical paraphernalia, and a dozen over-stuffed chairs arranged in a semi-circle around an ornate gas fireplace. A small fire flickered in the hearth, giving the room a cozy feel. Willoughby could easily make out the bald, imposing figure of H.S., seated to the left of the fire, a teacup and saucer in his hands. He wondered when the large man had boarded. Sydney had said H.S. was not on the ship initially. The man looked up.
“Nice of you to join me,” he said cheerily, nodding at them as they filed in and took their seats. He signaled to T.K. and then waited while she exited the room and the chartroom door swung shut. A series of loud clicks indicated that the door had locked tightly. Willoughby was a bit perplexed. He had assumed that T.K. was part of the Observations Inc. team, but maybe not. Maybe the others on the windjammer were simply hired workers for the organization and were not fully aware of what it did or the technology it controlled. H.S. confirmed his suspicions.
“Before we begin, a quick housekeeping issue: what is discussed in this room is not discussed anywhere else on this ship, is that understood?” H.S. took another sip of tea. “While we take care to recruit our staff, they are under the impression that we are a scientific think-tank collecting data for a series of studies on ancient cultures. Everything we say outside this room should support that.” He lowered his teacup and saucer to his lap. “I regret I was not able to be topside to welcome each of you aboard, or to participate with you in your first sumptuous meal aboard the Absconditus.” He leaned forward to place his tea onto a low coffee table. Willoughby saw James Arthur raise his eyebrows at the word “sumptuous.” It was Sydney who spoke, however.
“The cabin girl said you weren’t on the ship.”
H.S.’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Things hidden, things in plain view but unseen, are what we seek most of all. What is your opinion about my present location, Ms. Senoya?”
Willoughby noted a faint glow at the edges of H.S.’s substantial bulk. When he had reached forward to put his teacup down, there had also been a momentary flash of transparency—as if his fingers had softened for a moment, letting flickers of fire through. Something about what his eyes told him didn’t feel right. He watched closely as H.S. reached up to nibble at a chocolate-covered biscuit. For the briefest second, the biscuit swirled like a cloud before settling into the solid shape of a cookie with a bite taken out of it. H.S. chewed, and then smiled. He looked over the group with twinkling eyes.
“Well,” Sydney began, “it’s obvious that you’re—”
“Not really here!” Willoughby shouted. Everyone turned toward him, stunned by the outburst. H.S. cocked his head.
“Would you care to explain that deduction, Willoughby?”
Willoughby smiled. “You’re speaking to us from somewhere off the ship. You created here a, a,” Willoughby thought how to put into words what he had noted. He felt sweat break out on his forehead. He gulped and continued, “a very life-like 3-D conferencing image of some sort. It’s all an elaborate trick…” His voice trailed off. He knew that last part was guessing, but every instinct told him that H.S. was not really in the room.
Everyone looked back at H.S., who brooded, as if outraged at the accusation. Then, with a twinkle, he raised his hands and with his fingers drew lines of faintly glowing light around his head until it seemed to be encased in a sort of translucent cube. He then lifted the head from his shoulders. He turned the head 180 degrees so that it, while held at arm’s length, could scrutinize the body with a critical eye. “Well, I haven’t the foggiest how you came to such a conclusion. That body looks frightfully solid to me. Perhaps the sea air and the rich meal have left your mind rather…detached.” He flashed a quick grin at Willoughby, his eyes sparkling.
Willoughby gave a short laugh, joined by the others.
“Bravo, Willoughby,” H.S. smiled, reattaching his head to his body and with a snap of his fingers, losing the translucent cube. “What gave me away?”
Willoughby shrugged. “Bits of you seemed to swirl—as if you weren’t quiet solid. Once, I saw flickers of the fire right through your hand.”
H.S. stared forward. “Astute observations,” he said. He leaned toward the oblong coffee table and sunk his hand into the wood. A swirl of shimmering dust seemed to pool where his hand disappeared. When he raised it again, the dust seemed to reattach itself. “It is a projection, of course. I am sitting in an exact replica of this room in one of our facilities thousands of leagues below the surface of the sea, near one of the strongest natural holes on the planet. The facility is located off the coast of Bermuda. It is equipped with a dozen or more specially designed cameras and this chair,” he motioned at the chair he sat in. “The replica chairs facing me in my facility are identical to the ones you are sitting in. They are equipped with some of the most sophisticated 3-D projection arrays the world has ever known. Both the cameras and the projection arrays are cleverly hidden in the furniture, walls, and ceiling around you.
“Of course, you may wonder how my image could appear to have bulk and form. The projection looks so lifelike due to a special grid-screen we have created. My every move is sourced by high-definition video and beamed to a live feed on the Absconditus. The image is then broken down over a three dimensional pixel grid. The key is a microscopic glitter we’ve developed. When secreted from the chair, the glitter, made from a slightly metallic synthesis, settles onto the magnetic grid lines of the three dimensional image. My form is thus projected—or perhaps recreated is a better word—to mirror my every move using an enhanced hybrid of current flat screen technology.
“We call the special pixel dust projection soup. Quite a neat trick, is it not?”
Everyone agreed. Willoughby let his eyes scour the room for cameras. He found one or two hidden in the ornate décor of the room, but H.S. said there were a dozen or so. He again marveled at the company’s ability to mask its secrets.
“Well,” H.S. said, finishing his biscuit, “now, on to weightier matters.” He took another sip of tea. Willoughby stared at the cup. Were the teacup and saucer a projection too? They looked solid and real on the coffee table, but a little less so when he picked them up. Could H.S. have planted a replica set here and precisely lined them up? The possibilities made his head spin. The technology was amazing. Antonio broke the silence.
“I thought you were to join us. What has happened, my friend?”
H.S. sighed. He looked directly at Antonio. “St. Petersburg,” he said softly.
Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “What has happened?”
“A full break-in,” H.S. said gravely. “One guard was killed, one was seriously wounded. We’re not sure what they were after, but they did probe the computer for information on the Aperio Absconditus.”
“Did they find the door?”
“No. But they came close. Our response team scattered them as they were trying to break our code.”
“Someone has found us?” Dr. J mumbled; “How? I mean, what are the ramifications?”
H.S. gave a slight shrug. “It is difficult to know. Our interest in the famous 16th century seer Nostradamus seems to have hit a raw nerve with someone, which makes me all the more certain that we must learn more about this individual. Our security technology should have been enough to thwart any normal thugs. We are looking at something different here.”
“You think
it is the sign?” Antonio said softly.
H.S. pursed his lips. “I’m afraid so. We may no longer be the hunters in this game. We are beginning to look like the hunted, and those hunting us seem to know more about our operation than we ever imagined.”
Willoughby cocked his head. “What sign? Are you referring to the symbol over Antonio’s shop?” He couldn’t help thinking about the tall stranger who called himself “Mr. B” and the tattooed man who had carefully photographed the carved stone before their notice scared him away.
H.S. gave a curt shake of his head. “No, we are speaking of a different sign, Willoughby. The sign Antonio refers to is contained in a warning letter from our infamous seer. We’ll discuss that in more detail in a moment, but I wanted all of you to be aware that our mission is no longer strictly academic. We’ve stumbled into something, meaning our work has become riskier than we ever imagined. The St. Petersburg break-in is not an isolated incident. It may have been simply a distraction in a much larger operation. We are also aware that other supposedly ‘hidden’ facilities have been cased. Willoughby and Antonio spotted a man photographing Antonio’s barbershop last November, and there have been other incidents. Yesterday, I spent the better part of the day with internal security. They feel we need to scrub the mission until we have more concrete information about who or what we’re dealing with. I’m not sure that I agree.”
“Scrub the mission?” Sydney barked. “Our interest in Nostradamus may or may not have put these goons on our tail. We’ve done a lot of different kinds of research over the past few years. Who knows what has caused this group to take note? The fact is, they’ve taken note—they’re on our tail. If it’s a race to some sort of critical information, or if we’re close to uncovering some ancient secret, how does disappearing really help us? I think we need to be discussing how we can stay a step ahead of these guys, not how to hide, shivering, in the basement.”