by Deen Ferrell
“No,” Willoughby said, seeing Sydney enter the room. He looked down, noticing for the first time that the pajamas he was dressed in were flamboyantly colored in a wild jungle print. He looked like an advertisement for the Rainforest Café, and his shirt only covered one arm, bandages taped down across his exposed shoulder and the other pajama sleeve hanging limp down his back. He felt a bit awkward and embarrassed, trying to puff out his chest a little, until the pain in the shoulder threatened to make him faint and he decided to abandon the idea.
“Hey,” Sydney said as the nurse exited. “Nice to see you again—well, when you’re not throwing up, that is.”
“Nice to be seen again—when I’m not throwing up,” Willoughby mumbled wryly. “Except…” He stared down at his pajamas. Sydney couldn’t hold in a snicker as he looked back up. “So, I suppose you’re to blame for the Amazon neon ensemble?”
She leaned over onto the foot of the bed. Her outfit was, as usual, impeccable. She wore faded jeans with strategic holes in the knees, a tie-dyed shirt, and a loose-fitting sweater.
“I could have been really cruel and gotten you teddy bears, or smiley faces. They had a Hot Wheels set I considered…”
Willoughby shrugged. “Hot Wheels are cool. I was thinking more like Avengers, but please tell me that you did not dress me.”
“I did not dress you,” Sydney repeated with a wily smile. “Well, mostly not—I did help here and there.”
“Uh!” Willoughby groaned. He didn’t have the energy to be properly embarrassed, but he did make an attempt. He’d probably turn beet red when he thought of it later. Sydney brushed a strand of silky hair out of her eyes. Her eyes still sparkled, even though they looked different today—slightly pained and very tired. She raised her wrist to straighten one of her half-dozen bracelets.
“So…that was a nasty couple of days. How are you feeling?”
“Sore… Exhausted… Weak… Confused—is this a multiple choice question?”
Sydney smiled. “Sarcasm and wit in the face of, of danger… We carry on—brave, smart, and debonair to the end! That’s us, isn’t it?”
Willoughby looked down at his pajamas. “Debonair?”
Sydney didn’t laugh. She just looked at him. She had made her pronouncement as if she were pointing out the tip of an iceberg and inviting Willoughby to jump on. Willoughby felt too tired to explore icebergs just now. He stared blankly at her, noting that the well of bubbly energy that was her trademark seemed, for the moment, to have run dry.
“Well,” she said finally, “you’re only debonair when you’re not throwing up on me, or my chest, or the floor, or the sidewalk, or the nurse—”
“I threw up on your chest?”
“On the chest, thank you very much. Let’s not start that again!”
Willoughby didn’t feel much like sparring at the moment. Just two days ago, they had both come mere inches from death. He was still trying to get his head around that. He turned away, looking toward the window where the breeze rippled the sheer crimson curtains. “How did this happen, Sydney? A guy tried to poison me. Another guy shot at us. A girl I barely know put her life on the line to help us. Did they get out okay?”
Sydney looked down, fiddling with the hole in her jeans. “Who? Your girlfriend—what was her name? Bambi? Bimbo? Ah, yes—hottie!”
Willoughby rolled his eyes. “Spelled with an ‘au.’”
“Yes,” Sydney admitted, “spelled with ‘au.’ Why did she risk her neck for us? She was with them. I don’t know if she got out.”
Willoughby rubbed at his eyes. “None of it makes sense. How could it have happened? Is everyone safe? Did everyone get out okay? Where are James Arthur and Antonio? Did T.K. and the Captain get out?”
Sydney looked away. She didn’t answer Willoughby for a long moment, and when she did finally speak, she kept her eyes staring down at the floor. “Almost nobody got out Willoughby. You, I, and Dr. O’Grady are the only ones we know got out. H.S. thinks James Arthur and Antonio tried to use the same doorway we did, but may have ended up in some other time. Otherwise, they would have contacted us by now. I spoke with him a little bit ago. He isn’t here now, but should arrive late tonight.”
Willoughby barely heard her discussion of H.S. He was trying to make sense of what she just said. “What do you mean that ‘almost nobody’ got out?”
Sydney was still staring at her shoes. A single tear made tracks down her cheek. “They killed them,” she said softly. She looked up, pain in her face. “They killed them all, Willoughby. They threw dozens of bodies into the sea. I got a glimpse of the deck when we were getting you to H.S.’s cabin. There was blood everywhere.”
Willoughby stared at her, stunned. “They, they couldn’t have gotten everybody. T.K. was going to hide out in the kitchen area. Did they search?”
Again, Sydney was silent.
“Sydney?”
Sydney looked up, tears running freely now. “H.S. didn’t have a chance to search the ship. When the board determined that none of the team was still on-board, they had no choice but to sink her. They couldn’t let the technology fall into hostile hands.”
“Sink her? Without even checking to see if anyone had escaped capture?”
Sydney sucked in a breath. “They counted bodies, Willoughby. All the crew, with the exception of T.K., are accounted for.”
“James Arthur and Antonio are where?”
“That’s the thing; we don’t know where they went, because they didn’t show up here. It’s possible that somehow the mechanism got damaged, or that they managed to change the mechanism setting or trigger one of the memorized addresses. They could be anywhere, Willoughby, and the cabin-girl could be with them. I heard one of the—one of them say something about needing to find the girl. They already had me, and what other girls were there on the ship?”
“But H.S. would know where the gateway was linked, right?”
Sydney shook her head. “He knows they went somewhere. They were monitoring the vital signs of the team as a precaution. H.S. immediately set in motion a rescue attempt when there was evidence of trauma and no communications could get through. Then, our vital signs showed up in Bermuda. James Arthur was on the ship for about fifteen minutes longer than we were, but then his vital signs disappeared from our present time altogether. About ten minutes later, Antonio’s vital signs disappeared. There was no ebb in the signs—no hint that they died. They were just there, then gone.”
Willoughby gulped. “I’m, I’m not understanding. What observation points could they have gone to? Surely, H.S. can have each of them checked.”
Sydney waited a while to answer. She bit her lip. “H.S. says that the Absconditus gateway is like no other. It isn’t tied to a specific tunnel through time, just as the ship itself isn’t tied to a stationary structure. This allows it to scan for various holes, the way a radio tuner scans for stations. The doorknob on the inside of the closet was the tuning device. Luckily for us, we had you. Your talent allowed you to find the right combination to bring us here—still in our time. H.S. still doesn’t know how you did it. He wonders if we came here because this was the last place he came when he left the Absconditus. He usually anchors his yacht here. He thinks there may have been a residual imprint still in the time-field buffer, or some such—you’ll have to talk to him for more details. The others, they didn’t have any way to select proper coordinates. If they turned the knob just a little bit, or if the gateway mechanism was damaged in any way, they could have been flung almost anywhere, Willoughby.”
Willoughby remembered how easily the knob had spun in his hand. “But H.S. said all observation posts are set up at the earth’s strongest holes. If this is true, isn’t it likely that they were directed toward one of those? Has H.S. checked all the observation posts? They might be at one. They might need help.”
“H.S. agrees with you. We’ve been check
ing and monitoring all the posts. He believes the strongest possibility is that they would show up somewhere near one of the larger holes. But as hours tick by with no word, it becomes equally likely that they went through some smaller or uncharted hole. H.S. is putting together a search plan.”
Willoughby sank back into his pillow. He stared over toward the window. “I, I can’t believe it. How could the Captain, the crew—how could they all be dead?
Sydney seemed stricken. She looked down, started to speak, and then stopped herself. She brushed another tear from her eye, and then stood and walked slowly over to the window. “They just killed them. They killed them all. They didn’t ask for anything. They knew everyone on the team, and everyone else…” Her voice went silent as she brushed away another tear. She sniffed. “So far, we’ve fished 23 bodies out of the ocean. The crew was only 24. Some were partially eaten by sharks. The Captain’s body, at least, was intact. We haven’t found T.K.”
Willoughby felt a knot in his chest. His throat went dry. “Why?”
Sydney looked over. She wiped a quick hand across her face. “I don’t know. Why does anyone do horrible things?”
Willoughby stared at her. He felt numb. “What good is H.S.’s technology if he can’t secure his assets?” He felt blind rage inside. “How could they have taken over the whole ship with no-one knowing? How did they do that right under H.S.’s nose?”
“H.S. feels responsible,” Sydney said, walking slowly back to the bed.
“Yeah, he should!” Willoughby barked back. “A lot of people died—for what? What’s this really all about?”
Sydney opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. What was there to say?
Willoughby looked away. He was tired. His whole body ached. This certainly wasn’t what he had imagined when he joined Observations, Inc. For the first time, he began to see a darker side to a quest for adventure. He pulled his knees up under the covers and looked back at Sydney as she sat again near the foot of the bed. She adjusted herself, aware that his eyes were on her. Her mascara had made little tracks down her cheek.
“None of us ever imagined this could happen.”
Willoughby sighed. Sydney wasn’t to blame for any of this. He decided to try to change the subject. “When did you say H.S. would be here?”
“I don’t know,” Sydney replied. She looked toward the window. “They have odd beaches here. Have you ever been to Bermuda? The sand is actually pink.” She bit her lip, tears starting up again. “You’ve really got a spectacular view from your room. I think you’ll enjoy it once you’re up and around.”
“Sydney,” Willoughby gulped. He slowly, carefully pulled the covers off and scooted to the side of the bed. He put his feet over the edge, and then tried to move sideways. He winced, the pain intense. “Could you come over and sit on this side of me? If you bumped my bad shoulder, I think I might put a hole in the roof.”
Sydney forced a grin as she sniffed. She slowly stood and made her way to his other side. He draped a shaky arm around her shoulders. She crumpled in, sobbing. Okay, what was he supposed to do now?
“Hey,” he said, patting her gently. “These last two days have been, uh, horrible. If it helps to cry, then, cry.” After a long moment, she looked up, determined to regain control. “H.S. never seems to be around at the critical times.”
“Yeah, I have a few things to say to our dear Director,” Willoughby said, feeling the anger flare again inside him.
Sydney looked over. “I don’t know if I can live like this, Willoughby. I keep seeing the images of those dead crewmen floating in the water. I keep thinking of James Arthur and Antonio. This isn’t what I thought it would be.” She sighed. “Why are we really here? Why did we jump at this?”
They were questions Willoughby had asked as well. He hadn’t wanted to search for an answer too hard. He was too afraid of what the answer might be. He had a nagging feeling that these events could have more to do with him than anyone would ever guess. He looked away for a moment.
“So, what’s H.S.’s search plan?”
“You mean for Antonio and Dr. J?” Sydney sniffed. “He said that if they didn’t end up around the big holes, they should have landed somewhere around the fifteenth to eighteenth century, based on the position of the Absconditus, star charts, and current magnetic readings. He’s working with a team to create a search perimeter. That’s all I know.”
Willoughby shook his head. “Three centuries of time and the full geography of earth. How could anybody find them?”
Sydney pulled away slightly. “We’ve got to give H.S. a chance. Besides, there are things you don’t know. H.S. doesn’t want me to tell you—he wants to brief you himself—but I will say the story gets even more complicated. He said that this time, he’ll tell you everything.”
“This mission can get more complicated?”
Sydney frowned and nodded. “I’m sorry, Willoughby. I wish I could tell you, but I made a promise. He says that it’s critical he talk to you himself.”
Willoughby nodded. He slowly moved away, pulling his feet back under the covers. Sydney helped him ease back onto the pillows.
“Did any of the hijackers get away?”
Sydney studied him a moment. Her eyes were swollen, but still beautiful. She shook her head. “We don’t know about that girl who helped us and her dad. There was an unexplained discharge from the gateway door. They may have escaped just like Antonio and Dr. J. The rest—H.S. blew the bulkheads. The ship sank in less than seven minutes. It rests almost a mile under water. I don’t see how anyone else could have made it out.”
Willoughby closed his eyes. Did he want the brutes on the ship brought to justice? Yes. Could he see that H.S. had little other choice besides sinking the ship? Yes. But drowning was a horrible way to die. It was also hard to imagine that the proud, beautiful ship that had filled him with such wonder, such a sense of adventure, was suddenly gone. Sadness and a sense of heaviness settled over him. He eased back onto the pillows feeling suddenly too tired to think.
“Sydney,” he said softly, “I think I need some quiet now.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m sorry to hit you with all this…all this emotion.” She started toward the door, stopping in the door frame. She turned back forcing a smile. “You were, uhm, you were good to talk to.”
It was Willoughby’s turn to nod.
“Get better,” she said. She left the room, partially closing the door behind her. Willoughby felt a strong breeze from the window. He heard the crashing boom of the surf outside. It made him think of Sydney’s concert. He remembered floating in the air, looking down at the sea and seeing the ghosts of past mariners, of Sydney’s people, answering the call of her song. He imagined seeing the crew of the Absconditus now in the ghostly mix. So much had happened so fast. Would James Arthur, Antonio, and T.K. all become ghosts in the memory? He tried to shut out the melody of Sydney’s music in his head, but couldn’t. It lulled him into a restless sleep as new, hot tears ran down his cheeks and wet his pillow.
27
Nomad’s Land
James Arthur woke to a harsh moaning. He tried to focus. There was pain in his head. His mouth was dry. He tried to force his senses past the pain; what was that pitiful sound? With a start, he realized it was him! His breathing came in labored, jagged spurts, and he winced with each intake. The sound echoed around him. Feeling out with his arms, he found himself in a narrow rock tunnel. Rough-hewn walls hemmed him in on both sides and a rough ceiling loomed maybe three feet from where he lay. His feet were partially covered with rubble and when he shook them free, he discovered that he was all but naked. Only his torn briefs still clung to him. He felt the end of the tunnel with his feet. It was blocked with rock and dirt. He had been buried alive in a rock-walled shaft!
Fighting the urge to panic, he closed his eyes and forced himself to focus energy. He focused on the pain at the back of h
is skull. Finally, as the pain became less debilitating, he re-opened his eyes. As they adjusted to the dark, he noted the faintest hint of light from further up the tunnel. He slowly rolled onto his stomach. A sharp pain and dizziness washed over him as he lifted his head. He touched where the shovel had hit him and again concentrated, focusing all his energy. Sweat dripped from his brow. He could tell the wound on the back of his head was a bloody mess. He started to crawl, slowly at first. Every part of his body ached and the air was stale and dusty. He coughed, wondering if Antonio felt this way after his brutal treatment on the Absconditus. The thought of his friends gave him renewed energy. He had to find his way back to them. He quickened his pace toward the dim light.
When he reached it, he found that the small sliver of illumination was, in fact, a thin crack that snaked up through maybe 25 feet of rock. The light finding its way to him was sunlight. He wasn’t buried as deeply as he first feared! If he kept pushing his way up the slight incline of the shaft, maybe he could find a way out.
Pausing a moment to catch his breath, he felt a tickle on his foot. He was about to kick whatever creature was pestering him away, when he glimpsed an armored tail—scorpions! He gritted his teeth and remained still until the tickle moved away. Fighting panic, he began to move slowly, pushing forward again. He worked to silence his breath as he moved so that he could hear the scurrying of viscous arthropods. Two other times he was forced to steel himself as one or more of the creatures crawled over his body, one even climbing over his shoulders and down his face. “It could be worse,” he whispered to himself. “There could be snakes.” As if to mock him, he heard a hiss from somewhere up ahead. “It’s worse,” he grunted. Mustering every ounce of courage, he pushed on.
After what seemed like hours, he came, exhausted, to a larger crack in the side of the wall. This one was about three inches wide and the light seemed to have cleared the area of vermin. He basked in the shaft of sunlight, glimpsing through the crack an expanse of barren scrub-brush. He could just make out what appeared to be a narrow desert ridge on the other side of the crack. Low hills of red and brown sandstone stretched into the distance for as far as he could see. He squeezed his fingers and then hand through the crack just enough to grab the edge of the rock about six to eight inches out. He gave a pull with all his might. The rock budged a little. He pushed and pulled alternately. Eventually, he worked a thin, flat piece of rock free. It allowed him to fit his whole arm through the hole. He began to work on another rock, dislodging the crusted sand and mud that had been used to mortar the rocks together. It was slow, tedious work, but the hole began to grow. Sweat poured down his face, stinging the wound on his head. His hands and arms became raw and bled. Eventually, however, the hole was large enough to give him the hope of squeezing through.