Black Order

by James Rollins

  “And you’ve not found a way to manufacture more?” Painter asked.

  Anna shook her head.

  “But what did the Bell actually do?” Lisa asked.

  “As I said before, it was purely an experiment. Most likely another attempt to tap into the infinite power of zero point. Though once the Nazi researchers turned it on, strange effects were noted. The Bell emitted a pale glow. Electrical equipment in a huge radius short-circuited. Deaths were reported. During a series of follow-up experiments, they refined the device and built shielding. Experiments were done deep within an abandoned mine. No further deaths occurred, but villagers a kilometer away from the mine reported insomnia, vertigo, and muscle spasms. Something was being radiated by the Bell. Interest grew.”

  “As a potential weapon?” Painter guessed.

  “I can’t say. Many of the records were destroyed by the head researcher. But we do know the original team exposed all sorts of biologics to the Bell: ferns, molds, eggs, meat, milk. And an entire spectrum of animal life. Invertebrates and vertebrates. Cockroaches, snails, chameleons, toads, and of course mice and rats.”

  “And what about the top of the food chain?” Painter asked. “Humans.”

  Anna nodded. “I’m afraid so. Morality is often the first casualty to progress.”

  “So what happened during these experiments?” Lisa asked. She had lost all interest in her plate of food. Not in distaste for the subject matter but wide-eyed interest.

  Anna seemed to sense a commonality here and turned her attention to Lisa. “Again the effects were inexplicable. The chlorophyll in plants disappeared, turning the plants white. Within hours they would decompose into a greasy sludge. In animals, blood would gel in veins. A crystalline substance would form within tissues, destroying cells from the inside out.”

  “Let me guess,” Painter said. “Only the cockroaches were unaffected.”

  Lisa frowned at him, then returned to Anna. “Do you have any idea what caused those effects?”

  “We can only conjecture. Even now. We believe the Bell, as it spins, creates a strong electromagnetic vortex. The presence of Xerum 525, a byproduct of earlier zero point research, when exposed to this vortex, generates an aura of strange quantum energies.”

  Painter put it together in his head. “So the Xerum 525 is the fuel source, and the Bell is the engine.”

  Anna nodded.

  “Turning the Bell into a Mixmaster,” a new voice grumbled.

  All eyes turned to Gunther. He had a mouthful of sausage. It was the first time he had shown any interest in the conversation.

  “A crude but accurate description,” Anna concurred. “Imagine the nature of zero point as a bowl of cake batter. The spinning Bell is like a beater that dips into it and sucks quantum energy outward, into our existence, splattering with all manner of strange subatomic particles. The earliest experiments were attempts to manipulate the speed of this mixer and so control the splatter.”

  “To make less of a mess.”

  “And along with it, to lessen the degenerative side effects. And they succeeded. Adverse effects waned, and something remarkable took their place.”

  Painter knew they were coming to the heart of the matter.

  Anna leaned forward. “Rather than degeneration of biologic tissues, the Nazi scientists began noting enhancements. Accelerated growth in molds. Gigantism in ferns. Faster reflexes in mice, and higher intelligence in rats. The consistency of the results could not be attributed to random mutations alone. And it appeared that the higher the order of animal, the more benefit was derived from exposure.”

  “So human test subjects went next,” Painter said.

  “Keep a historical perspective, Mr. Crowe. The Nazis were convinced that they would give rise to the next superrace. And here was a tool to do it in a generation. Morality held no benefit. There was a larger imperative.”

  “To create a master race. To rule the world.”

  “So the Nazis believed. To that end, they invested much effort in advancing research into the Bell. But before it could be completed, they ran out of time. Germany fell. The Bell was evacuated so the research could be continued in secret. It was the last great hope for the Third Reich. A chance for the Aryan race to be born anew. To arise and rule the world.”

  “And Himmler chose this place,” Painter said. “Deep in the Himalayas. What madness.” He shook his head.

  “Oftentimes, it is madness more than genius that moves the world forward. Who else but the mad would reach so far, stretching for the impossible? And in so doing, prove the impossible possible.”

  “And sometimes it merely invents the most efficient means of genocide.”

  Anna sighed.

  Lisa brought the discussion back in line. “What became of the human studies?” She kept her tone clinical.

  Anna recognized a more collegial dining partner. “In adults, the effects were still detrimental. Especially at higher settings. But the research did not stop there. When a fetus was exposed in utero, one in six children born of such exposure showed remarkable improvements. Alterations in the gene for myostatin produced children with more well-developed muscles. Other enhancements arose, too. Keener eyesight, improved hand-eye coordination, and amazing IQ scores.”

  “Superchildren,” Painter said.

  “But sadly such children seldom lived past the age of two,” Anna said. “Eventually they would begin to degenerate, going pale. Crystals formed in tissues. Fingers and toes necrosed and fell away.”

  “Interesting,” Lisa said. “Sounds like the same side effects as the first series of tests.”

  Painter glanced at her. Did she just say interesting? Lisa’s gaze was fixed on Anna with fascination. How could she remain so clinical? Then he noted Lisa’s left knee bobbing up and down under the table. He touched her knee and calmed it. She trembled under his touch. Outwardly, her face continued to remain passive. Painter realized all of Lisa’s interest was feigned. She was bottling up her anger and horror, allowing him to play good cop, bad cop. Her cooperative attitude allowed him to pepper their interrogation with a few harder questions, all the better to gain the answers he needed.

  Painter squeezed her knee, acknowledging her effort.

  Lisa continued her act. “You mentioned one out of six babies showed these short-lived improvements. What about the other five?”

  Anna nodded. “Stillborn. Fatal mutations. Deaths of the mothers. Mortality was high.”

  “And who were all these mothers?” Painter asked, voicing the outrage for both of them. “Not volunteers, I’m assuming.”

  “Don’t judge too harshly, Mr. Crowe. Do you know the level of infant mortality in your own country? It is worse than some third world countries. What benefit do those deaths gain?”

  Oh, dear God, she can’t be serious. It was a ludicrous comparison.

  “The Nazis had their imperative,” Anna said. “They were at least consistent.”

  Painter sought some words to blast her, but anger trapped his tongue.

  Lisa spoke up instead. Her hand found his atop her knee and clutched tightly. “I’m assuming that these scientists sought some ways to further fine-tune the Bell, to eradicate these side effects.”

  “Of course. But by the end of the war, not much more progress was made. There is only one anecdotal report of a full success. A supposedly perfect child. Prior to this, all the children born under the Bell bore slight imperfections. Patches of pigment loss, organ asymmetry, different colored eyes.” Anna glanced to Gunther, then back again. “But this child appeared unblemished. Even crude genetic analysis of the boy’s genome tested flawless. But the technique employed to achieve this result remained unknown. The head researcher performed this last experiment in secret. When my grandfather came to evacuate the Bell, the head researcher objected and destroyed all of his personal lab notes. The child died shortly thereafter.”

  “From side effects?”

  “No, the head researcher’s daughter drowned he
rself and the baby.”

  “Why?”

  Anna shook her head. “My grandfather refused to talk about it. As I said, the story was anecdotal.”

  “What was this researcher’s name?” Painter asked.

  “I don’t recall. I can look it up, if you’d like.”

  Painter shrugged. If only he had access to Sigma’s computers. He sensed there was more to her grandfather’s story.

  “And after the evacuation?” Lisa asked. “The research continued here?”

  “Yes. Though isolated, we continued to keep a finger on the scientific community at large. After the war, Nazi scientists had spread to the winds, many into deep black projects around the world. Europe. Soviet Union. South America. The United States. They were our ears and eyes abroad, filtering data to us. Some still believed in the cause. Others were blackmailed with their pasts.”

  “So you kept current.”

  A nod. “Over the next two decades, great leaps were made. Superchildren were born who lived longer. They were raised like princes here. Given the title Ritter des Sonnekönig. Knights of the Sun King. To note their births from the Black Sun project.”

  “How very Wagnerian,” Painter scoffed.

  “Perhaps. My grandfather liked tradition. But I’ll have you know all experimental subjects here at Granitschloß were volunteers.”

  “But was this a moral choice? Or was it because you didn’t have any Jews handy in the Himalayas?”

  Anna frowned, not even dignifying his remark with a comment. She continued, “While the progress was solid, decrepitude continued to plague the Sonnekönige. The onset of symptoms still generally occurred at about two years, but the symptoms were milder. What was an acute degeneration became a chronic one. And with the increased longevity, a new symptom arose: mental deterioration. Acute paranoia, schizophrenia, psychosis.”

  Lisa spoke up. “These last symptoms…they sound like what happened to the monks at the monastery.”

  Anna nodded. “It’s all a matter of degree and age of exposure. Children exposed in utero to a controlled level of the Bell’s quantum radiation showed enhancements, followed by a lifelong chronic degeneration. While adults, like Painter and me, exposed to moderate amounts of uncontrolled radiation were struck by a more acute form of the same degeneration, a more rapid decline. But the monks, exposed to a high level of the radiation, progressed immediately into the mental degenerative state.”

  “And the Sonnekönige?” Painter said.

  “Like us, there was no cure for their disease. In fact, while the Bell holds promise of helping us, the Sonnekönige are immune to the Bell. It seems their exposure so young makes them resistant to any further manipulation by the Bell—for better or worse.”

  “So when they went mad…?” Painter pictured rampaging supermen throughout the castle.

  “Such a condition threatened our security. The human tests were eventually halted.”

  Painter could not hide his surprise. “You abandoned the research?”

  “Not exactly. Human testing was already an inefficient means of experimentation. It took too long to judge results. New models were employed. Modified strains of mice, fetal tissue grown in vitro, stem cells. With the human genome mapped, DNA testing became a faster method with which to judge progress. Our pace accelerated. I suspect if we restarted the Sonnekönige project, we’d see much better results today.”

  “So then why haven’t you tried again?”

  Anna shrugged. “We’re still seeing dementia in our mice. That’s worrisome. But mostly, we’ve declined human studies because our interests over the last decade have turned more clinical. We don’t see ourselves as harbingers of a new master race. We are indeed no longer Nazis. We believe our work can benefit mankind as a whole, once perfected.”

  “So why not come out now?” Lisa asked.

  “And be bound by the laws of nations and the ignorant? Science is not a democratic process. Such arbitrary restraints of morality would only slow our progress tenfold. That is not acceptable.”

  Painter forced himself not to snort. It seemed some Nazi philosophies still flourished here.

  “What became of the Sonnekönige?” Lisa asked.

  “Most tragic. While many died of degenerative conditions, many more had to be euthanized when their minds deteriorated. Still, a handful have survived. Like Klaus, who you’ve met.”

  Painter pictured the giant guardsman from earlier. He remembered the man’s palsied limb and stricken face, signs of degeneration. Painter’s attention drifted over to Gunther. The man met his gaze, face unreadable. One blue eye, one dead white. Another of the Sonnekönige.

  “Gunther was the last to be born here.”

  Anna pointed to her shoulder and signaled to the large man.

  Frown lines deepened, but Gunther reached and rolled the loose edge of his sleeve to expose his upper arm. He revealed a black tattoo.

  “The symbol of the Sonnekönige,” Anna said. “A mark of pride, duty, and accomplishment.”

  Gunther pulled down his sleeve, hiding it away.

  Painter flashed back to the sled ride last night, to the snide comment directed at Gunther by one of the guards. What was the word again? Leprakönige. Leper King. Plainly there remained little respect for the former Knights of the Sun King. Gunther was the last of his kind, slowly degenerating into oblivion. Who would mourn him?

  Anna’s eyes lingered on Gunther before focusing back on them.

  Maybe there would be one mourner.

  Lisa spoke up. She still held Painter’s hand. “One thing you’ve yet to make clear. The Bell. How is it bringing about these changes? You said they were too consistent to be mutations generated by random chance.”

  Anna nodded. “Indeed. Our research has not been limited to the effects of the Bell. Much of our studies have focused on how it works.”

  “Have you made much progress?” Painter asked.

  “Of course. In fact, we are certain we understand the basic tenets of its functioning.”

  Painter blinked his surprise. “Really?”

  Anna’s brow crinkled. “I thought it was obvious.” She glanced between Painter and Lisa. “The Bell controls evolution.”

  7:35 A.M.

  HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI PRESERVE

  “Who’s there?” Khamisi repeated, standing at the threshold to his house. Someone lurked inside, back in the rear bedroom.

  Or maybe it was some animal.

  Monkeys were always breaking into homes, sometimes larger animals did.

  Still, he refused to enter. He strained to see, but all the curtains had been drawn. After the ride here in the blinding sun, the gloom of his home was as dark as any jungle.

  Standing on the porch, Khamisi reached through the door for the light switch. His fingers fumbled. He found and flicked the switch. A single lamp ignited, illuminating the sparsely furnished front room and a galley kitchen. But the light did nothing to show who or what waited in the back bedroom.

  He heard a scuffle of something back there.

  “Who—?”

  A sharp sting to the side of his neck cut off his words. Startled, he fell forward into the room. His hand slapped at the bite. His fingers found something feathered imbedded there.

  He pulled it out and stared at it, uncomprehending for a breath.

  A dart.

  He used the same to tranquilize large animals.

  But this one was different.

  It fell from his fingers.

  The moment of incomprehension was all it took for the toxin to reach his brain. The world tipped on its side. Khamisi fought for balance—and failed.

  The plank floor rushed toward his face.

  He managed to catch himself slightly, but still he struck hard, cracking his head. Pinpoints of light shattered out into a closing darkness. His head lolled. From his angle, he spotted a stretch of rope on the planks. He focused harder. Not rope.

  Snake. Ten feet long.

  He recognized it on sight.
/>
  Black mamba.

  It was dead, cut in half. A machete lay nearby. His machete.

  Coldness numbed his limbs as the hard truth struck him.

  The poisoned dart.

  It hadn’t been like those he employed in the field. This dart had two needles. Like fangs.

  His eyes glazed upon the dead snake.

  Staged.

  Death by snakebite.

  From the back bedroom, floorboards creaked. He had just enough strength left to turn his head. A dark figure stood in the doorway now, illuminated by the lamplight, studying him, expressionless.

  No.

  It made no sense.

  Why?

  He would have no answer.

  Darkness folded over him, taking him away.

  8

  MIXED BLOOD

  6:54 A.M.

  PADERBORN, GERMANY

  “You’re staying here,” Gray said. He stood in the center of the Challenger’s main cabin, fists on his hips, not budging.

  “Bollocks,” Fiona retorted. A step away, she made her stand.

  To the side, Monk leaned against the open jet doorway, arms crossed, much too amused.

  “I still haven’t told you the address,” Fiona argued. “You can spend the next month searching door to door throughout the city, or I can go with you and take you to the place. Your choice, mate.”

  Gray’s face heated. Why hadn’t he teased the address from the girl when she was still weak and vulnerable? He shook his head. Weak and vulnerable never described Fiona.

  “So what’s it going to be?”

  “Looks like we have a tagalong,” Monk said.

  Gray refused to relent. Maybe if he scared her, reminded her of her close call in Tivoli Gardens. “What about your gunshot wound?”

  Fiona’s nose flared. “What about it? Good as new. That liquid bandage. Patched me right up.”