Wormhole - 03

by Richard Phillips

  The funny thing about it was that every Tom, Dick, and Harry had an antivirus package on his computer to protect it from unauthorized access. Little did they suspect that her kernel lay at the heart of every single one of those packages, constantly scanning every piece of information on the system as well as every bit of Internet traffic passing through the computer’s network cards. Now cell phones needed antivirus protection, providing hundreds of millions of new nodes for Big John’s neural net.

  Denise ran a hand through her graying hair and leaned back in her chair, letting the Herman Miller lumbar support stretch her lower spine. What time was it? Midnight? A glance at the lower right corner of her monitor provided the answer. Two thirteen a.m. Leave it to Dr. Hoffman to schedule an eight a.m. senior staff meeting. Ah well, might as well make it another all-nighter, especially since she needed to be extra careful covering her electronic tail.

  Damn it all to hell! It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was supposed to do her job and then retire, not get involved in international intrigue likely to get her killed. She knew Big John wasn’t alive, but she couldn’t help hating him for what he’d done to her, for what he was still doing to her. He’d shoved this in her face until she couldn’t resist a little extra digging.

  The November Anomaly was still top secret, but with leaders of the world’s most powerful countries scared shitless, it wouldn’t stay that way much longer. The Anomaly had attracted Big John’s attention on multiple levels, but if Denise had been a typical nine-to-fiver, she’d never have noticed the interwoven threads tying the event to something far more disconcerting. Jesus. It was insane to even think that something could be more terrifying than a singularity sitting at the center of the ATLAS detector, threatening to destroy Earth. But what she’d found while tugging on those threads filled her soul with a horror that crept into every idle thought, invading her dreams until she dreaded sleep.

  Because the Anomaly had occurred on Friday morning, November twenty-seventh, she’d missed the association, but Big John hadn’t. Here in America it had still been November twenty-sixth, Thanksgiving night. And what a night of activity that had been. That was the night that Jack Gregory had attacked the GPS satellite command center, uploading a signal that had effectively disabled most of the world’s nanite inoculations. It was the night that military personnel at Schreiver Air Force Base had found Eduardo Montenegro’s body, not far from where Jack had performed the uplink. It was also the night the government discovered that Dr. Donald Stephenson had participated in a number of unauthorized activities under the umbrella of the Rho Project, activities that included the horrifying experiments in the warrens beneath Henderson House and modifications to the nanites that made them programmable through an external signal via the GPS system.

  Big John had identified two other incidents that occurred at almost the same time. That Thanksgiving night, the alien Rho Ship, kept in a secret facility at Los Alamos National Laboratory, had lost all power, losing the camouflaging cloak and all its internal lighting. It was as if the thing had just suddenly died. Even more astoundingly, three gravitational wave detectors, ALLEGRO in Louisiana, EXPLORER in Geneva, and AURIGA in Legarno, detected gravitational waves of such magnitude that scientists initially dismissed the results. Later correlation with ATLAS detector data showed them to have been caused by the November Anomaly.

  For Big John, this series of apocalyptic events occurring nearly simultaneously had raised a red flag, one that tugged at Denise’s curiosity. Thus seduced, she had added a new priority intelligence requirement to Big John’s list, and yesterday Big John had delivered.

  A recently published paper by Dr. Frederick Botz, an obscure physics professor at Arizona State University, offered up a triangulation of the three gravitational wave observations that placed the origin of the event not at the ATLAS detector, but in the general vicinity of the New Mexico–Colorado border. Although the paper had drawn almost no attention in the scientific community, it had brought beads of cold sweat to Denise’s brow. Due to her long relationship with Big John, her mind had come to function in harmony with the machine. Like tumblers in a lock, the pieces clicked into place.

  Los Alamos. The gravitational event had originated at Los Alamos at the same time that the Rho Ship had died, just as the November Anomaly appeared in Meyrin, Switzerland. Everywhere she looked, Dr. Stephenson’s tentacles touched the surface. He was the common factor. Stephenson had been the first to open the Rho Ship. He had been in charge of all the research on alien technologies, behind the scheduled release to the public. Add to the pot the fact that every serious political opponent of the Rho Project had turned up dead. Then, on the night his plans came crashing down, the Rho Ship had died, somehow triggering a gravitational event detected across the world, possibly causing a quasi-stable singularity to form at the heart of the ATLAS detector.

  Now Dr. Stephenson was about to be exonerated and placed in charge of the scientific effort to save the planet from the November Anomaly. Of course all of this was speculation on Denise’s part. No one else would believe her even if she brought it to the NSA director’s attention. Besides, she didn’t relish the idea of going public with her allegations against Dr. Stephenson.

  But Big John had identified another anomaly, this time a statistical one. Through a correlation so mysterious that it had bypassed everyone else’s notice, Big John had identified a group closely connected to Dr. Stephenson’s current situation, a group for which the connection made no sense. That’s what drew Denise in so irresistibly. Score one for curiosity.

  Turning her attention back to the bank of LCD monitors, Denise finalized Big John’s new command.

  Highest priority intelligence requirement.

  Heather McFarland. Mark Smythe. Jennifer Smythe.

  Restricted access override...Denise Jennings...eyes only.

  Buried far beneath Chekhov, Russia, the spartan briefing room represented an insignificant fraction of the Russian General Staff’s wartime command post. The assemblage of military officers sat in total silence, a silence that the scientist who had just concluded his briefing dared not break.

  General Sergei Kharnov leaned sideways in his chair, his chin propped on his left hand at an angle that made it difficult to see his eyes through his bushy brown eyebrows. He didn’t trust the American, despite the fact that he was the most important Russian spy since Klaus Fuchs penetrated the Manhattan Project. Still there was no denying the quality of the scientific information he had provided to the Ministry of Defense. The American government’s furious reaction to Dr. Frell’s defection had held no surprises for Kharnov, coming as it did right after the news about Henderson House. That, and the tremendous effort the Russian government had thrown into smuggling Dr. Frell out of the US, should have convinced him of the man’s loyalty.

  But General Kharnov had a rule of thumb that had served him well throughout his long career. Never trust politicians or spies.

  A drop of water fell from a crack in the concrete ceiling to splash onto the corner of the table nearest the general, an occurrence so common in the huge facility that it normally attracted no attention. But against the backdrop of silence, the sound seemed preternaturally loud, just enough to finally rouse General Kharnov from his contemplation. He leaned forward once more.

  “Dr. Frell. We’ve all seen and heard your drawn-out presentation on the wonders of your research. But I want to cut through the sales pitch and ask you some very specific questions. And I expect to hear, from you, very specific answers. Do I make myself clear? Da?”

  At the far end of the room the American cleared his throat and answered in barely understandable Russian. “Yes, General. I understand.”

  “Three months you’ve been here. We set up a lab for you in this facility. Have you been able to recreate the Rho Project nanite fluid?”

  Dr. Frell paused. “Yes. I’m speaking of the original formula delivered to Africa.”

  “You made samples? Tested it?”

&nbs
p; “On animals. Yes.”

  “Why not human subjects?”

  “Risk. First we make sure it works on animals, then humans.”

  General Kharnov scowled. “You waste time. What are you doing here? Developing a cosmetic product? Stop being stupid. From now on, no animal tests. Tell Dr. Poranski how many subjects you need and they will be delivered. Clear?”

  Dr. Frell nodded, sweat beads popping from his brow despite the sixty-degree temperature maintained throughout the underground bunker complex.

  General Kharnov rubbed his palms together as if in anticipation of the next exchange. “New subject. What about the nanite formula you were using at Henderson House? Have you replicated it?”

  “No, sir, we have not. I directed our initial efforts here toward reproducing the successful first formulation. What we had at Henderson House was a failure.”

  “So you made no progress there?”

  “No. We made many advances. Unfortunately we failed to resolve the problems that arose from those advances within the time allotted us.” A frustrating response.

  “And if you were given more time?”

  Dr. Frell stared directly into General Kharnov’s eyes. “Given sufficient time, I believe I can deliver a formulation that can correct any human deficiency.”

  As much as Dr. Frell’s quibbling annoyed him, the man’s potential future successes meant that Kharnov would continue to tolerate the American scientist.

  “How much time would you say you need?”

  “Six months.”

  “Done.” General Sergei Kharnov paused. “But I have one more question before I let you return to your work.”

  “Yes?”

  “The formula you failed with at Henderson House. Can it be weaponized?”

  Dr. Frell paused, his eyes losing their focus for several seconds. “Well...yes, General. I believe there might be a way.”

  Heather sat beside Mark’s bed, holding his hand while he slept. He’d been unconscious for eighteen hours before awakening with a sharp headache, his bloodshot eyes giving mute testimony to the mind storm he’d endured. After managing to swallow some vegetable soup, he’d drifted into a fitful sleep. But as she held his hand, Mark’s face finally relaxed in peaceful repose.

  Since then, except for obligatory bathroom breaks, Heather hadn’t left his side. Jennifer had offered to help her, but Heather had declined, more for herself than because Mark needed her there. Seized by an irrational fear that he’d slip away forever, she couldn’t bear more than a few minutes of separation.

  In addition to Jen’s periodic visits, Jack had been in twice to check on Mark’s recovery. Heather had asked him about Robby, and he reported that the baby seemed to be doing fine. After they’d removed the alien headset, Robby had sought his mother’s breast, feeding and then falling sound asleep in her arms. Today, apart from being more playful and curious than usual, he’d shown no unusual symptoms from his trauma. Janet hovered over the child like a mama bear, alert for any sign of danger.

  Through the window, the pink evening sky darkened to purple. The chirps of birds in the trees outside Mark’s open window grew in volume as more and more of the creatures settled in for the night, each determined to outsing its neighbors.

  Heather reached out to turn on the lamp, its soft orange glow pushing the gathering shadows away from Mark’s bed. Somehow those shadows seemed to have acquired the thickness of San Francisco Bay fog swallowing the Golden Gate Bridge. As long as she was here, Heather wasn’t about to let that dark fog touch him.

  Heather shook her head to clear it. She no longer required sleep, but the stress of the last two days had worn her down to the point that she longed for the relief of sleep’s healing embrace.

  Suddenly Mark shifted, rapid eye movements indicating he’d entered a vivid dream state. Pain lanced through Heather’s fingers as Mark’s grip tightened. With a strong tug, she managed to pull her hand free from the iron grip, just as Mark awakened.

  Heather felt him enter her mind with a force greater than any she had experienced during their headset links. A gasp of surprise slipped from her lips as her gaze shifted to his face.

  Mark’s eyes had gone milky white.

  President Leonard Jackson sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, the bright television lights adjusted to balance the light from the window directly behind the president’s chair. He hated waiting almost as much as he hated giving speeches, but it had to be done.

  The cameraman nodded. On cue, the president leaned forward ever so slightly.

  “My fellow Americans, I come before you today to correct a wrong that has been done to one of our true heroes. I do not speak of a war hero, but of an American who has spent a lifetime of hard work, a lifetime of true brilliance, sacrificing everything in the hopes of bringing about a better world, a world free of the damaging impact of fossil fuels, a world free of horrible diseases like AIDS and cancer.

  “Late last year, this great American scientist found himself caught up in a maelstrom of disinformation, the victim of the most sophisticated con job ever conceived, framed for alleged crimes by a man the press has dubbed Jack the Ripper. This rogue operative conceived of and executed an operation so intricate in its attention to detail that, for months, it even deceived the US government, and in the midst of that deception, caused us to imprison the wrong man.

  “Dr. Donald Stephenson, deputy director of the Los Alamos National Laboratory, has been accused of conducting secret and horrifying experiments on helpless patients at the facility known as Henderson House and of making unauthorized modifications to the Rho Project’s nanite serum, allowing the nanites to be remotely programmed for nefarious purposes. However, after a thorough investigation, we have determined that these allegations are false.

  “Let me give you a brief overview of what Dr. Stephenson actually did instead of the propaganda to which we have all inadvertently succumbed.

  “It is true that a highly dangerous experimental nanite trial has been operating in the secret laboratories at Henderson House. What you haven’t been told is that this program was not originated by Dr. Stephenson, but by the chairman of the Henderson House Foundation, Dr. Anthony Frell. When Dr. Stephenson discovered that his serum was being misused in a wrongheaded attempt to regenerate missing limbs and correct genetic deficiencies, he made a special trip to Henderson House to see for himself exactly what was going on so that he could put a stop to it.

  “That fateful trip resulted in the now-famous picture taken by the Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative reporter Freddy Hagerman.”

  The president paused, placing his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers.

  “Now, let me be clear. Our strings have been pulled by a master manipulator and international criminal, the ultimate prodigy of our intelligence training program. I’m speaking of a brilliant, ruthless killer fueled by raging hatred for the very government that created him.

  “The final issue I want to clarify is the allegation that Dr. Stephenson made irresponsible or criminal modifications to the nanite suspension fluid distributed around the world. Dr. Stephenson did add a simple external interface to the nanites. However, far from what you have been told, this interface was a fail-safe mechanism. Its only purpose was to allow the nanites to be shut down in the unlikely event that something went wrong after they had been administered to the world’s population. The nanites are incapable of taking any other external command. The rest of their programming comes from the genetic code of the person to whom they have been administered.

  “By invoking the shutdown command across the GPS satellite link from Schreiver Air Force Base, Jack Gregory accomplished two critical parts of his terrorist agenda. He completed the frame-up of Dr. Donald Stephenson and ruined billions of dollars’ of work designed to free this world of some of its worst scourges.”

  The president picked up the water glass on his desk and took a sip before continuing.

  “As your president, I am here to make right the wr
ongs I have just described. First, I apologize directly to Dr. Donald Stephenson on behalf of the nation that owes him so much. Rather than go through all the red tape associated with judicial review, I hereby issue a complete pardon to Dr. Stephenson for any actions associated with his efforts on the Rho Project. I am pleased to announce that I have reinstated him as deputy director of the Los Alamos National Laboratory, something that I discussed with him in my office earlier today. In addition, I am appointing him as special United States scientific advisor to the European nuclear agency, CERN.

  “After consultations at the United Nations Headquarters in New York, I have also decided to restart the distribution of the original Rho Project nanotech formula in Africa, a continent with the most critical need for this medical breakthrough, and the one most harmed by Jack Gregory’s terrorist attack.

  “Lastly, I pledge to you, the American people, that I will not rest until I have brought to justice the assassin and terrorist known as the Ripper. As president of the United States, I bear full responsibility for having allowed our nation to be caught in his web of deceit, and I assure you, I will not be deceived again.

  “Thank you. May God watch over and guide each of us in the challenging days to come.”

  Heather stood over Mark’s bed, watching as he stretched his arms, sleep gradually releasing its hold on him. Opening his brown eyes, he smiled up at her. As disturbing as last night’s white-eyed invasion of her thoughts had been, seeing this morning’s smile in those eyes eased her concern.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said. “How you feeling?”

  “Had the strangest dreams. But right now, I’m starving.”

  Sitting up in bed, Mark threw off the covers, then, realizing that he was entirely naked, quickly pulled the sheet back.

  “Sorry. Guess I should throw on some clothes first.”