Journey Through the Mirrors

by T. R. Williams

  “Done by Edvard Munch, if I remember correctly,” Mr. Perrot said, as he picked up a small white envelope lying on top of the masterpiece. “It is addressed to you.” He handed the envelope to Logan.

  Logan broke the formal blue wax seal and pulled out a piece of beige parchment paper. He recognized the exquisite penmanship. “It’s from Mr. Quinn,” he said, looking at Mr. Perrot, who slowly nodded, not surprised.

  Logan read the note out loud.

  Salutations,

  Many have claimed to understand the meaning of this work of art. Some suspect it was inspired by a slaughterhouse located near the artist’s home. Others believe it represents the artist’s reaction to his sister’s incarceration in an insane asylum. Some believe it represents how the artist felt when he was going through his own nervous breakdown. I will say to you that these, and the many other theories put forth, are erroneous. This picture is linked with something far more profound. It is related to the activities of another man who was diligently working halfway around the world at the same time. The secret of this picture lies in what caused the artist to make it.

  All is never what it seems. As in the Michelangelo, which you now proudly and deservedly possess, science and allegory have wonderfully collided yet again.

  Is it not amazing to see how the choices and decisions we make can have profound and lasting effect on those we have never met nor ever will?

  For the moment,

  Sebastian Quinn

  “It appears that Mr. Quinn is not done with you,” Mr. Perrot said. “He has presented another riddle for you to solve.”

  Logan turned his gaze to the Munch, which still lay flat in the crate. “It seems so,” he said softly.

  “Someone needs to roll the truck backward here,” Jasper said. “First of all, who is Sebastian Quinn?”

  Logan glanced at Mr. Perrot before turning to Jasper. “I’m not sure that there’s anyone in the world who can really answer that question,” he said. The events that led to Logan’s first encounter with the enigmatic man could easily be summed up in a sentence or two. But Jasper’s question, Who is Sebastian Quinn?, was one that Logan had contemplated many times over the last nine months, coming up with no good answer.

  “He is the gentleman who donated the Creation of Adam fresco to the studio,” Mr. Perrot said. “He is a good friend.”

  Before Jasper could ask another question, a crash sounded in the front of the studio.

  “What was that?” Logan asked.

  Jasper darted off to find out, and his departure provided space for Logan and Mr. Perrot to speak more freely.

  “The last piece of art that Mr. Quinn presented to you turned out to be at the center of a deadly series of events,” Mr. Perrot said. “The anguish portrayed in this painting foretells an even greater threat.”

  “I know,” Logan said, frowning. “As little as I know of Mr. Quinn, I’m certain he doesn’t do things idly.”

  They carefully lifted the artwork out of the shipping crate and set it on an empty easel, admiring it. It portrayed a person screaming as he stood by the railing of a bridge over a waterway. An expression of agony and terror was on the person’s face as his hands clutched his distorted, ghost-like head. Two men were in the background, one looking over the railing at something in the water, the other looking at a boat in the harbor or a building in the distance. The sky was filled with angry red and orange whorls, seemingly reflecting the intense anguish of the main subject.

  Logan moved closer to the artwork. “This is not the oil version of the painting. If I remember correctly, Munch did four versions of this picture. This is the pastel version.” He shook his head. “Amazing what he was able to convey with just a few colors. His style was so different from that of most other late-nineteenth-century artists. This is one of the most polarizing pictures in history; people have always either loved it or hated it.”

  “I would venture to say that those who dislike it do so because on some inner level, they feel what this man feels.” Mr. Perrot walked closer to the pastel drawing and looked at the lower part of the frame, where a message had been inscribed on a small plaque. “I can’t make out what it says. This is not a language I understand.”

  Logan pulled out his PCD and within seconds an image of the work was displayed, along with a description. “This is the pastel version, which he did in 1895. It was the only one of the four iterations of “The Scream” that had a plaque with words inscribed on it. The message is written in Norwegian.” Logan brought up an English translation on his PCD and read:

  I was walking along the road with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city—my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

  “Pretty apt,” said Mr. Perrot.

  Logan nodded. “Assuming that this was a sort of self-portrait, what could have possibly taken place halfway around the world that would have made Munch feel this way?”

  “May I see the note?” Mr. Perrot requested. Logan handed it to him.

  As Mr. Perrot read, Logan put his PCD away and examined the drawing more closely. He wondered if it was the original. Logan remembered the moment he had learned that the Creation of Adam fresco, which he had believed was an excellent replica while restoring it, was actually the very fresco that once graced the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Mr. Quinn had somehow salvaged it from the Vatican after the Great Disruption had left the papal city in ruins. Had Mr. Quinn once again acquired another priceless work of art?

  “There is some intriguing information in Mr. Quinn’s letter to you,” Mr. Perrot said. “When did you say that Munch did this drawing?”

  Logan tore his gaze away from the picture. “In 1895.”

  “Mr. Quinn says that this picture is somehow linked to another man halfway around the world. He also notes that science and allegory are combined in it.”

  Logan ran his hand across the top of the frame, still wondering if the pastel was the original. “If we assume that the allegory portion of this work was provided by Munch . . .”

  “Then we might assume that the science was provided by a scientist. So we might start by looking for a scientist who was alive in 1895.”

  Logan nodded. “It’s a place to start, anyway.”

  Mr. Perrot folded the note and put it back in the envelope. “I doubt Mr. Quinn expected you to figure it out within moments of receiving the drawing, but based on the relevance of Michelangelo’s message to events that were taking place in the real world nine months ago, it seems prudent for you to figure out the secrets of this work of art sooner rather than later.” He handed the note back to Logan.

  “That’s what I am afraid of,” Logan said. “What truth is going to be revealed by a picture of pain and agony?”

  14

  How many battles will you fight for someone else’s cause before you take up the armaments for your own?

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY, 8:20 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

  “Long live Reges Hominum!” said Dario Magnor, his voice raspy. He stood before his guests, holding up a glass of wine for a toast.

  “Long live Reges Hominum,” repeated the seven people sitting in the solarium of the thousand-acre vineyard known as the Magnor Estates, as they drank from their goblets.

  “Simon Hitchlords is dead,” said a sharp-chinned blond woman named Catherine, emphasizing the last word. “And so is Andrea Montavon. According to tradition, should the Dux Ducis suddenly pass, the leadership of our group will pass to its most senior member.”

  Catherine gestured toward Dario, who walked over to a plush high-back chair, making a soft humming noise as he walked. When he sat down, the hem of his trousers rose, exposing metal prosthetics. “We have no grand bell to call our meeting to order as we did at Château Dug
an,” he said, pouring himself a glass of water and taking a sip. “We will not wear masks or inhale the smoke of incense to bind us. No, we will hold off on those rituals until we have ennobled ourselves with at least one noteworthy accomplishment. The epic failure of Simon Hitchlords and Andrea Montavon not only brought about the death of my dear friend Victor Ramplet, but it cast a great shadow of ineptitude upon our order. And I mean to restore our dignity.”

  “I did not expect us to continue after Simon’s death,” said a German man named Klaus. “I am glad to know that you will not let Simon’s failure thwart our advance.”

  “I, too, was happy to hear from Dario,” said Yinsir, a Japanese man with a shiny bald head. He placed his PCD on the table in front of him. “But I fear our path has been made more difficult. The appearance of the blue light caused by Simon’s failure to perform the Purging has only emboldened the Satrayians. They believe it is the same blue light experienced by the finders of the Chronicles.”

  “That light had nothing to do with the books,” Catherine snapped. She sat up straighter in her chair, perturbed. “The light was simply a side effect of the Akasha Vault satellites.”

  “Nonetheless, people believe what they want to believe,” said Yinsir. “I am only restating what has already been reported.”

  Steeped in traditions that dated back to the time of the first pope, Reges Hominum was made up of members of the twelve wealthiest and most influential families in the world. For more than two millennia, the group had manipulated mankind from the shadows. While the accumulation of great wealth was a very welcome by-product of their machinations, power and control were the group’s primary goals. While the Great Disruption of 2027 loosened their grip on humanity by diminishing their wealth and wrecking many of their mechanisms of power, The Chronicles of Satraya made them irrelevant, and the group disbanded. For more than forty years, Reges Hominum was inactive, until Simon Hitchlords took up his father’s cause and brought the group together again.

  “Before we continue, there are some questions that must be answered,” said a woman named Ilia with jet-black hair and dazzling eyes, which had once been dark but had been surgically altered with a deep blue pigment. “There are many rumors concerning Simon’s passing. It is my understanding that the son of Camden and Cassandra Ford was instrumental in foiling his plan.”

  “A plan that we all sanctioned,” Yinsir added. “And I am told that the WCF has seized the Château along with all the other Hitchlords assets.”

  “How can we be certain that our involvement will not be exposed?” Ilia asked. “My family, the Miltuns, has a great deal to lose.”

  “As do the Letuhs and everyone else here,” Klaus said to her. “You are not alone in your concern.”

  Dario shook his head and spoke casually. “Do not agonize. They will not find anything at the Château that links us to the Hitchlordses. Fendral was too cagey to keep anything of import there.”

  “I’m not concerned about what Fendral may have hidden there,” Catherine said. “But I do worry about what Simon might have entrusted to the secret rooms of the Château. I pray that you are correct and there are no vestiges of our gathering.”

  “I have been assured that the WCF was not able to find anything significant at the Château,” Dario said.

  “Who assured you?” Ilia asked.

  Dario smiled. “I have been assured, as I said, that there is no evidence that points in our direction. Are you not impressed by how quickly and efficiently the mishap last Freedom Day was explained away?”

  “What was Simon doing in India?” Klaus asked, annoyed. “I am told he fell to his death in a pyre along the Ganges. Shouldn’t he have been helping Andrea?”

  “Simon was distracted,” Catherine said. “His personal vendetta against Logan Ford clouded his judgment and tripped up his execution of our plans. I knew when we met at Château Dugan and Simon displayed the Chronicles on the meeting table that he was as obsessed with the books as his father. Who I still don’t believe had this group’s best interest at heart.”

  “I assure you that he did,” Dario countered. “I visited Fendral often in Washington during his time on the Council of Satraya. He was quite close to molding the original Council to our liking.”

  “What happened, then?” Ilia asked.

  “Camden Ford happened,” Dario answered. “He discovered Fendral’s secret.”

  “And what secret was that?” Catherine asked with keen interest.

  Dario hesitated. “I suppose now that Simon is dead and the Hitchlordses are no more, little harm will come from telling you that Fendral did not actually find his copy of the Chronicles as he reported,” he said. “He stole them from a man named Giovanni Rast. Camden somehow came across this fact and used it to force Fendral off the Council and return to Europe.”

  “So that is what instigated the splintering of the first Council of Satraya,” Ilia said, before the rest of the members of Reges Hominum went silent.

  History had placed Fendral Hitchlords in the same company as Camden Ford, Deya Sarin, and Madu Shata. They were the four original finders of the Chronicles, which were all discovered on the same day, July 21, 2030, in different parts of the world. The revelation that Fendral actually stole his copy of the books would not only have been shocking, but shameful. The entire Hitchlords family would have been disgraced.

  “Did Muriel know this?” Ilia asked.

  “Fendral’s wife was a fool,” Catherine said. “She cared only to find new ways to spend the Hitchlords fortune. The real question is what became of this Giovanni Rast?”

  “Dead, I’m certain,” Yinsir said. “Fendral was not one to let loose ends linger.”

  “Enough about history,” Dario said. “We will not find our future in the past.”

  “Agreed,” Ilia said.

  Dario adjusted himself in his chair. “There was a time, before the Great Disruption, when we and our families controlled a very valuable resource.” He motioned to Catherine. “We controlled the world’s oil supply.”

  At the center of the solarium, a holographic map of the world appeared, projected from Catherine’s PCD. Various parts of Canada, Argentina, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Middle East were marked with green indicators.

  “More important,” Catherine added, “we ensured that oil was the most affordable source of energy available. Do you remember the American people’s fascination with renewable energy before the Great Disruption? Start-ups spent billions researching solar, wind, and other clean energy sources.”

  Dario chuckled. “A few corporate acquisitions and mergers later, Americans realized it would take the average family twenty-five years to recoup the cost of equipping their homes with solar panels. And how much money could you really save with an electric car when you had to purchase a new battery for it every six years?”

  “People never understood that a free market doesn’t mean a free existence,” Klaus said.

  The group laughed.

  “Even though the world now runs entirely on electricity,” Dario said, “the puzzle of how to produce sufficient electricity without the use of combustion still eludes us. There is still reliance on what is below the surface of the earth.”

  “Natural gas,” Catherine said.

  “You intend to seize control of the gas fields,” Yinsir said. “That will not be easy to accomplish. My family has tried for years, with no success, to influence the Jabarl family of the North African Commonwealth, first the mother before her death and now the daughter.”

  “No, Yinsir,” Dario said. “I do not propose to take control of the world’s natural gas supply. I intend to destroy it.”

  “That seems a bit rash,” Ilia said, leaning forward in her chair. “If you somehow expunge the gas supply, we all will suffer.”

  “How would the destruction of the world’s primary energy source help anyone?” Klaus asked. “Do you expect us to live without electricity?”

  “We will provide a new source of electricity,�
� Catherine answered.

  “How?” Klaus sounded impatient. “With what?”

  Dario smiled. “Rashidi!” he called out.

  A tall man with dreadlocks and an intimidating bearing entered the solarium. He had a massive physique and a well-sculpted jaw line and chin. His light-colored eyes, which lacked eyelashes and eyebrows, were a stark contrast to his dark skin. Rashidi walked around the solarium, handing an envelope to each guest.

  Dario rose, setting off a soft humming sound. He looked at Yinsir. “Your recommendation of Rashidi was a good one. He is a man worth his weight in gold.”

  Rashidi finished his task and came back to stand next to Dario as he addressed the group.

  “Inside, you will find two items: first, directions to the location where I would like all of us to meet in two days, and second, a thin gold bracelet with a distinctive letter N molded onto it. Please be sure to wear the security bracelet when you arrive. Once there, Catherine and I will show you our little project and answer all of your questions.”

  “Until then,” Catherine added, “I would advise you and your families to stay away from Western Australia.”

  There was a short burst of laughter.

  “You will also meet the newest members of our order,” Dario said. “Long live Reges Hominum!”

  “Long live Reges Hominum!” the others replied.

  15

  It is true that the Kingdom of Heaven has many mansions,

  But we assure you that none is reserved for the privileged.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  NEW CHICAGO, 3:30 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

  “What was that noise?” Logan asked Jasper when he returned.

  “The Sentinel Coterie again,” Jasper replied. “They smashed a few bottles on the sidewalk out front. I swept up the broken glass. You know, a bunch of them showed up the other day while you were in Mexico. They chanted, ‘Shut down the studio,’ and ‘Death to the Ford.’ I thought we’d seen the last of them a couple of months ago when I called the police and they broke up their demonstration. Those people need to find something better to do with their time and energy than complain about the government and cultural institutions every waking moment of their day. Why do they keep picking on the studio?”