d4

by Sherrie Cronin

  ******

  Some days Mikkel was tired of the secrecy, and tired of being misunderstood. He was by nature an honest man, one with a generous heart that preferred to see the good in people. He thought that he was horribly suited to his current role, with its ongoing lies and requirement that he be looking over his shoulder at every turn.

  He would never have put himself in this position, of course, if his expertise hadn’t been so perfect and the need hadn’t been so dire. Damn his cousin Siarnaq. Damn the cold winter nights that he had spent looking at stars and dreaming of space. Damn the northern lights with their dancing magnetism that had inspired his first love of physics. And damn the damn Irishman who had walked into his office talking about the annihilation of the human race in 2352.

  That day, what had been an outlier of a probability to the Irishman, had turned into a life’s mission for Mikkel. He had left the world of Professor Carl Nygaard behind and embraced the slight chance to save his species. As Mikkel Nygaard, he now ran a stealth operation that involved dozens of scientists, psychologists, engineers and manufacturers who stayed hidden themselves as they planned one of the most daring missions of all time.

  Through it all, Mikkel had learned to be a better administrator, and even something of a leader. Surprisingly it was his almost off-handed decision early on to take point on the fundraising that had caused more grief than anything. That decision had initially been only a matter of efficiency, and of preserving secrecy. The small group amassed back in 2009 had no manpower to spare, and the fewer who understood their deepest motivations, the better.

  Yet the role of investor for Mikkel Nygaard had become his public persona, and over the past three years an ongoing rivalry with a fellow investor had taken on an importance that had not been predicted. Now it seemed like the effectiveness of Mikkel the financial wizard was far more vital to humanity’s survival than all of Dr. Nygaard’s considerable contributions to putting the human race into space.

  Mikkel understood the fine line he walked, how most decisions remained inconsequential and yet the rare innocuous one could turn out to have far reaching consequences. His psychic Irishman was of no use in predicting day-to-day outcomes of anything, but the man had an uncanny ability to tell when some small act of Mikkel’s had a reasonable chance of disturbing the far future.

  The choice to hide what they were doing was one such event. The secrecy was certainly an added burden, and it seemed to Mikkel to be an unnecessary one. But the Irishman had been adamant. Go public with this space program now and its odds of serving its ultimate function dropped to almost zero.

  Now the psychic had weighed in on another small decision. The red-haired computer girl who was becoming something of a nuisance would in fact turn out to be much more than that. She had injected herself into important decisions that would be made, and how she was dealt with would have far reaching consequences. Her effect could be very good or very bad. He was sure of it.

  The young woman needed to be given more information. An introduction to the situation that she had walked into was going to be arranged.

  ******

  Nell offered to buy lunch this time and Ariel happily accepted. She had to smile when she found out they were meeting at one of the best Japanese restaurants in Dublin. Nell had once again done her homework. Sushi was Ariel’s favorite.

  From the beginning of the conversation, Ariel had the distinct impression that it was her goodwill that was being sought this time, and she was puzzled. What did a worker bee like her have to offer someone like Nell?

  As the waiter fussed over them, Nell gushed and complimented and talked about the beauty of spring in Ireland and Ariel nodded and agreed and waited. Something was coming.

  “How are you when it comes to accepting things that are kind of, well, odd?” Nell finally asked. Ariel smiled to herself as the woman went on. “Ireland is full of stories, you know, not just of the sidhe, and of leprechauns and ghosts, but of all manner of spirits and magic powers. It’s part of who we are.”

  “I like that about you,” Ariel said.

  “Most people do. They think it makes us charming, and frankly we sell that image to the world. Tourism is a good bit of our economy, and on the whole we’re not a stupid group. Dig a little deeper, though, and we do have a pretty dark collective unconscious here. Our stories are often brutal, filled with trickery and treachery and great loss. The Irish love a good tragedy far more than they love a happy ending.”

  Ariel nodded. She guessed that this was going somewhere interesting.

  “So it’s no surprise that our heroes are so often tragic as well. Do you know much about Ireland’s past?”

  “No, I’m not much of a history buff to be honest. I don’t even know that much U.S. history.”

  “Well, it’s little loss,” Nell said. “Real history is full of horrible things, darker stories than even the Irish could concoct. And our last thousand years or so have been particularly brutal. Most outsiders don’t understand the extent to which our race was almost annihilated by our neighbors. But I want to talk about the time before then, when Irish kings and queens and monks and poets moved freely about the land and Ireland flourished.”

  “Okay.”

  “Around the year five hundred, not long after St. Patrick himself, there lived a great Irish man, a famous monk. He was wondrous in many ways and is still beloved here, probably third only to Saint Patrick and Blessed Bridget herself. His name was Cillian, although he was also called Colm Cille and even Saint Columba.”

  “Our Cillian is named after him?” Ariel guessed.

  “Of course, as are hundreds of Irish males. But ours is more than named after him, dear. In one of those odd quirks that are more common on this island than elsewhere, he is him. Not reincarnation, we don’t go for that here. I mean he embodies some of Cillian’s powers. He’s like his son or his spiritual heir. His parents had no idea when they named him, of course, but the saints must have guided them in picking his name. Cillian’s dad never learned what his boy can do or he might have appreciated him more. You see, Cillian is a prophet. He knows.”

  So that’s where this was going, Ariel thought. No wonder accepting this job in Ireland had made her head spin. She was fooking surrounded by people who saw the future. Was Nell wining and dining her to gain her acceptance or her silence?

  “He knows what?” Ariel wondered what type of seer Cillian was.

  “Like the Cillian of old, he can see a millennium ahead,” she said solemnly. “There is a lot of darkness to come, Ariel, a lot of horrible, awful things that lie far in the future. Cillian is trying to take the little he knows and do what he can for humanity. It’s a very hard road, and there is a small group of us working with him.”

  “Supposing even for a minute that I believe you, why would you want to tell me this?” Ariel asked.

  “You’ve caused Cillian worry. He thinks that you are too smart and too curious not to figure out that there is more to his story than that of a gambler who refuses to grow up. He is very good at reading people and he believes that you have a good heart. He thinks that if I tell you this, you will believe, you will leave him be and you will let him do what he needs to do. That’s all that either he or I ask of you. Don’t go looking for more.”

  Ariel let a sigh come out, and it was a long slow exhalation. She had tales of her own that she could tell, but should she? Responding with a confession of her own talents, or with what Jake and Toby guessed about Baldur, or what she herself knew to be true of Siarnaq—any one of those could lead to all kinds of complications and she could precall many of them without even trying.

  Cillian wasn’t asking her for information, merely to be left alone. That was good. She could always volunteer more information later, when the most likely outcomes of her actions might be more obvious to her. On the other hand, she could never take back any mess she might create by speaking up now.

  “Does he get much else in the way of detail? Closer in, I mean?”


  Nell shook her head. “Some, but usually he only sees events that are tied to this other time. He is very focused on it and he knows what he has to do and he’s doing it. He often asks me to speak for him like this, because he hates to talk to others of his gift. He is very self-conscious about it. We’re both trusting you, Ariel. Please. All I’m asking is that you overlook the odd about him, and go on about your life. It’s an easy request. Okay?”

  “You do know that another person could conclude that this seer thing was bullshit and that you guys were running some sort of scam and trying to keep me at bay,” Ariel remarked.

  “You’ll find nothing to make you suspicious that we’re causing harm to anyone,” Nell replied. “If you think you do, come to me. I can explain anything, but have been asked to tell you no more than you need to know. Even if you think I might be a little crazy. Can we count on your simple discretion?”

  Nell reached her hand out and put it over Ariel’s as she asked the question and for once Ariel did not withdraw her hand. She needed all the information that she could get.

  “I promise,” she said, as she noted the clear premory of a gnarled old man on a park bench waiting to meet someone to deliver a message. The man was Nell.

  “I may be back with more questions later,” Ariel said.

  “I’m sure you will be,” Nell replied.

  ******

  It took Ariel a while to get through all the pages that Toby had printed out for her, but by the time she was a little more than halfway through she realized that the premory of her agreeing to help Toby and y1 now had over a ninety-nine-percent chance of happening. The man was right—the evidence that Baldur was trying to do more than just get richer was compelling. He and his group had an advantage over the entire world of trading, and nothing in their ethical make-up obliged them to do anything but utilize it to its fullest. Would they stop short of destroying the very societies that fed them? Ariel wondered how much restraint the group could or would use once their plans were nearly complete. Absolute power and all that, she thought to herself.

  Keeping her job with Ullow could not possibly be more important than putting a stop to d4. She called Zane the next evening.

  In the middle of an innocuous chat about life, work and weather, she interjected the message for a mutual friend that she had made the decision to help any way she could. She also needed the friend to know that a programmer in her company agreed and had gathered compelling evidence of his own. Nothing new in his findings, but it was someone else reaching the same conclusion with slightly different data and she could provide more details. She wanted to know what to do next.

  Zane took the odd messages in stride and Ariel was pretty sure that her brother had been expecting something of the sort. Had this happened a few years ago, Ariel thought, Zane might well have been more inquisitive, but two years ago his own job had put him in danger, and now he seemed willing to accept that the less that was said the better.

  He was a good brother and a good friend. Perhaps she ought to confide in him about her premonitions. As far as Ariel knew, the men in her family lacked the odd sort of gifts that had been bestowed on her, her mother and her sister, but Zane was not without his own unusual talents. As a child he had developed extraordinary control over muscles of which most humans remained unaware, and as a result Zane could alter his body shape and facial features well beyond anything Ariel would have thought was possible. A year and half ago, he had let Ariel see what he could do. At Zane’s request, she had kept the information to herself, and had not brought it up since.

  Ariel thought of Nell, and the premonitions in which the woman appeared as other people.

  “Zane? Have you ever met anyone else who can do what you can with your appearance?”

  “No,” her brother said. “I mean, it’s not like I go around asking people about it or anything, but as far as I know I’m the only one. Why? Have you met somebody like me?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ariel said. “It would be one way of explaining a situation, that’s all.”

  “Well, if you have, I’d like to meet him,” Zane said.

  “Her,” Ariel said. “It’s a her. At least I think it is.”

  ******

  These days Baldur no longer needed his quick visions for avoiding the fists of his brother, or of anyone else. In fact, he didn’t use his premonitions for much of anything but stock trades. Occasionally a flash of this or that would surprise him, and then he might manage to avoid a minor car accident or bite of unpleasant food. It was mildly useful.

  When the phone rang at the end of the day in late May of 2012, he reached for it instinctively and then stopped. He was too busy to take random calls and should let the caller leave a message. His receptors worked far better now with electronic media than they did with direct human touch, probably thanks to all of the practice, Baldur thought. He had a flash of an unexpected and helpful conversation as he let go of the receiver. Very well. He reached back for it and picked up the phone.

  “I too wish to stop a man named Mikkel Nygaard,” the voice on the other end said without preamble. The accent was heavy Danish and something else as well.

  “Who is this?” Baldur could appreciate the bluntness but was hardly willing to trust a disembodied voice by revealing anything of his own plans.

  “I am a Greenlander who is a former friend of Mikkel’s, from back when he used his real name, Carl. I am a man who does not like what he sees being done and who wants to stop further damage from happening. Can we meet?”

  Well, this was a pleasant surprise, Baldur thought. “Yes, I suspect we can and should,” he said. “Tell me more.”

  12. Springtime on the Golf Course

  Eoin regarded Baldur with the same wariness he showed to his neighbor’s Doberman. He tried to keep his distance and never assumed that a meeting would be friendly. When Baldur called to arrange an outing together in late May, Eoin agreed because he had no other reasonable choice.

  Baldur insisted that the two men meet for a round of golf at an exceptionally exclusive Dublin club. Eoin neither enjoyed golf nor played it particularly well, and he was pretty sure that Baldur knew both of those things.

  It was an overcast day with a surprisingly brisk breeze. An impeccably dressed Baldur arrived early and secured the golf cart. His state-of-art clubs and fashionable bag almost glowed with style, while Eoin’s old equipment slunk down next to it in embarrassment.

  Baldur assured Eoin that he’d been looking forward to checking out this particular golf course for a long while now, and thought it was the perfect opportunity for the two men to discuss d4 and its current aims and past successes. Eoin was sure that there was going to be more than that involved and that it was going to be nowhere near as pleasant as Baldur made it sound.

  He was down two strokes after the first hole when Baldur mentioned that the situation with Mikkel needed modification.

  “I don’t know how he is managing to do almost as well as I am, but your leniency with allowing him occasional access to my software improvements is going to have to stop. Even with them I don’t know how he does so well. He’s nipping at my heels, Eoin, and I don’t want to share with him any more. At all. Ever.”

  “No problem,” Eoin said. “He does have our best commercial products, you know, and he can probably continue to do quite well with them. Why be so upset at his success? I mean isn’t there enough money out there for the both of you?”

  Baldur stopped the cart and gave Eoin a long, hard stare. “That is a question that should never have to be asked.”

  “Right. It is not enough that you win. He must also lose.” Eoin said it as a statement, not a question.

  “Everyone else must also lose,” Baldur said, as he pulled out a club and walked towards the tee.

  “Try not to be such a charmer,” Eoin muttered after him.

  “I like playing golf with you because I don’t have to pretend to be charming,” Baldur said quietly just after he executed a perfect s
wing. Then as he walked back to cart he added, “Without all that superficiality, I can concentrate so much better on my game.”

  Baldur was already up five strokes at the end of the second hole, and Eoin thought seriously about just offering to caddy for him and let him play the course by himself, but his instincts told him that life would somehow be only worse if he rolled over and died so easily. He took a few deep breaths and tried to remember that he’d been a decent athlete once himself, even if this hadn’t been his sport. He managed to pick his play up a little, and was down only six strokes by the end of the seventh hole when Baldur brought the conversation back to business.

  “I need to know more about Mikkel. I’m told that his training is in some kind of engineering, not economics at all. I’ve heard that he goes by his middle name now, perfectly legal of course, but it separates him a little from his past. Is he hiding something? Why?”

  Eoin was rubbing sunscreen on his face and hands, being careful to keep it out of his eyes. Crying, no matter what its cause, would do nothing to enhance his stature on this already miserable day.

  “Ariel pointed out Mikkel’s background to me a month or two ago,” he said. “It struck me as a little odd, too, but a man can change his interests and his image if he wants. I never really looked into it—what was the point? And you don’t ask Mikkel questions, you just don’t. He makes you look approachable.”

  “Yes,” Baldur said. “So I’ve been told. Nonetheless, I want you to learn more about what he is up to. See if you can get anything out of him.”

  Eoin rolled his eyes. “Our arrangement does not include me having to gather intel on other investors for you.”