by A. G. Riddle
An hour later, he sat in a tree, waiting. He missed the white-tailed doe with his first shot. The old rifle kicked like a mule, and Desmond nearly fell out of the tree—and the doe was gone before he could work the .30-30’s lever and load another cartridge. But he held on and waited. Snow began falling, scattered flakes at first, then a steady downfall.
Desmond had never seen snow before. In Australia, his father had said that it only snowed in the mountains of the Victorian High Country, in the northeast.
He watched as the white flakes blew in the wind.
When the next doe emerged from the far tree line, he was more patient. It was smaller than the last, younger, less cautious. He waited as it meandered closer, sighted, held a breath as his father had taught him, and squeezed the trigger.
The animal fell and flailed on the ground.
Desmond was out of the tree in seconds, making tracks across the open field. He finished the poor doe quickly.
As he studied his kill, he realized the foolishness of his plan. He had no way to clean the animal, store the meat, even cook the portions his empty stomach cried out for.
But he could take it home, show his uncle that he could earn his keep. That he wouldn’t be a burden. Seeing the doe would change his uncle’s mind. Desmond was sure of it.
He took it by the legs, began dragging it through the snow. He didn’t get far. Desmond was nearly four feet tall and strong for his age, but the animal weighed nearly twice what he did. He would have to run back and get his uncle’s help.
He trudged through the snow, which was a few inches deep now. The cold wind whipped at his face and beat past the jacket Charlotte had sent with him.
With each step, the white wall became more complete. He didn’t know it then, but he was marching through a rapidly forming blizzard. The winds tossed him from side to side, disorienting him.
It was like the fire in Australia: he was again caught in an inferno, only this one was made of ice.
He got turned around so much that he had no idea which way home was. He knew the bush and paddocks around his parents’ station like the back of his hand. This land was foreign to him. There were no markers to guide him. He was completely lost.
He would die here, in the cold, alone. He was sure of it. He had survived the fire, had been brought back to life by an angel, only to die here, in the ice, left for dead by a devil.
His legs ached. He desperately wanted to sit down, to rest. But somehow, he knew if he did, he would never get back up.
He pushed forward, clutching the rifle. He knew dropping it—losing it—would be a death sentence. He tried to fire it in the air to call for help, but he couldn’t get his fingers to work.
Through a break in the snow, he saw a column of smoke rising from his uncle’s home in the distance. He made for it with every last bit of strength he had.
When he reached the porch, he expected the door to fly open. It stayed closed. A yellow glow from the fire inside shone through the windows. Salvation.
He threw the door open, leaned the rifle against the wall, and rushed inside. His uncle never looked at him, only shouted for him to close the door.
Desmond eyed the bottle. It was nearly empty. He would have to be careful to stay out of the man’s way.
Chapter 40
Outside the brig, Conner marched down the corridor, his footsteps echoing loudly. The entire crew of the Kentaro Maru was bustling, preparing for the next phase. They would have to work very quickly to assemble the Looking Glass. Delay could cost billions of lives, perhaps even every human life.
If he didn’t find out what had happened to Desmond soon, their cause would be in trouble. Desmond held the key to the Looking Glass and to everything they had worked for.
Inside the infirmary’s conference room, screens on the wall displayed x-rays, MRIs, and other scans Conner didn’t even recognize.
“What did you find?” he asked the three researchers conversing at the end of the table.
A younger physician swiveled in his chair. “His body’s a horror story. I’ve never seen so many fractures—”
“He had a rough childhood. Now tell me: What. Did. You. Find?”
Dr. Henry Anderson, an older scientist with white hair, spoke up. “An implant in his brain. It’s located in the hippocampus.”
“What kind of implant?”
“A Rapture Therapeutics model. It’s been modified, though.”
“Modified to do what?”
“That’s not clear,” Anderson said, “but the added component looks like a data receiver and transmitter.”
“What would it link up with? A satellite?”
“Possibly. But I count that as unlikely. Not enough power. It’s probably something shorter range. Bluetooth. WiFi, maybe.”
The younger scientist spoke again. “Could be used to communicate with a smartphone, which could act as a bridge to the net. It could be downloading instructions that would unblock memories.”
“Interesting,” Conner whispered. Louder, he said, “How would it work?”
The older scientist shrugged. “Who knows? This is all pure speculation. I was never a Rapture employee and didn’t work on the project; everything I know is from their published research. We know the original Rapture Therapeutics implants were used for depression, schizophrenia, bipolar, and other psych conditions. They monitored levels of key brain chemicals and stimulated the release of neurotransmitters. Basically, they helped balance the patient’s neurochemistry.
“The later versions of the Rapture implant, like the one inside Hughes, focused on other areas of the brain. Their published trials focused on dissolving brain plaques. The implants targeted the plaques and released a protein called GP3, which dissolved them. The approach has the potential to cure a wide array of neurodegenerative diseases—Alzheimer’s, Huntington’s, Parkinson’s, and more.”
Conner held his hand up. “How does that apply here? You found plaques in his brain?”
“No. We checked. We found something else, though: an unknown substance throughout his hippocampus.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I can only speculate—”
“Speculate away,” Conner said, losing patience.
Dr. Anderson inhaled deeply. “A few years ago, researchers at MIT discovered a way to actually isolate the location, in the brain, of specific memories. It was a breakthrough—the revelation that individual memories were stored biochemically in specific groups of neurons in the hippocampus. I believe the substance in Hughes’s hippocampus binds the neurons associated with specific memories, making them inaccessible—in a manner similar to the way that brain plaques affect memories in Alzheimer’s and physical abilities in Parkinson’s.”
“And you think Rapture Therapeutics put that substance there. And that the implant in his hippocampus has a way to dissolve the substance, unblocking the memories—similar to the way GP3 dissolves brain plaques?”
“Yes, that’s our hypothesis. We further hypothesize that the communication component that’s been added to the implant is a triggering mechanism. A Bluetooth-enabled phone or WiFi-connected computer could tell the implant to unlock the memories. Those triggering events could happen based on a set schedule, or when certain events occur. Or perhaps even when Hughes arrives at certain GPS locations. It’s also possible that certain cues, emotions, images, or sensations could unlock memories. The implant could be keyed to determine which memories are safe to reveal.”
Conner leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Well, gentlemen, it seems there’s a very simple way to confirm your plethora of suppositions. Call Rapture Therapeutics. Ask them. After all, we own the company.”
“We just got through speaking with them,” Dr. Anderson said. “Their chief science officer confirmed that they do have a team researching memory manipulation. And that project is still active. Or was, until very recently.”
Conner sensed bad news coming.
“The project is calle
d Rapture Aurora. They conducted their research following Looking Glass protocols: compartmentalization, need-to-know access. The team working on the memory therapy was a completely independent cell, with its own budget and facilities. For the sake of the larger Looking Glass project, contact was limited. Rapture hasn’t heard from the cell in three weeks.”
“They must have had a case manager,” Conner said. Realization dawned on him the moment he said the words. “Wait. Let me guess. The Aurora project was based in Germany. And the case manager was Gunter Thorne.”
“Correct.”
Conner shook his head. “What about Thorne’s records? Protocol is for a secure backup in case he was compromised.”
“Rapture has been looking since he turned up dead in Desmond Hughes’s hotel room. They haven’t found it. They’re assuming Hughes hid the files or destroyed them.”
Conner paced for a moment, then turned to the scientists. “Okay, let’s back up, review what we know, and try to put together a working theory here. Fact: two weeks ago, Desmond Hughes hides Rendition. Every scientist working on the project goes missing. All the files are gone. Hughes turns up in Berlin, where he contacts a journalist at Der Spiegel—Garin Meyer. Hughes is going to expose us and the entire Looking Glass project.”
Dr. Anderson spoke up. “Rapture Aurora—and his memory loss—must have been his backup plan.”
“Right. Des would have known about Aurora. Icarus Capital was an investor in Rapture Therapeutics—in fact, we used Icarus to fund most of the Looking Glass projects operating out of Rapture.”
“So,” Anderson said, “Hughes contacts the Aurora project team, gets them to administer their memory alteration technology on him, then either kills or hides the team. He somehow figures out where Gunter Thorne is keeping the project files and destroys or hides those as well, wiping out any chance of us figuring out exactly how Aurora works.”
“Very clever, Des,” Conner mumbled.
“But somehow,” Anderson continued, “Gunter Thorne figured out what Hughes was up to. Maybe he noticed the files were gone, or perhaps he has some intrusion detection system Hughes was unaware of. He tracks Hughes back to the Concord Hotel, confronts him. A struggle ensues. Desmond comes out on top. He assumes Thorne had already alerted us. He activates Aurora, wiping his memories.”
Conner shook his head. “What a mess.”
“In a sense, it’s brilliant,” Anderson said. “We can’t torture the answers out of him—the memories are blocked no matter how much pain he endures. And without the Rapture Aurora research, we can’t possibly unblock them.”
Conner nodded. “He’s brilliant, no question about it.” Conner sat down and tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “Is Aurora a core piece of the Rapture component? Could the loss of the Aurora research derail the Looking Glass?”
“No. Rapture is still intact. The memory piece was completed years ago. This additional Aurora research, using implants, seems to be a continuation beyond what was needed for Rapture.”
“Okay. Options?”
“We see only one predictable path,” the white-haired scientist said. “A brain biopsy.”
Conner disliked the idea instantly. However, he simply asked, “How?”
“I wouldn’t recommend we do it on board the Kentaro Maru. Our facilities are advanced, but given the risks, I would strongly advocate conducting it in a hospital that specializes in neurosurgery. Mayo Clinic and Johns Hopkins would be my top choices. New York-Presbyterian, Mass General, and Cleveland Clinic would also be appropriate. The problem is, very soon the pandemic will consume every hospital in the world, as well as the physicians we’d need for a biopsy.”
“Assuming we could solve those problems, what would a biopsy tell us?”
“We could get a better look at the implant and sample the substance in his hippocampus. We try to identify the substance, run tests on it to see if we can dissolve it without harming the underlying neurons.”
“I’m guessing that’s not a three-day turnaround.”
“No, it’s not.”
“How long?”
“It’s impossible—”
“Guess.”
“Two months? Who knows. I should also add that any brain biopsy carries risk to the patient. In this particular case, there could be risks we don’t appreciate.”
“Such as?”
“A failsafe. If the implant and memory blockage are part of a purposeful plan on Hughes’s part, or perhaps someone manipulating him, they might have programmed a failsafe. A foreign object entering his brain, in the region of the implant, might trigger some defense mechanism. Maybe it destroys the memories completely or even kills the subject. There’s no way to know.”
“It’s all moot. We don’t have two months.” Conner rubbed his temple. He felt a headache coming on. “We have Rook and Rapture, but he has Rendition. Without it, we can’t complete the Looking Glass. Two thousand years of work will go down the drain, and the entire human race with it.”
The older scientist leaned back in his chair. “We could cut him loose and allow this to play out.”
“Play out?”
Anderson nodded. “Hughes clearly has some sort of backup plan. It’s tied to specific events or locations, or some signal that will activate his memories via the implant. So, what if we let him recover those memories? Then we collect him.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions, Doctor. The biggest being that we can simply ‘collect’ him when we’re ready. Bagging him in the first place wasn’t a walk in the park. When he recovers his memories—when he realizes what he’s capable of—it’ll be nearly impossible.”
“Then I’m afraid that leaves us with no options.”
“On the contrary. We have a very good option, gentlemen. And I’m going to take it.”
Chapter 41
The soldiers were rough when they jerked Peyton and Hannah out of the back of the SUV. Hannah’s screams didn’t slow them one bit. They placed black bags over their heads, bound their hands, and marched them to a helicopter, where their feet were bound as well. In the darkness, the drone of the engines and rotors was deafening. The helicopter landed some time later, and they were dragged out, lifted up, and tossed onto the flat metal bed of a truck.
The drive was brutal. The truck bounced along ruts in the road, slamming them into the bed. And with their hands and feet bound, there was nothing they could do to protect themselves. It was like being blindfolded and left to tumble in a drying machine on an endless cycle. Hannah sobbed periodically.
Peyton lost all sense of time. The pain ebbed after a while; perhaps the nerves in her body simply stopped responding to the pounding. She wondered if any permanent damage was being done.
At last the truck came to a stop, and she heard canvas flapping. A ray of sunlight beamed across the black bag, only partially seeping through.
Someone gripped Peyton’s feet, pulled her out of the truck, and caught her as she hit the ground. Her legs were weak, wobbly. Hands moved across her body, grabbing in places they had no right to. Peyton twisted, turned her shoulders quickly, trying in vain to fight them off. The action sparked loud voices, speaking in what she thought was Swahili. Laughs erupted.
She heard Hannah scream as they dragged her out.
“Don’t touch her!” Peyton yelled. “She needs medical attention. A doctor.”
A man responded in African-accented English. “She won’t be needin’ nothin’ soon. Take them.”
Hands reached under Peyton’s arms, lifted at her armpits, and pulled her forward. Her bound feet dragged across the dry, rocky ground. To her surprise, her captors removed the bag before tossing her down. The light was blinding. She heard metal slamming into metal and the turn of a key.
When her eyes adjusted, Peyton took stock of her surroundings.
Her abductors had put her in a stall in a barn. Metal rods reinforced the slat wood walls. She turned—and froze.
Two sentences were carved into the nearby planks:<
br />
Desmond Hughes was here
I’m innocent
Peyton stared in shock. Desmond was here? Why?
She heard clothes ripping and Hannah’s labored breaths. The young physician was close—perhaps in the next cell.
“Hannah,” Peyton called.
“Yeah.” Her voice was weak.
“How’re you doing?”
Hannah spoke slowly, quietly. “Got the bleeding stopped.” She paused to catch her breath. “Tied my shoulder up. Bullet went through. I think.” She drew another breath. “Lost a lot of blood. Cold.”
“Hang in there, Hannah. We’re going to get out of here, okay? Some very brave Americans are going to come for us. Save your strength and be ready for anything. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At that moment something changed within Peyton Shaw. She had always lived a purpose-driven life, but it had been a life lived with a cold, clinical sort of passion. She never let her emotions master her. She was never out of control. She’d gotten that from her mother, she thought. Lin Shaw was always composed. And Peyton loved her for it. That same composure had served Peyton well during her professional life.
At work, keeping her emotions in check was imperative. Emotions clouded judgment, changed how a person looked at things. Becoming emotionally attached during an outbreak was a risk; she might be too focused on a particular patient or location, might miss the big picture, or a detail, a crucial contact or piece of information that could save lives. Her emotional detachment had saved lives, and had saved her a lot of grief over the years.
Now, however, in this makeshift cell, as she lay on the dirt floor, the wall of detachment Peyton Shaw had carefully built up over so many years fell. Her emotions broke through in a wave. They took the form of raw, unbridled rage. Rage against the people who had killed Jonas—her friend, her colleague, and someone who might have been much more. Rage against the people who had started the outbreak in Kenya that had killed Lucas Turner and thousands of others. She would find these people. She would stop them. And she would make them pay—even if it was the last thing she did.