“You can take it up with Colette in the morning,” the older agent said. Then something caught his ear. He walked to the end of the dock, drawing his weapon. The younger agent followed him. “Do you hear that? Sounds like a boat motor.”
Following his partner’s lead, the younger agent readied his rifle. “I can’t see a thing through this fog.”
The two of them listened to the sound as it grew louder. The boat emerging out of the fog was smaller than they had expected. “Stop!” the older agent shouted. “Stop, or we’ll shoot.” The boat was close enough now for them to see that it was empty. They both lowered their weapons, confounded. It bumped into the dock, its motor still running. “That’s weird. Call it in,” the older agent said.
As the younger agent took out his PCD and started walking back to shore, he heard a muffled thump. Turning, he saw his partner lunge forward and fall into the lake. The young agent rushed to help him but was stopped by a sharp pain in his side. The last thing he saw was someone in a black diving suit.
The howling of the coyotes grew louder as the intruder pulled himself out of the water. With his gun still drawn, he walked to the end of the dock and made sure that the young agent was dead. He rolled the body off the deck and into the water, next to the floating body of his partner. Then he pulled his PCD from the water-tight compartment of his wetsuit and pressed a few buttons, and the boat’s motor stopped running. After replacing his PCD in the pocket of his wetsuit, the man lowered himself into the water, grabbed each of the WCF agents by an arm, and, staying close to the dock, waded closer to shore. The dock led to a utility house adjacent to the steps leading to the Château’s lakeside entrance. But that was not going to be his means of entry. There was another way into the dungeons of Château Dugan.
A few meters before he reached the shore, he ducked under the dock and maneuvered himself through the support beams, struggling at times to maintain control of the agents’ bodies. He came to a steel-barred door, similar to those found in old-fashioned jail cells. The cold lake water flowed freely through the iron bars. He pulled from the pocket of his wetsuit a brass key. But when he pressed on the door’s handle, he found it unlocked. Returning the key to his chest pocket, he opened the door and pushed the bodies through the doorway before entering the dark tunnel himself. He took out his PCD and attached it to his left wrist, pressing buttons until the body suit he was wearing began to glow, providing ample light. He pressed more buttons on his PCD, and the image of a hand-drawn map was displayed. He’d been warned that the secret tunnels under the estate were like a rat’s maze, where a person could easily get lost. He shut the iron door and proceeded.
After a series of left and right turns, the man stood in front of a brick wall spanning the width of the narrow tunnel. The man reached down and ran his hands along the lower portion of the wall below the water line. He took a deep breath and submerged himself. A moment later, he popped out of the water on the other side of the wall. He cleared his eyes and saw that he was at the bottom of the Château’s well. He intensified the light from his suit until he could see the top, which he ascertained was twenty meters above him. A narrow spiral staircase ran up the interior. Using the wall as a support, he carefully climbed the slippery, mold-covered steps. After about three minutes, he reached the top of the well and slung himself over the edge. He had made it unnoticed into the dungeons.
The luminosity from his suit filled the large circular area, where eight iron doors lined its circumference; the handles of each door had been removed. There was security tape across each doorway, indicating that the WCF had searched them all.
The man projected another hand-drawn map from his PCD. He zoomed in on the configuration of the eight doors and the nearby staircase. A red marker indicated that the room he was interested in was three doors to the right of the staircase. He walked over and ripped off the security tape. He pushed the door open, its hinges squeaking as he entered. There was a musky, damp smell in the air.
The man walked across the stone floor, past a couple of metal buckets and a metal chair, toward the northeast corner of the room. Once there, he took a magnet out of his pocket. Starting at the floor, he slowly ran it up the corner of the wall until it was drawn to a particular spot one meter off the ground. He pulled back the magnet, and the stone it attracted slid from the wall, causing a hidden door to his left to open. The man left the magnet in place and walked through the doorway, causing lights to come on. A table was at the center of the room, and the walls were lined with stainless-steel shelves and boxes and other items. The man grabbed a Gore-Tex bag from beneath the table and squatted down in front of one of the shelves. On the lower shelf, he saw ten stacks of electronic bearer bonds, EBBs. One by one, he placed each stack of forty in the bag. After the Great Disruption, paper money became less popular, but everyone agreed on the need for some form of currency that could not be manipulated by unscrupulous governments. The result: EBBs, palm-sized pieces of glass that could be micro-encoded with any desired amount of Universal Credits by sanctioned central banking authorities. The EBBs could not be tracked, and whoever possessed them held claim to them without question.
After the man had put all of them into the bag, he went over to another shelf, where he found a large silver case with a security keypad attached to it. He grabbed the case and placed it on the ground. The man typed a series of numbers on the keypad, and the case opened. Inside was the prize he was looking for: nine leather-bound books and a blue journal. Satisfied, he closed the lid, put the case into the bag alongside the EBBs, and zipped it closed. He pulled from his chest pocket a small aerosol can and sprayed it all over the bag, paying special attention to its zipper. The green foam quickly dried into a rubber-like coating, making the bag waterproof. He returned the can to his chest pocket, swung the bag over his shoulder, and left the hidden room. He pushed the dislodged stone back into place, watching as the door to the hidden room closed. Then he removed the magnet from the wall.
The man made his way back to the well and down the slippery stone stairway. Once again, he ducked through the opening in the well wall to the other side. The waterproof bag floated alongside him as he backtracked through the tunnels and returned to the iron-barred door. He pushed aside the bodies of the two dead agents, then closed the barred door and this time locked it with the brass key. He quickly waded to the end of the dock and swung the large bag into the boat before climbing in himself. He started the motor and sped onto the lake, disappearing into the thickening fog. He heard coyotes howling in the distance.
8
You will never be bigger or smaller than what you do.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
NEW CHICAGO, 6:10 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 20, 2070
Mr. Perrot waited anxiously for an update on Jamie’s condition, but neither he nor Jasper had heard from Logan or Valerie in the last hour, and his PCD calls to them hadn’t gone through because of a disruption of the communication network in Mexico’s Central Plateau. All they could do was wait and continue diligently to prepare for the commemoration to keep their minds occupied, something Mr. Perrot was clearly still struggling with. The news of Jamie’s injury, the rash of earthquakes, the unexpected emergence of Madu Shata—it seemed strange, if not ominous, for them all to happen at once.
“Jamie will be fine,” Jasper said, alert to Mr. Perrot’s consternation. “No sense worrying about something we can’t control.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Perrot replied. He put the lid back on a box that he’d been rummaging through. “I haven’t found anything in these boxes that is worth sending to the commemoration. Does Logan have any more of Cassandra’s possessions here?”
“Yes, there’s much more in the vault, along with his mom’s mosaics.”
Jasper walked to a solid metal door near the corner of the work room, typed a series of numbers onto a keypad, and then placed his eye in front of the retina scanner. An extended beep sounded, and the lock on the door disengaged. Mr. Perrot followed Jasper in
to a neatly organized cement-fortified vault, which was half the size of the work room.
“We moved all of Mrs. Ford’s stuff from Logan’s house a few weeks ago. Art stuff in front of us. Files, books, and other office stuff over to the left. Jewelry, trinkets, and other valuables are in the secondary safe to the right. But you’ll need Logan to get into that. He is the only one with access.”
Mr. Perrot walked straight ahead. A smile came to his face. “These are Cassandra’s mosaics. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them.”
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” Jasper said. “Three of them are headed to the commemoration. It’s going to be a mosaic extravaganza! Logan plans to display the rest here at the studio.”
Mr. Perrot chuckled at Jasper’s exuberance, then turned to the mosaics, set up on eight easels. One depicted three dolphins swimming in the ocean. Another showed a woman gazing into a mirror. Mr. Perrot moved closer to a third mosaic, which was roughly half a meter tall and the same wide. “This one is my favorite. It took Cassandra more than a year to make it.” Two trees stood on top of a hill in some far-off imaginary land. One was tall, the other much smaller and situated in the foreground. “I just love how majestic these trees look,” Mr. Perrot said, running his fingers over the many small, multicolored tiles. “This scene is from one of the Chronicles stories, you know.”
Jasper shook his head. “Which story is that?”
Mr. Perrot turned to Jasper with an incredulous look. “You young people really need to bone up on your history. The world rose from the ashes of the Great Disruption because of the Chronicles and all the wonderful stories in the books.” Mr. Perrot turned back to the mosaic, shaking his head in mock disgust. “Everyone should read the fable of the Golden Acorn. What are they teaching you in school these days, if not that?”
Jasper walked over and stood in front of the seventh and most abstract mosaic of the group, which was just more than half a meter tall and approximately three times as wide. “Logan told me that his mother never explained to him what this mosaic depicted,” Jasper said, tilting his head from side to side and stepping back to try to figure it out. “It looks like a broken dish or something.”
Mr. Perrot looked at the mosaic. “Yes, that one is a real head scratcher. Cassandra always taunted me for not being able to discern its meaning. As far as I know, she never told anyone, except perhaps Camden.”
Jasper shrugged, giving up on interpreting the mosaic. “So what are we looking for?”
“Ideally, items from the days of the first Council,” Mr. Perrot said. “Anything that might shed new light on the experiences or accomplishments of the original Council members. We can start with those,” he added, motioning to a set of boxes stacked against the wall.
They were filled with file folders, books, art supplies, and other knickknacks. Jasper started rummaging through plastic containers that held an endless supply of arts-and-crafts materials. Mr. Perrot uncovered a sturdy, heavy metal box that contained a trove of mosaic tiles of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Jasper found a box with some thin circular objects that shone when they caught the light. “What are these?” he asked, holding one up.
“Those are DVDs,” Mr. Perrot answered with a chuckle. “That is how the world once distributed its music and movie entertainment.”
Jasper gave the disk a quizzical look and tossed it back into the box.
“Here we go,” Mr. Perrot said, pulling out a box of newspaper articles. “These are from the New Chicago Broadcaster, dated May 15, 2037, a few months after we came to Chicago.” He leafed through a stack of clippings. “After the Great Disruption, paper publishing was the only way to disseminate information. All the years of converting paper to digital went out the door in ten short months. It looks like Cassandra kept everything she could find on the activities of the Council.” Mr. Perrot looked at the dates on another set of clippings. “These are more recent, from August 2052.”
“That’s about the time the Broadcaster went back to an all-digital format and the Akasha Vault came online,” Jasper said, then gave Mr. Perrot a big grin. “See, I know some history.”
While Mr. Perrot began to read some of the articles, Jasper struggled to drag something that looked like an old sea chest away from the wall. Mr. Perrot stopped to assist him. The chest was made of wood that looked distressed from age. There were two leather handles on each side and another attached to the lid. Together they moved it to the middle of the room. There was no lock on its tarnished brass latch. Jasper eagerly raised the lid, and the two of them peered inside with the anticipation of pirates who had just opened a long-lost treasure chest. Jasper removed a green and yellow checked blanket that covered the chest’s contents.
“That was Cassandra’s blanket when she lived in the forest with the Forgotten Ones,” Mr. Perrot said. “Logan made use of it when he was a baby. Even my Valerie used it for a time.” Jasper set the blanket aside and removed an old oil lamp, along with a bundle of pens and pencils bound with a rubber band. Then Jasper removed something that brought a reminiscing smile to Mr. Perrot’s face. “That’s Cassandra’s satchel. When we all were on the Council and lived in Washington, she used to carry this with her wherever she went.”
Jasper laughed. “So that’s why Logan carries his backpack all over creation. It’s a genetic trait!” Mr. Perrot chuckled in agreement. Jasper opened the satchel’s flap and pulled out an old wooden bowl and a tarnished silver spoon. “Why would she keep these?”
“For remembrance,” said Mr. Perrot, taking them from Jasper. “This was the bowl and spoon that Cassandra used when she lived with the Forgotten Ones.” He rubbed the tip of the spoon with his thumb to see if any of the tarnish would come off. “She kept them because they reminded her of how precious and fragile life could be. The bowl and spoon reminded her not to take for granted even one day or a single meal.”
Jasper ran his fingers along a series of small nicks on the bowl’s side. “Looks like it’s been through a war.”
“In a way, it has,” Mr. Perrot said. “Cassandra put those marks there purposefully. Each one represented a day without food.”
“Sir,” Jasper said then, looking at Mr. Perrot respectfully, “you need to write down all these stories. They’re a lot more interesting than the bland history lessons they give us in school. Maybe more young people would be inspired by history if they heard the more human side of it.”
Mr. Perrot smiled. “Let’s see what else is in this satchel.”
“I’m serious,” Jasper said, setting the bowl and the spoon on the floor. He reached back in and took out a rectangular silver device, which easily fit into his hand. He also removed a handful of small tube-like objects. “These look interesting,” he said, holding them out to show Mr. Perrot.
“I can’t believe she kept it,” Mr. Perrot said, astonished, taking the silver device from Jasper. “This is Cassandra’s voice recorder. While Logan’s father kept a written journal, his mother kept an oral one.”
Jasper held up a fistful of the small copper and black tubes. “What are these things?”
“Those are the batteries for this recorder,” Mr. Perrot said.
“I wonder if it still works.” Jasper inspected it. He pressed the Play button, but nothing happened.
“After all this time, the batteries must be dead,” Mr. Perrot said. Jasper opened a small slot on the side of the recorder and pulled out a thin piece of black plastic about two centimeters wide and a little longer. “That’s the old-style memory card where the recordings were stored. Are there any more in Cassandra’s satchel?” Mr. Perrot was pensive for a moment. Jasper turned the bag upside down and shook it. Two more batteries fell to the ground. “With all the recordings I saw Cassandra make, she must have had a whole slew of these memory chips. I wonder if they stole them when they—” Mr. Perrot caught himself before saying any more.
“Who stole what?” Jasper asked.
Mr. Perrot didn’t have time to answer the question. “We need to find a wa
y to listen to the contents of this chip,” he said. “If we can get it working, this is sure to provide an important historical account of life right after the Great Disruption.”
Jasper thought for a moment, then rose to his feet and walked over to a shelf. “We could try the Uni-P,” Jasper said, connecting the leads of the Universal Power Device, known as a Uni-P, to the recorder’s battery compartment. Jasper took the memory chip back from Mr. Perrot and inserted it into the recorder. “Here goes nothing,” he said, as he pressed the power button. Mr. Perrot waited in anticipation. Suddenly, the recorder activated. “Magnifico!” Jasper said, looking at the recorder’s LCD display. “Looks like there are two entries. One from December 2037 and the other recorded much later, in February 2064.” He selected the first entry and hit the Play button.
“It is December 1, 2037,” a woman’s voice said, faint and raspy, mixed with static. Still, Mr. Perrot smiled. He knew that voice—it was one he had not heard in almost three years. Jasper turned up the volume, and Mr. Perrot listened to Cassandra speak across the years.
. . . and this is going to be my last recording. We’ve made it to New Chicago to start our new lives. Logan is too young to understand what is happening. As we feared, the Council of Satraya has splintered. Camden tried to reason with Fendral, and Robert pleaded with Andrea, but to no avail. Robert has joined us here with his beautiful little girl. I’m so sad that she won’t have a mother in her life. But it had to be done. Andrea is as cruelly ambitious as Fendral. I feel so sorry for Simon—he is such an intelligent boy. If his mother were here, I would have a thing or two to say to her. Camden has left the leadership of the Council in the hands of Cynthia Brown. I hope she is able to accomplish what we couldn’t. One thing is clear: there is no telling what Fendral and Andrea will do to advance their agendas.
Jasper paused the playback. “Is that the same Cynthia Brown who was murdered last year along with those other Council members?” he asked.
Journey Through the Mirrors Page 7