Order of the Black Sun Box Set 4

by Preston William Child

  “It’s funny you should mention that, Professor,” Sam said, “…because I happen to have an appointment with someone I was pointed towards this very morning, for that very reason.”

  “Pointed? By whom, exactly?” Professor Westdijk asked, biting into the ridiculous morsel that clearly pained his gums.

  Sam checked his notes, “Uh, one Albert Tägtgren?” Sam waited for the professor to light up and recognize the name, but he only nodded, chewing like a horse.

  “And what does he do?” Professor Westdijk asked with his mouth full.

  “I think he is a structural engineer involved in building Alice,” Sam replied, still hoping there would be more detail behind the man he was to see.

  “Nope, don’t know him. It’s a pity, because I know a lot of people working on Alice,” he told Sam, lifting his crooked finger to summon the waiter. “Earl Grey, please.”

  “What exactly do you do at CERN, if I may ask,” Sam mumbled to avoid the waiter from hearing.

  “I am just an advisor on the CMS…as soon as those inept assholes are done building the damn thing of course. There are about twenty five of us, physics experts in different practices, working on the detector. Most of them are from England and Germany. I am the only one from Holland,” the professor explained. “But I hope you can figure out what happened to Alice. At least that would help the project along, otherwise everything will be put on hold to wait for the closing of the investigation before anything can continue. As you can imagine, with one giant circular tube in which the experiment is to be held, we need all components in running order before any of the other detectors can be activated.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. In fact, he did not know exactly how the LHC was to operate, but the professor need not know that. “So everything is held up? I just hope I can get more detail on the electrical workings of the Alice detector, otherwise I will have no way of figuring this one out.”

  “Good luck,” the old professor laughed, his cheeks dark pink and his goatee riddled with bread crumbs.

  “You make it sound so much easier than my nightmares told me it would be,” Sam smiled miserably, shaking his head.

  “Agh, don’t fret, Sam. In time this will also dissipate and what worries you today will be just a memory,” the professor said, wiping his hands on his cardigan. Sam looked at his watch.

  “Well, there are questions to be asked. I must dash, Professor. Thanks so much for the conversation. I don’t feel so horribly out of place amongst the guests here now,” he told the old scientist.

  “I’ll probably run into you there. Try not to get overwhelmed, alright? It’s just a project. A multi-billion Euro project that will probably come to nothing but factions of physics professors at loggerheads about what they actually achieved by the experiment,” the old man chuckled as Sam waved goodbye and left the hotel, ten minutes behind schedule.

  Sam took the time travelling to the CERN facility to enjoy the environment. From what he had learned in his research the construction companies had utilized the unearthed soil and gravel well, but employing the best functional landscaping to create a vast landscape of hillocks and small lakes to form a man-made park. It looked beautiful, with rolling mounds of green lawns and large bodies of water. The tall fence of the facility came into view along the road and Sam’s stomach sank.

  He hated to admit that he was not one for science or particle physics and he knew very little about mass construction and super machines. Now he would have to either maintain a ruse of knowledge or let everyone know that he, the great prize winning journalist, was now at the mercy of their tolerance in his ineptitude. Maybe he just felt that way because his life of late had been slightly off the norm. Of all the intense adventure he had survived, perhaps his life could only dip into boredom and lackluster, who knew.

  “Credentials,” the guard asked through the driver’s window.

  Sam showed the man his press pass and after a brief call to the office, the guard returned. “Section 8 only, Mr. Cleave. There is a restaurant in Section 8 for you to wait. Please do not venture off to any other part of the facility.”

  “Thank you,” Sam replied.

  As he expected, it was a maze of white coats and hard hats that enveloped him as he searched for Section 8, where Albert Tägtgren would meet him.

  “He is probably already waiting, pissed as hell,” Sam muttered to himself as he searched the select few males seated alone in the huge spread of tables in the restaurant, which reminded him more of a mess hall one would find in Star Trek.

  “Sam Cleave?” someone said.

  “Aye,” Sam almost shouted, elated that he did not have to go along asking every engineer-looking man his name. A very neat blond man appeared in front of him, extending a hand. He wore square glasses and his wedding band was the same color as his tie, Sam noted.

  ‘Looks like a seventies serial killer to me,’ Sam entertained himself in thought.

  “Albert Tägtgren, at your service. Penny Richards told me you would be coming,” he smiled cordially. Sam was relieved that the man with the Swedish accent was not pissed as hell after all.

  “I’m sorry I am late, Mr. Tägtgren,” Sam started.

  “Please call me Al,” the engineer told Sam. “Everyone calls me Al. It is less…Swedish?” He laughed and took Sam by the upper arm. “Coffee?”

  “Oh, no thank you. I just had about a liter of caffeine at my hotel just to wake up. Long night of research,” Sam explained, looking around at the chatting crowd of scientists and construction men.

  “Research on CERN?” Al asked him.

  “Afraid I still don’t know everything I’m supposed to know,” Sam admitted, choosing the honest, ill-informed path. But it was a good choice, because Albert Tägtgren was the kind of man who enjoyed enlightening laymen on his line of work. He spent the next two hours explaining structural engineering requirements and basically what the collider’s experiments would entail. Sam’s head spun with all the talk of the Higgs boson particle and the speeds at which the collider will propel particles to cause tiny crashes every few seconds, or so he understood the gibberish. Eventually Sam had to remind the over-zealous engineer what he really interviewed him about.

  “So, after that bit of background,” he said in his boyish teasing, “can you fill me in on the structural damage sustained during the recent fire?”

  His host grew silent for a moment, not expecting that Sam had kept his focus through the entire lecture. Tägtgren cleared his throat and fumbled with his security card. First he surveyed the area as if he was about to share a secret…which he was.

  “Mr. Cleave, I have a theory, but honestly I am too reluctant to voice it, especially to a journalist, you understand?” he said under his breath. Sam was very satisfied with the man’s response.

  “I understand completely. But if you want, we can keep this off the record,” he assured Albert, switching off his recorder and putting it away. “I am far more interested for myself what the truth is, than to appease a bunch of business moguls looking to find a political scapegoat.”

  “Well, I am very happy to hear that, Mr. Cleave, but this is definitely not about politics or competition. In fact, it goes beyond the believable and dare I say, explainable,” Albert whispered urgently.

  6

  Purdue had his fill of the roast pork and asparagus, baby potatoes and creamed spinach Healy had prepared, but what he could not stomach was the erratic behavior of his hostess. By the evening he had begun to regret coming to see her, but something about her hints kept him at the gambling table. The wind howled outside the deathly quiet house. Morose and slightly unsettled, Purdue bided his time before thinking to excuse himself, but Lydia Jenner had way too much to get off her chest to just let her guest up and leave like that.

  “Hurry up with that brandy, darling. I have to show you something,” she told Purdue just as he set aside his dessert bowl and reached for the small glass Healy poured for him. He could not help but get a shiver from
her words. It left him feeling oddly unsettled. Between Purdue and Healy many quick glances flashed when Lydia was not paying attention.

  “As a point of interest,” Purdue said, “why is there no music in this house? You used to love playing you vinyl’s day in and day out.”

  “That is a lot of explaining that I cannot deliver until you have seen what I wish to show you, old cock.” She paused with an endearing smile, seeking the right words to start with. “You see, I cannot listen to music anymore. In fact, any sound louder than 40dB would be catastrophic,” she explained casually.

  Purdue had expected some long tirade, but this was the nature of Lydia Jenner. One could never predict her reaction to anything. The illness may have exacerbated her mood swings, but it certainly had not changed her personality. Healy did not say a word, but it was obvious that he knew many secrets about his employer.

  “What I know about sound frequency is that this very conversation would already be around 60dB, Lydia. I think you have your numbers mixed up,” he winked at her.

  “No, I don’t. Christ, how well do you know me, Dave? Would I make such a stupid claim if I was inaccurate about it?” she asked, raising her voice slightly. “Healy, I want Scotch.”

  Reluctantly the meticulous butler poured her a drink, his eyes dwelling to Purdue’s, locking him in subliminal conversation.

  “My apologies. I did not mean to make you out to be a fool, but really, nobody is perfect, dear Lydia. You could easily have misspoken, that’s all,” Purdue explained with his cheerful charisma perfectly in place to set her at ease.

  “I have not…miss…spoken,” she growled softly at him, and lifted the glass to her lips. When she swallowed, her eyes fixed on Purdue’s like a predator to prey, Lydia put the glass down and slowly pulled aside the turban to reveal her ears. Flat steel discs were covering the shell of her ear, fixed to her head by what appeared to be a copper based strap that ran between the discs to secure it to her head, like headphones.

  “Oh, my,” Purdue replied in astonishment, or rather, fascination. He got up and stalked slowly toward Lydia, keeping his gaze firmly on the interesting device she wore. Lydia smiled, “Oh, darling, if you only know the rest.”

  “I would love to,” he said softly. “What do these do?”

  “They keep my skull from exploding every time someone speaks to me,” she chuckled. “I designed them myself. Do you approve?”

  “My goodness, this is a device to dampen the intensity of sound pressure without compromising the level, the volume. Am I correct?” he guessed, carefully reaching out to touch the contraption in sheer intrigue.

  “That’s right, Dave. Without it I would hear your voice like the clap of a shotgun with every word you utter,” she revealed.

  “But brain cancer does not do that, does it? I’m afraid I don’t have much background in the illness itself,” he admitted.

  “No, it is not the cancer,” she said. “It is part of why I asked you to come and see me, why I needed a madman with unsurpassed genius and boundless resources…you. Now, when you are quite done with that brandy…”

  “I’m done,” he interrupted her. His eyes glinted with exhilaration and even when he locked eyes with Healy, Purdue did not show any sign of relent. “Show me, Lydia. Show me everything you wish.”

  “Ohh,” she giggled, “do you hear that, Healy? The man is almost horny for what I have. Only Purdue would have a boner for the science and not the scientist!” Again she unleashed the witchery in her laughter, but as before, the sound bounced back in dead air from the sheet lined walls. Purdue observed now that the entire manor was lined like the fence outside, hidden beneath paint and wallpaper.

  With Healy pushing her wheelchair Lydia Jenner led Purdue into the innards of the mansion where it gradually became less of a home and more of a laboratory. Although it was not a proper place of experimentation, he noticed that she had converted spare rooms and hallways, showers and even broom cupboards into pallid and precise rectangular settings for the myriad of wiring, electronic devices, power boards and fat old computer monitors running in DOS. Apart from the meticulously arranged drawers and blinds over acoustic foam applied to every inch of the walls and ceiling, the place was a mess reminiscent of an electronic junk yard in the back of a radio store. As they advanced toward the last chamber, a walk in safe of sorts, Healy switched on the fluorescent lights that ran the length of the corridors and the circumference of the ceilings in every room. Some of the spare rooms had been altered, their west walls demolished to create one long room from the meeting of both spaces to accommodate machines Lydia had built.

  Purdue was categorically ecstatic by the possibilities of what he perceived in Lydia’s exquisite lunacy. His eyes combed the wiring, the technology and how it was arranged in relation to the strange sheeting.

  “I know, it’s a bit steam punk, is it not?” she smiled, watching his childlike fascination escalate. “I wanted to do it with the very caliber of materials it was theorized with.”

  “What?” he asked with his mouth agape at the sight of the retro experimentation space.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she frowned.

  “Oh, I mean, what was theorized that you experimented with,” he clarified.

  “Well, there is not a name for it yet. I have not progressed much since…” she shot a glance up at Healy’s wary eyes, “…the sickness happened.”

  “I see. And that is where you need me, I suppose?” Purdue asked eagerly. Lydia nodded, affirming his expectation. He looked at her rigid butler, but Healy deliberately kept his eyes and body language steady. It was the moment of truth. His employer was about to reveal her plan to the man she told Healy was trustworthy, the billionaire who would apparently not steal her patents or take credit for her achievements.

  Not for one moment did Healy neglect his task of paying attention to the stranger from Edinburgh. Lydia entrusted her butler with the unsavory task of snapping Purdue’s neck if he even exhibited the need to steal her idea and make off with it. His meticulous nature was not exaggerated at all, in that he had already sent Purdue’s driver home while he enjoyed the succulent roast. Dave Purdue did not know this, but he was to remain at Jenner Manor for a longer stay than he had anticipated.

  “Now, tell me already,” Purdue smiled, clasping his hands together as he always did when he was excited about an adventure.

  “Come. See this chamber? It is called the Voyager III,” she smiled. She waited. Purdue waited for her to continue, but what she expected did not appear on his face. “Dave, do you know what the name denotes?”

  Purdue looked at Lydia with a befuddled smirk of amazement. He knew what she was saying, but in his brilliant mind he could not calculate the possibility and plausibility rapidly enough to test her theory before agreeing with it. He stuttered, “It’s a…time machine?”

  Even as he uttered the words he felt a fool. What was he implying? Was he actually being gullible enough to believe that it had been accomplished? Then her words emerged in his recollection, the words she spoke when she smoked that first cigarillo.

  ‘Do you know where I got that cigarette case you like – you covet – so much? I got it from SS-Sturmbannführer Helmut Kämpfe himself, after I fucked his brains out.’

  Purdue knew as little about German history as the average science geek, but one thing he knew for certain was that there was no way a forty seven year old woman could have encountered a Nazi officer in recent years, let alone rolled in the hay with him. It had to be true. And if any scientist could pull of such a stupendous feat it would be Lydia Jenner.

  “I would not call it a time machine, per se,” she smiled, admiring her work from the confinement of her wheelchair, “but you are on the right track. It employs Einstein’s experimental unified field theory in part, adding in quantum gravity at a specific energy level.”

  “And it is able to bend spacetime?” Purdue gasped. “It can be done?”

  She lolled her head to one side
and shrugged, “With an extra punch of ...”

  “You tease, Lydia!” Purdue cried impatiently.

  “You might not believe this – a pinch of sound pulses, radio frequency at a specific amount of decibels. But that is still for me to know and you to feel awe for,” she said quickly in a juvenile tone.

  Purdue could not believe it. In his mind the numbers and formulas spun, diagrams formed and theories roiled, but he could not get it together. From what he knew, and it was much, Lydia’s recipe could not possibly work. But that was something he elected to keep to himself until she could prove him wrong.

  “So, what do you need from me?” he asked.

  “I need you to accompany Healy to CERN. One of the CMS experiments will be conducted to detect miniature black holes,” she explained.

  “But I thought the particle accelerator would be utilized primarily for producing collisions by smashing together lead ions at tremendous energy levels,” Purdue argued. “They intend to create a model where those collisions generate unprecedented temperatures, a thousand fold the heat of the centre of the Sun. Unless Alice or Atlas or one of the other detectors were saddled with black holes and dark matter and such.”

  Lydia’s face contorted in a malicious intolerance, but she tried her best not to lose her temper with Purdue’s argument. She needed him to complete her experiments.

  “That is of no consequence to me, Dave. Please!” she shouted, but recovered her composure. “Forget about what the media knows about CERN’s intentions with the LHC machines, okay? Jesus, my time is running out! I am in no shape – or mood - to engage in petty lectures.”

  Her voice was less aggressive, although it maintained its intensity. What Purdue heard was desperation, the desperation of a dying woman.