The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  “We can trust that she is loyal to the Society,” I say. “And while I have long questioned her identity and motives, I do believe her when she insists her intent lies within the safety of Timelines.”

  There is that word again, associated with the Librarian: intent.

  Mary remains miffed, but she offers no counterargument.

  “We have less than an hour before we depart for Wonderland.” I give them no quarter. “Not only are we tasked with hunting down any Chosen present, we will be hunting for the Queen of Hearts. I do not know what you have read or heard about her in all of these ridiculous stories about Wonderland, but I can assure you that she is utterly lethal, especially when in possession of her battle-axe. In addition to this, the war between the Courts is going badly. We cannot enter such a fray divided, not if we wish to achieve any level of success. If any of you do not think you can work properly with the others, I beg you to remain at the Institute. I refuse to act as your governess whilst in Wonderland.”

  Indignation burns Mary’s face. Marianne’s chin, however, drops. Jack beams as if he was presented with a shiny award.

  “I do not know what we will face. I cannot know if we will be successful. Nobbytown’s citizens have fallen prey to these suspected Chosen. I am still an exiled queen, and there are many who will gladly take my head to a number of monarchs. This is not your standard mission, where a catalyst must be stolen. We are hunting those who play God and maker, who wish to destroy worlds. Who wish to destroy us. Fighting between ourselves will only hasten their goals.”

  Jack drops to a knee. He snatches my hand and manages to press a kiss against my knuckles before I yank it away. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Your Highness.”

  “It’s Majesty, you fool.” But Mary’s temper has lessened considerably. “I’m not kissing your hand, Alice, even if you are right.”

  I clap her shoulder. “I would never ask you to. Come. Let us finish our preparations. Wonderland awaits.”

  “GET. YOUR. HANDS. OFF OF ME!”

  When neither Brom nor I do so, Victor’s renewed fury drums an ugly beat against my heart. How is he still going? How is he not hoarse?

  My eardrums throb, but I refuse to put in plugs, even though the co-pilot offered them an hour after we left New York City by private plane. Confined to the small bedroom, Victor shouted the entire flight to Miami. Once the plane gassed up, he broke free and wrenched open the exit door. Brom and I barely managed to tackle him before he jumped. Our departure was delayed as a sedative was ordered, but he destroyed that, too, before we could even inject the damn stuff. Then, once he saw the stash of protocol we brought, he crushed half of that supply.

  The bedroom, we discovered, was trashed.

  His foreign eye continues to shift between blue and black. He cries, he screams, he pleads, he begs. He alternates between sounding reasonable and like a stranger.

  It killed Brom to have Victor restrained again, but after a number of well-placed threats and punches, it was necessary. Neither of us could physically restrain him the entire flight to Santiago, Chile, and by the time we gassed up again and were on our way to Punta Arenas, I never wanted to sedate my brother more—even if just to shut him the hell up.

  “It’s okay, son,” Brom says as he attempts to offer Victor a drink of water.

  “They’re coming!” Victor strains against the cuffs holding him to his seat. “You’re going to get us all killed, you stupid prick! LET ME GO! I’ll kill you, do you hear me? I’ll kill all of you before I let them get to you!”

  I can’t handle the helplessness in our father’s eyes any better than the same feeling raging about in the pit of my stomach.

  Victor’s mania is worse than I’ve ever seen before. Worse than I ever thought was possible.

  I attempt to coax him away from Victor. “We’re almost to Puerto Williams.”

  Gnashing teeth nearly sink into Brom’s hand, but I yank him back just in time. We hover nearby, reluctant to stray too far from Victor more for sentimentality and worry rather than practicality.

  The trip from Puerto Williams to the research station in Antarctica is just as exhausting as all of the others. By the time we gear up and are escorted into the station, I’m the one out of gas. We’re greeted inside by a middle-aged woman and an older man as our escorts attempt to hold on to a thrashing Victor.

  The woman, bundled in a wool sweater that nearly reaches her knees, offers my father a hand. A thick silver streak courses through her dark corkscrewed hair. “Mr. Van Brunt, Jane Doen. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to finally meet you in person.”

  It’s a carefully chosen pseudonym to protect her identity within the station.

  Victor suddenly shouts, “What if she’s one of them? You idiots! Can’t you see? Look at how the spirits hover around her. She’s under their control!”

  I can’t help but wonder if he actually sees something we can’t with that creepy eye of his.

  Doing his best not to acknowledge this latest outburst, my father says, “Please, it’s as I said before. Call me Brom. These are my sons. Finn,” he motions to me, and then to my brother, “and Victor.”

  No pseudonyms for us, and I don’t know if that is smart or foolish.

  Doen’s smile reveals crooked yet pleasing teeth. Something is off about her demeanor, though, like there’s a thin veneer hiding something beneath. “Very well. Brom.” It’s my turn to shake hands with the scientist. Her grip is strong, self-assured. “Finn. It is a pleasure to meet you. I hope you don’t mind me admitting that Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was one of the first books in English that I read when I first came to this Timeline. I suppose I hold it in affectionate regards for that reason.”

  I’m dying to ask, “And just what Timeline did you come from?” But I don’t. One of the rules for coming here was that we don’t push for personal information. Shady? Oh, yes. “It’s good to meet you,” I say anyway. “Thanks for allowing us to come on such short notice.”

  “They’re going to cut me open.” Victor struggles to escape his escorts’ hold. “Like butchers. They’re going to steal me right out of this body. Blood on your hands!” When that gets no reaction, he sags. “Dad, Dad.” His voice drops, turns reasonable, even. “You aren’t really going to let them dig into Finn’s head, are you? Don’t let them hurt him.” To me, “Finn, let me—let me protect you. Who knows what these butchers are going to do?”

  He has a point.

  What we don’t have is another choice. “It’ll be okay,” I tell him, and he resumes thrashing. One of the escorts leans in too close and gets his nose nearly bitten off.

  Dr. Doen motions to her colleague as several men run in to aid my brother’s escorts. “Allow me to introduce Dr. Jean Biche. His work in psychiatry and neurology is outstanding. We are thrilled to have him here for a few months.”

  It’s another carefully chosen pseudonym.

  Brom and I shake this doctor’s hand, too. While his grip is not as strong as Doen’s, it’s still filled with confidence. “What a pleasure it is to meet the Van Brunt family. Allow me to thank you for all that you do for,” his voice drops to a whisper, “Timelines.”

  “You must be exhausted,” Doen says. “Let’s get you settled and then we’ll discuss your situations.”

  An hour later, Brom and I are in a viewing deck located behind a glass window separating us from a small, clean laboratory. Victor is strapped to a large chair—or is it bed? It looks like a chair-bed, to be honest. He’s entirely out of control: screaming and cursing and generally scaring the shit out of anyone who dares to come close. One of the guys who helped secure him to the chair lost a chunk of his ear, another a piece of his cheek. Worse, Victor spat the pieces back, taunting the men.

  I don’t think I’ve ever prayed so hard as I have today. This has to work. Please, God. Let this work.

  Doen and Biche are part of a medical research consortium whose members hail from dozens of Timelines. Shadowy, at times possibly unethical, the
group strives toward cutting-edge practices they hope will better the inhabitants of different Timelines but occasionally come at the cost, too. Human trials, from Brom’s report during the flights over, are not uncommon. Deaths from failed drug trials or operations aren’t, either. And not just a couple deaths, but dozens across the years. Hundreds, even. If one counts wars, thousands. Millions. The consortium dabbles in biological weapons as well as cures, and while a lot of their actions, at least, the ones I read about, rub harshly against my morals, these people are pretty much our only hope right now.

  When I’d asked my father why two members of this so far nameless (to me) consortium were holed up in an Antarctic research base, I was unnerved to discover that he really didn’t have an answer. Bottom line, it’s assumed they’ve been working on something and wanted to test it out, and felt an isolated base would be the way to go. The fact that they’d stepped out of the shadows to ask us about the Chosen is worrisome, but if they think they’ve got some kind of solution to rapture, I’m ready to listen. While their true goals here remain a mystery, both researchers have legitimately done some groundbreaking research in neurology and brain studies.

  What kind of brain studies, I wish I knew. Pushing the envelope and asking Doen and Biche didn’t offer any further illumination. Instead, I got a sharply offered reminder that, if I’m interested in their treatments, I must adhere to our agreements. So I shut up. I’m a selfish enough bastard, an idealistic one, too, because both my brother and I are needed in the game during our quest for the Piper, and this is our only shot.

  “Do you trust them?” I ask Brom as Doen fills a syringe in the next room. Biche is nearby, fiddling with some kind of machine. Someone is undoubtedly listening in, but as neither of us agreed to not talk to one another about the doctors, I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think about our conversation.

  Arms crossed and feet planted apart, Brom continues to stare through the glass. When he says nothing, I try a different tactic. “How long have you known about this consortium?”

  “A while,” is his curt answer.

  “Why all the secrets?” Maybe it’s because of my nerves, but irritation flares hot and bright. “From her objections, it sounds as if the Librarian knows quite a bit about them. You know about everybody. Why are you keeping it from the rest of us?”

  More importantly, why are you keeping it from me?

  A burst of annoyed air shoots from his nose. “Finn, there are a lot of things about the worlds that aren’t cut and dry. Our job at the Society isn’t necessarily to serve as watchdogs for different Timeline organizations, especially those comprised of people from multiple Timelines who willingly band together. We are, officially, the record keepers of Timeline designations. We are also responsible for the retrieval and storage of catalysts. In order to ensure proper records, we maintain communications between Timelines and ourselves. There are certain groups, such as the Janeites, who willingly chose to act as a bloc in its association with the Society. There are others that do not. This group is one of them.”

  Doen places an IV in Victor’s arm. I can’t hear his response, but as the glass before us shudders, I have to assume it was harsh.

  “That doesn’t explain why you haven’t told me about this group. Or, hell, any of the others I bet you’ve kept secret. If you expect me to run the Society one day, I need to know about this shit.”

  His smile is thin. “You will become the next director. There’s no if. We all have our roles to play, Finn. This one happens to be yours.”

  “Then why keep me in the dark?”

  Several bags filled with liquid are hung upon an IV stand next to Victor. One of Doen’s assistants, the one missing a chunk of his ear, attaches one to the tubing in my brother’s arm.

  “Despite what you may be thinking, I do not know much about this particular organization, Finn.” Brom might as well be made of stone as he watches what the assistants are doing to Victor. “They are far more aware of our existence than we are of theirs.” A muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Fringe organizations such as this one typically fall into the Librarian’s purview. She has kindly kept me up-to-date on them.”

  I fully turn toward him as Biche straps my brother’s head to the back of the chair. “What purview?”

  “When I was younger, and Gulliver held the Society’s reins, I was in the same boat as you.” The tick twitches once more. “There are . . . promises that must be given to those who give their life to the running of the Society. Promises that cannot be broken without consequences. Promises,” he grits out between clenched teeth, “that are sacrosanct. These promises are extracted when an oath is sworn to uphold the Society’s mission. You’ll make the same someday, and when you do, you’ll understand why there are levels of secrecy that are required.”

  “That’s a bullshit answer, Dad, and you know it.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts. “I might have said the same thing to my mentor more than once.” Before I can respond, he continues, “The Society’s relationship with the Librarian is . . . complex. While I have no doubts about her loyalty, and in fact consider her to be a valued friend and colleague, she is not necessarily beholden to the same rules as the rest of us. She willingly chooses to keep tabs on various organizations, so that the Society is unofficially informed of their existences in the case that if any of them threaten the safety of catalysts, we can attend matters.”

  Dr. Doen inserts the nib of a golden-filled syringe into Victor’s IV.

  “Is she not beholden to the same promises or oaths you are? Or the rest of us?”

  He considers this for a long moment as one of the assistants in the other room shave the remaining bits of hair covering Victor’s scalp. Will they be shaving my head, too? I mean, I’m not really a vain bastard, but I’ve also never considered going bald.

  “Yes and no.”

  I sigh. “Another bullshit answer.”

  “And yet,” he says mildly, “it is the best I can provide.”

  I met the Librarian a few days after I first came to the Institute. She was mysterious, beautiful, and surprisingly kind to a punk-ass kid like me. I liked that she didn’t have any expectations, nor did she try to mold me into something I wasn’t cut out to be, like how Aunt Polly or the Widow Douglas and her sister did. She and Katrina were close, sharing daily tea and biscuits together. Brom joined them occasionally, and when he did, he would drag Victor and me along with him for what they would call family time.

  But that was it. The Librarian was inexplicably family.

  I was sixteen when I first asked her what Timeline she was from. She laughed and clucked me under the chin, telling me that someday, I’d know—but that particular day wasn’t someday yet. There were always whispers going around the Institute, where folks tried to figure out who she was, but none of the guesses stuck. Over the years, I’ve heard people call her a rani, a queen, a princess, a djinn, a psychic, and/or a runaway slave. Her ability to know things that others didn’t spooked nearly everyone, but as it also always benefitted them, she was excused.

  The Librarian cried over Katrina’s death and locked herself into the Museum for over a week. Afterward, she nearly smothered Victor and me with questions about our health and mental states. She assigned herself as the official Brom-watcher, ensuring he ate enough, got enough sleep, and took care of himself.

  She never ages. Her hair remains ebony, her face remains unlined. She has never let her anger touch any person within the Society. She has never failed us on any mission.

  I’ve always been able to see why Alice is suspicious of the Librarian, but . . . she’s been family, even if it shook me up to discover Brom knows what her real name is.

  “There is time for answers,” Brom says quietly. “Right now, let’s get our boy back.”

  Victor’s ceased thrashing about. He’s struggling to keep his eyes from drooping, but he’s losing. Doen waits until they shut completely before injecting not one but ten more pre-prepared mul
ticolored syringes into his IV.

  Shit, can a person even handle all of that?

  Biche brings over a rolling cart holding the machine he’d been fiddling with earlier. It’s not too big, maybe the size of a fishing tackle box. He extracts what appears to be a pair of earbuds, plugs them into the machine, flips a switch, and then inserts them into Victor’s ears.

  My blood goes cold. Will I be going through this, too?

  One of the assistants uses these godawful medieval-looking clamps to pry Victor’s eyes open so they can stay that way. Another washes down the top of his head with rubbing alcohol and then adds a small coating of a clear jelly. I nearly lose my lunch when two large electrodes bearing needles are inserted into his skull.

  “Are these guys scientists or torturers?!”

  Brom grabs my arm before I do something stupid, like wrench the damn door open. “Let them finish. If they don’t . . . We don’t know what might happen.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” It’s an explosion, and rude as hell to say to one’s father, but I can’t help it. “They just rammed spikes into his brain! They just injected him with a shitton of drugs!”

  “They had a reason,” he says, as if he’s trying to convince himself of it, too, “or they wouldn’t have done it.”

  I watch in horror as Victor’s chair is rotated to face two silver pillars stationed near a white wall. Another pair of needles are inserted into the base of his neck, on either side of his spinal column. Doen injects a final syringe into Victor’s IV and then signals Biche. An assistant flips off the lights, and suddenly, the silver pillars roar to life. Beams of colored light shoot between them, forming . . . a movie? Pictures waver on the light beams. Flashes and flashes of moving pictures that change so fast, I can’t catch what they are.

  Jesus. This is some science fiction horror shit if I’ve ever seen it. These aren’t just scientists. These are mad scientists.

  Victor’s body convulses. Blood trickles from the spikes in his skull; smoke sizzles from the machines. My brother’s mouth opens into a silent scream.