The Probing: Leviathan, The Mind Pirates, Hybrids, The Village

by Frank Peretti

  “Ha!” Snow must have been rolling his eyes behind those dark glasses. “So Ben’s not as clever as he thinks.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry to tell you,” said Tank, “Ben is dead. He was murdered.”

  Snow deflated a little, his hands plopping on the chair. “What about your friend? Did she wear the earring?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Brenda.

  “Did she start behaving strangely?”

  “She started acting like a pirate,” said Tank.

  “There is more to it. Better sit down and tell me the whole story.”

  When they’d recounted it all, including the kidnapping, the murders of Ben Cardiff and Neville Moore, and the bomb planted in the Conch restaurant, he took a moment to digest it, scrubbed his hands over his face, and said finally, “Well, your turn to hear my story, I suppose.”

  Audrey sat in another chair right next to him, looking at Brenda, Tank, and Daniel, as Zedekiah began. “You’ve gathered now that I can see you. Tank, the towering muscle man; Brenda, graceful carving in ebony; Daniel, the cherub with a special wisdom. It’s coming into my brain through a Writer, a chip embedded in these glasses here.” He tapped the dark glasses he wore. “And it’s being sent from another chip, a Reader, in Audrey’s glasses. She sees you, the image becomes brainwaves in her head; her glasses convert the brainwaves into a transmittable signal and send that signal through our translator system to my glasses. My glasses convert the signal back into brainwaves in my head, and my brain translates them back into the image she sees. Very simple concept.”

  The beachside door opened, and the sailboarder came in.

  “Ah! My son, Jeremiah. No doubt you noticed our little experiment. We were sailboarding together. Jeremiah, how’d it go?”

  The young man was wet and tired, but pleased. “Weird. Like I was you.”

  “And you were me!” Zedekiah laughed. To Brenda, Tank, and Daniel, he exclaimed, “The very first bi-directional mind feed! He sends me his sensory impressions through a Reader in his headband, I pick them up through a Writer in that billed cap over there and send back my rusty old skills in riding a sailboard. With bi-directional feed, we share the experience!”

  “The problem was deciding just who was driving,” said Jeremiah.

  “That can be worked out with practice and mutual agreement. But you see how wonderful this could be? The blind can see through the eyes of their loved ones; the deaf can hear, the paralyzed can walk, and old blind cranks like me can even ride a sailboard through the mind and senses of someone else!”

  “It’s incredible!” said Brenda.

  Zedekiah Snow sank back in his chair. “Mmm, and it’s also dangerous, as you have discovered. Your friend Andi has experienced far more than she wanted . . . just as I feared would happen some day. Ben Cardiff and I were associates. Together we perfected the Read/Write system. It was Ben’s idea to plant the Reader and Writer chips in head garments. It held great promise for the blind, the deaf, anyone else who might be denied a fuller life experience. But Ben was a moral weakling, and he came across a scoundrel willing to exploit that weakness: Horatio Thatch.”

  Tank and Brenda didn’t recognize the name.

  “Captain Horatio Thatch?” Zedekiah tried.

  Their eyes widened. “The captain from the pirate show!”

  “A pirate indeed,” said Snow. “For the tourists and . . . a pirate of a very different kind when it comes to pirating the minds of rich tourists to gain access to their bank accounts and portfolios. Thatch wooed Ben away from me with promises of using our invention to get rich, and, I suppose, that’s what’s happened. Place a pirate hat or an earring or a scarf on a tourist to take a pirate picture, and while they’re smiling and making a memory, all their bank information is downloaded directly from their brain. That’s why Audrey and I were on St. Clemens a month ago—secretly, we thought. We were checking out what use Ben and Thatch were making of our Read/Write system. Now . . . oh dear, what to do? No doubt you’ve gone to the authorities?” Amazingly, he could see the look on their faces. “Ha! That’s what I thought. The Gate’s already been there. Ohhh, yes, I know about The Gate. They came to me first, wanting the system. Sell them the system? They’d make worse use of it than the government with their prying, spying, and pirating! I became Filbert Figg and vanished. But Ben was still available, I see. He cut a deal, I suppose, and the deal went sour somehow—” Zedekiah had a sudden revelation. “Ahhh yes! Would you like to hear an excellent guess?”

  Brenda and Tank nodded, knowing he could see them.

  “Ben struck a deal to sell the technology to The Gate. To show what it could do, he left a Writer earring at a drop point on the beach for The Gate to pick up. Then, wearing the Reader earring himself, he intended to transfer his memory, all the vital information, to The Gate through the system, his Reader to the Writer they supposedly had. Except . . .”

  “Except Neville Moore found it first, and Andi got the earring instead!” Tank concluded, sending a pleased look at Brenda.

  “And so The Gate was out their money and thought Ben had swindled them, so Ben met an ignominious end, and now . . .” Zedekiah laughed, either at the trickery of the events or at his own cleverness. “And now, it is not The Gate who has all of Ben’s knowledge and the technology, and it’s not Thatch and his pirates, either; it is Andi who has it all in her head!” Then he stopped laughing. “Oh dear. That doesn’t bode well for her, does it?”

  CHAPTER

  15

  The Wild Man

  We’ve been good to your friend the prof,” the captain told Andi. “Each day, each hour he’s still breathing, he’ll have you to thank for it. Remember that.”

  Andi was seated before the computer screen again, looking through screens, menus, and drop-downs, with the captain and Sparks looking over her shoulder. “It all looks familiar.”

  His hand was on her shoulder. “We need the numbers, the passcodes to access the bank accounts.”

  “Don’t you have them written down somewhere?”

  “Ben did, and now he’s gone and the records with him.”

  “So . . .” Andi kept looking. “Looks like you can’t always have it your way after all.”

  His grip on her shoulder tightened. It hurt. “Don’t let that thought cross your mind. I’ll have what I want.”

  Well, everyone has their tipping point. Andi was reaching hers. Even while grimacing through the pain she told him, “As if brute force is going to make you right in the grand scheme of things?” She twisted in her chair to look him in the eye, batting away his grip. “You may be captain of this ship, but it’s a mighty big ocean. You may scoff at God and truth, but this system runs on truth, on rules of physics and mathematics that must be obeyed whether you like it or not, and if I’m going to solve this problem it’s going to be according to those rules, not yours. Now back off!”

  As if grudgingly conceding her point, he straightened, giving her space, and crossed his arms, removing physical threat. “Well then. Where do we stand according to these . . . rules?”

  As if the momentary distraction had freed up her mind, she thought of using another path to the files. “Oh, oh, ohhh, looky here!”

  “Ah!”

  “Recognize them?”

  “Yes!” He chuckled and this time patted her shoulder gently.

  Sparks patted her other shoulder. “These are the bank accounts—with their codes!”

  She began to scroll down the screen. “Yes! This is the code for Switzerland . . . and this is the code for France . . . England . . . Japan . . . Germany . . . and this link takes you to the server in New York. Wow!”

  “Keep going, lass,” said the captain. Then he added chillingly, “Professor McKinney is counting on you.”

  She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t see it.

  There was a commotion below, enough to make the beams quiver. Blows, boots, the clatter of a plate, the creak of an old door. There was that scream again! Footsteps thundered up the passage
just outside.

  The captain bolted to the door. “Scalarag! What’s—”

  A body collided with the captain, and he stumbled into the passageway. For a terrifying instant, a ragged wraith leaned in the doorway, eyes white and crazy, hair an explosion, squeaking out a laugh and babbling gibberish as the air carried the stench of feces and urine. Andi cowered in the corner. Sparks grabbed up a chair to shield himself.

  With a maniacal cry, the creature bolted, leaped over the fallen captain, and ran up the passage, and it was only now that Andi realized who it was—Jean-Pierre DuBois, the flamboyant French buccaneer! He’d not been seen since the captain handed him Andi’s gold earring and he took it below decks. Moments after that came the first scream, undoubtedly from this same wretch who was now clearly out of his mind.

  “Spikenose!” the captain bellowed.

  The little cook, nose bleeding, bounded up the passageway. “He jumped me! I was bringing him his dinner and he jumped me!”

  “All hands!” yelled the captain. “Lay hold of that madman!”

  “Captain!”

  Thatch looked at Spikenose impatiently.

  “He has my pistol!”

  Both men thundered up the passageway, and Sparks followed as the whole ship came alive with shouts, stomps, and footsteps.

  Andi, overwhelmed with curiosity, hurried topside in time to see Norwig the Bean and Sparks sprawled on the deck, bested in a tangle with DuBois the maniac, who now scrambled about the deck and up to the forecastle, chased by Rock and Scalarag. DuBois was swinging from the shrouds, hurling things, screaming, laughing. Finally, with Rock and Norwig guarding one set of steps and Scalarag and Sparks the other, he was trapped on the forecastle. The captain stepped forward and tried to talk sense, but DuBois drew Spikenose’s pistol from his belt and took aim. The captain ducked just as the weapon went off with a loud report and a puff of blue smoke. A lead ball blasted a splinter out of the mainmast, ricocheted off the deck, and broke out a window of the Captain’s Quarters.

  At that, Captain Thatch drew his own pistol even as DuBois drew a sizable knife. Stepping up on the rail, DuBois leaped at the captain.

  The captain fired. DuBois took a lead ball through the neck and tumbled onto the deck, squirting blood. Andi looked away.

  When she looked again, the captain stood over DuBois, cursing. Scalarag knelt by the Frenchman, trying to stop the bleeding, but the damage was done—exceedingly. Rock looked at DuBois, at the captain. “Those . . . those were live rounds!”

  The captain slowly replaced his pistol. “Spare me the act, Rock. You’re not surprised.” He looked around the horrified circle, eyeing their pistols. “Nor any of the rest of you, I’ll wager!”

  Scalarag stood, blood all over him. DuBois was dead.

  “He was my friend,” said the captain. “It was Ben who did this to him, but we’ve made it square.”

  “What . . .” Norwig was trembling. “What are we gonna do?”

  The captain started for his quarters. “Think it through, mates. I have. We hold course for St. Clemens. There’s big money to be made.”

  “But . . .” said Rock, “what about—?”

  “Tie him to some weights and throw him over the side.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Taking the Riqueza

  At Zedekiah and Audrey’s insistence, Brenda, Tank, and Daniel had dinner and spent the night. Brenda crashed on the couch, Tank on the floor, Daniel on the floor next to Tank and close to Brenda. Sleep, at least for Tank, was a little difficult with the frequent vibrations coming through the floor as a bothered Zedekiah paced back and forth from his bedroom to his computer room and back again.

  In the morning, over bagels and fresh-brewed coffee, he shared his musings. “A kidnapping from a lonely beach and a boat rowed out to sea? Not The Gate’s style, but definitely the style of Thatch and his pirates. Also, the murders tell me The Gate doesn’t yet have the technology, while we know Thatch and his pirates do. Therefore . . .”

  With Audrey as his eyes, he led them into his computer room, a chaotic jumble of keyboards, screens, wires, control panels, and papers, all labeled with Post-it notes for Audrey’s sake. “If we assume the Read/Write technology interfaces wirelessly with either a satellite or the Internet, I might be able to hack into the system aboard that ship. If we can pick up a signal from any Reader, the GPS inside the Reader will tell us where the ship is, and if . . .” He hesitated.

  “If . . . what?” Brenda asked.

  Zedekiah opened a drawer and produced a gold earring exactly like the one Andi had bought and worn. “Yes, Ben and I made several of these, both Readers and Writers. This one is a Writer, and if one of us can wear it, we could possibly connect with a Reader aboard the Predator and . . . uh . . . receive mental impressions of the surroundings, maybe even overhear conversations, see who and what we’re dealing with.”

  “Can we do that?” Tank asked.

  “Well, in a perfect world, yes. But someone on the Predator would have to be wearing the Reader in order for us to receive their mental images. We’d be fishing a bit.”

  Brenda could hear the uneasiness in his voice. “Okay, what else?”

  “I have no control over the system on the ship. If Ben or anyone else has scrambled or encrypted the system to prevent invasion, this Writer could, uh, scramble the brain of the wearer.” He nervously cleared his throat. “The damage would be irreparable.”

  I awoke that morning to a new sensation: the rumble of engines! So much for the seventeenth century.

  I had little time to wonder about it before Scalarag ducked through the compartment door. “Up and about, you nave! We’ve a show to do today! Deck yourself out as befits a seaman.” He produced the key to the leg irons and set me free. “Cap wants all men on deck. We’ve set course to overtake the Riqueza.”

  Ah yes, the Riqueza—the colorful and completely fake Spanish galleon I and the team had climbed aboard less than a week ago. Within hours it would be loaded with laughing, gawking tourists with cameras and piña coladas, all ready to be boarded and raided by make-believe pirates. Oh, if those hapless flower shirts only knew!

  Donning my seaman’s blouse and pirate’s scarf, I followed Scalarag topside, emerging on the deck to find the sails unfurling, the crew hauling and trimming to wring out the utmost knot.

  “You!” hollered Rock, pointing at me. “On the mizzen!”

  “The third mast,” Scalarag advised me.

  I hurried to join the crew, taking hold of the sheets and letting them out to open the sails fully to the wind. The Predator heeled to port, the waves dashing and foaming against her sides. We were motoring and sailing, in a hurry.

  Thatch stood by the rail at the bow, sighting ahead with a spyglass. “There she lies!”

  I could see the three-masted Riqueza on the horizon, only half her sails unfurled, poking along to be taken by the likes of us.

  “Look alive, men! Cast loose the guns!”

  There were six lashed, tied, and chocked cannons on the main deck. The gunners let them loose.

  Scalarag led me to a locker beneath the quarterdeck where we found folding chairs. We formed a chain with some of the crew and set them up on the quarterdeck, twenty in all. These would be the choice seats for the tourists with red wristbands.

  “Load your guns!”

  With practice and polish, the gunners put the powder cartridges and wadding down each bore and rammed them home. No cannonballs; this was just smoke and noise.

  We were closing on the galleon, and dead ahead of us both was Pirate Island, a green bump in the ocean where a Disneyesque Port Royal awaited with costumed staff, souvenir stores, and pirate dinner show.

  “Fire!”

  From the deck of the Riqueza the cannon fire had been exciting and theatrical. From where I stood on the Predator, it was a fusillade of thunders that shook the boat and made Jell-O of my insides.

  “Reload!”

  I could see the Riqueza was lad
en with brightly clad, sunblocked tourists who were no doubt wealthy—the admission price for this fantasy made sure of that.

  The cannons fired again. This time I unabashedly covered my ears.

  Zedekiah tapped the keys while Audrey watched the computer monitor. “We’ll send out an inquiry and see if we get a reply from any Readers aboard the Predator. I’d like to go around the ship’s system so nobody notices, but . . . well, here goes anyway.”

  “I think there was a show scheduled for today,” said Audrey.

  “Oo-hoo, then we might see quite a spectacle . . . or somebody will.”

  Audrey looked at Tank; he just wondered why. She looked at Brenda, who cringed a bit.

  Zedekiah muttered to himself, kept tapping the keys, moving the mouse around. “Elusive little devils . . .”

  Andi sat at the console, letting one memory lead to another as she strived to get the system working.

  Sparks sat in a chair beside her, more a snoop and a nuisance than a help. “Come on, we have to get the Readers linked up before we dock.” He pointed at a small blinking box near the top corner of the screen. “Is that an inquiry?”

  The moment Andi saw it, she knew what it was. “Shouldn’t be. Is there a Writer energized somewhere?”

  Sparks checked the cabinet where the Writers—some earrings, a hat, a very modern headset—were kept. Just then the whole ship quaked as the boom of the cannons rang through the timbers. Sparks braced himself. He was looking away.

  With a quick sequence of clicks, Andi consigned the blinking box to another screen that she minimized out of sight. “No, forget it, looks like we’re clear. Must have been something else.”

  “What?”

  “When I remember, I’ll tell you.”

  It was the finest entertainment, really. Muscular men in pirate garb, swords flashing, pistols popping, swinging on ropes like acrobats, swarming aboard the Riqueza and playfully taking captive the extra-paying tourists with a red wristband. I joined in the fun, blending, as it were, helping the hapless souls across the gangplank and aboard the Predator. With roguish decorum, I showed a jolly couple to their chairs.