Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow

by Lee Baldwin

  “Ah. So you admit I could reach her?”

  “Not likely, but not out of the question.”

  “All the same, Father, could I have your card?”

  “Certainly, here you are. I am going to think about this and call some people. I will be in touch.”

  Looking at his card, she says, “Oh good, you use email.”

  “Yes,” Tilton smiles, heading down the steps, “saves on gas.”

  Studying him as he strides away, she lets him nearly reach his car before she calls his name. He turns around.

  “Father, I have one question. Why does God need so much money?”

  CME Report

  OFFICE OF THE NEW YORK CITY MEDICAL EXAMINER

  CC: Department of Forensic Biology

  REFERENCE: CODIS database.

  NAME: Villa, Anne Katrina (“Annetka”)

  CASE NO: 20XX-277

  DOB: unknown, no verifiable birth records

  AGE: assumed to be age 22 years +/- 2 years

  RACE: Brazilian/Caucasoid

  SEX: Female

  ID BY: Direct identification not possible due to condition of remains see notes. Lorelei Margaritte Villa of New Jersey made remote identification of jewelry attached to the remains as belonging to Anne Katrina Villa, aka Annetka, stated to be the identifier’s blood cousin.

  INVESTIGATIVE AGENCY: NYC CME

  EVIDENCE OF TREATMENT: N/A

  EXTERNAL EXAMINATION: The autopsy is begun at 8:47 A.M. on November 2. The remains are presented in a black body bag. Remains consist of an intact internal female skeleton, held together by connective tendons ligaments and cartilage. All flesh removed from skeleton at time of incident. Contents of skull, including eyes, other organs removed at time of incident, scattered at crime scene. Jewelry on the remains includes several necklaces of pearls and diamonds, two ornate gold and platinum rings, and one 2-inch wide gold wristband with diamonds in a hexagram pattern on left wrist.

  The skeleton is that of normally developed white female measuring 67 inches height, weight of recovered remains 22 pounds. This is generally consistent with the assumed age of twenty-two years.

  It is well to note in this report that four skeletons were recovered from the scene of the incident. Identification of this skeleton as that of Anne Katrina Villa is preliminary and based on secondary evidence such as stature and physical dimensions, jewelry, and location of remains at the scene, which was on Annetka’s four-poster bed. The three other skeletons were heaped together in the living room.

  Skeletal examination is normal in most respects, except that subject’s pelvic arch is more consistent with male anatomy than female. Because the female organs were removed during the incident, gyno examination not possible. It is a conjecture that carrying a child to normal birth for this individual would be difficult to impossible due to the reduced pelvic opening.

  An unusual variation in skeletal form is observed at the chest and upper back. The scapulae are abnormally developed, extending from the region of the C6 vertebra down to T8, and of unusual thickness and rigidity, resembling the density of ape or gibbon bones.

  Another unusual feature is the sternum. In the case of this subject the sternum has an anterior ridge extending 8 cm into the chest cavity. This biology is found when additional rigidity for powerful musculature is required.

  The body of the scapulae has dorsal and costal surfaces. The former is divided into two fossae by an outstanding process of triangular form, with enlarged dimensions as noted above. Marks on the scapulae are suggestive of healed surgical removals of bony projections. We can provide no information on the shape or intended function of these projections. We do observe that the bone in these locations was in the process of regrowth, projecting 2 cm. outward from the scapular anterior surface. These projections would have been visible through skin and some clothing.

  INTERNAL EXAMINATION

  HEAD, CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM: Skull is void of brain matter, no exam performed.

  SKELETAL SYSTEM: Intact with anomalies noted. None of the bones are fractured. During the incident all flesh had been removed, leaving only connective cartilage and ligaments as discussed.

  RESPIRATORY SYSTEM, THROAT STRUCTURES: Missing from remains, no analysis possible.

  CARDIOVASCULAR SYSTEM: Missing from remains, no analysis possible.

  GASTROINTESTINAL SYSTEM: Missing from remains, no analysis possible.

  URINARY SYSTEM: Missing from remains, no analysis possible.

  FEMALE GENITAL SYSTEM: Missing from remains, no analysis possible.

  TOXICOLOGY: Samples of connective cartilage and ligaments submitted for analysis, although drug, nutrient and toxin uptake of these tissues is very slow it was considered worth doing. Results available eta 21 November.

  SEROLOGY: Routine toxicological studies ordered see caveat in Toxicology.

  LABORATORY DATA: No gram stain, culture, cerebrospinal fluid bacterial antigens, hemophilus, streptococcus pneumonia possible. Missing pleural cavity.

  DRUG SCREEN: not possible see toxicology note

  URINE SCREEN {Immunoassay}: not possible see toxicology note

  (signed)

  Harvey Schwartz, Ph.D.

  Chief Toxicologist

  EVIDENCE COLLECTED:

  1. One human skeleton, female with variations see notes

  2. Pearl necklace, 22 inches, 40 pearls 1/2 in to 1/4 in diameter, platinum wire chain

  3. Diamond pendant necklace, weight 2.2 oz., gold chain

  4. Gold ring with emerald, right ring finger, weight 1.8 oz.

  5. Platinum ring with solitaire diamond, right thumb, weight 1.4 oz.

  6. Wristband or bracelet, left wrist, 2-inch wide gold, 23 diamonds in a hexagram pattern

  OPINION

  TIME OF DEATH: 10:30 - 11:00 A.M. on 1 November.

  IMMEDIATE CAUSE OF DEATH: Unknown

  MANNER OF DEATH: Suspected HOMICIDE (part of suspected multiple homicide). Suicide highly improbable. Industrial accident or Act of God highly improbable.

  Bingo

  Before the dust of Father Tilton’s departure settles from the pleasant air, Tharcia knows she will try again. Her altar candles chalks incense crystals stones essences pendulums are sheeted in ice. But she has two things that are new and available. One is the handwritten spell, in the back pocket of her white jeans. The other is her dream-twin’s suggestion that she needs a bigger pentagram.

  Iced out of her ritual space, without her sacred altar, her laptop, props and supplies, she must improvise. She’d seen a lappy on Clay’s workbench. She’ll try to log in. He won’t mind, it’s only a few web searches. After all, she reasons, beyond all the arcane trappings, the candles, the robe and the chants, results in the Spirit world revolve around intention.

  The sun is warm as Tharcia hurries to Clay’s workshop. It’s quiet inside, cool and scented with oils, his familiar tangy sweat. On the long workbench under a sunny window an array of metal things, rolled-up paper diagrams, tools arranged in careful order. The aircraft that waits in the center of the space is small, a single-seater, mid-wing. It is missing some body parts, a panel on one wing is open, exposing internal structure, electrical wires, silvery tight-braided cables. The motor cowling rests on the clean concrete floor.

  On the workbench, Clay’s dusty laptop. She lifts the lid, pokes a finger at the start button. It’s an older computer, not his main one, a machine he uses with his flying work, sourcing aircraft parts. The thing whirs, starts easily enough, there is no login, it opens right up. In the lower right she sees the date is behind by three days. She considers changing it for him but thinks he might have a reason, besides it would leave tracks. Not that she’d mind if he knows she used the laptop, and will probably tell him if she remembers. The date won’t make any difference.

  Tharcia opens a web browser. The home page makes her smile, the National Weather Service, centered on Watsonville California airport. Just the thing a flyboy would be most interested in, the weather. But down to work
.

  She enters a search, largest pentagram on earth, which returns nine million results. Oh, whoopee. Scrolling down, what appears most are postings of various occult groups and Wicca bloggers, websites on arcane books and ritual spells, stuff about the Nazi holocaust and a pentagram dating before 2300 BCE in Mesopotamia. She clicks on a link labeled Washington D.C., reads that the streets of the U.S. Capitol are supposedly laid out in the form of a pentagram. Interesting, but nothing she can use. She kills the page and searches on.

  Following another link, she clicks through a sequence of pages until a photo stops her cold. The Pentagon, headquarters of the United States Department of Defense, world’s largest office building, near the Potomac River in Arlington, Virginia.

  Bingo.

  The Pentagon. She fiddles with Google Earth until she has a clear satellite view looking down on the pentagram shape. The five sides of the immense building are each 900 feet long. Seems big enough. There’s a central courtyard with trees, crisscrossing walkways, a smaller pentagram-shaped building in the center, the hot dog stand, according to the article. That shouldn’t get in the way.

  There is nothing in the conjuring texts she’s read or heard of that says the conjurer must be in direct presence of the destination pentagram. Intention is everything. If it works, her mother will appear there, Tharcia will see her. She reaches into her back pocket, pulls out the folded paper. She flattens it on the bench beside the computer, and is struck with dismay. She cannot read what it says.

  The wrinkled page is in her open, loopy handwriting, but is not what she recalls when first she found it in the hallway. Then, it was a poem, an affirmation, sounding like a spell. Now, it is a sequence of nonsense syllables, twenty-five lines in five-line stanzas. Silently, she attempts to pronounce the syllables. Weird, but she can do it. Enough crazy things have happened, a piece of paper that changes itself, or maybe her head is tripping. Well?

  Tharcia steadies herself on her goal. Intention. She determines to read through the page while looking at the computer image of the Pentagon. Visualize her mother there. Not clear what might come after that, maybe they can Skype. Clearing her throat, she begins haltingly to pronounce the unfamiliar sounds. Abruptly, something clicks. She is able to read and pronounce the unfamiliar symbols with clarity. At least to Tharcia it seems like clarity.

  She’s into the second stanza when a shiver of dizziness passes through her. As she reads, her awareness eases out the back of her head, rises up, she’s looking down at herself from high in the metal rafters. Sees a blonde girl standing alone near a sunny window in a dark space, reading nonsense syllables from a paper in her hand. A sudden rush of fear. Tharcia’s mind forms the idea of running out the door, finds herself unable to move. Mesmerized in the sensation of floating above her body. There arises a sense of overwhelming love and peace, she feels herself moving upward toward a lighted passageway among sweet-smelling flowers. Tharcia watches, something watches, as the small figure below in the white jeans and Goddess Culture T-shirt utters unknown sounds in hypnotic cadence.

  The lighted passageway opens to infinite depth. In the center gathers a bright shape, four legs, long mane, a tail, a beautiful horse of whitest white, calling to her from graceful nobility, asking her help. Deeply wanting something she alone can give. She knows this presence, longs to give something. Give what?

  Tharcia finishes reading, comes to her senses, the paper clutched in a tight fist. Stares fixedly at the image of the Pentagon on the screen. Minutes pass. Nothing happens.

  With a dejected release of breath, she moves to shut down Clay’s computer. A video window pops up on the screen. It’s Clay, speaking to the camera. She stares. The video appears recorded on this very spot, inside Clay’s workshop, the small airplane behind him. Tharcia can’t hear what he’s saying.

  Aware she’s being a little snoop, yet avidly curious, she adjusts the speaker level, hears his voice speaking low and steady. She clicks back to the beginning. On the small screen, Clay’s image settles before the camera. His eyes are shut. He begins to speak.

  “Aham Brahmasmi. My meditation today is around the power of self-realization. Beyond our senses, everything arises from a single consciousness, called by many names. The universe, God, the field. May each person find within themselves the power of their own creative intention to admit this consciousness.

  “Aham Brahmasmi. Today I meditate on Tharcia. May she release her beliefs of limitation, admit to possibilities she cannot imagine, let go her safe resistance. May she find herself in the field of unlimited abundance, may she find joy and safety on her journey. May she realize that her mother loved her deeply, whatever her own limitations. May Tharcia unlock her heart to receive her mother’s love and allow it to flow to her easily. May she own the certain expectation of bliss, may she know that what she wants, desires her equally. May she remain always safe on her journey and bring harm to no one.

  “Aham Brahmasmi. May Tharcia know that her search requires only awareness, intention, and silence. Aham Brahmasmi.”

  The video ends, the window disappears. Tharcia gazes at the blank screen until it shimmers in her vision. She slams the laptop closed, pockets the paper. Looks up at the dark rafters behind her, sees nothing. Makes her way quickly toward the sunlit doorway.

  Seeing her dusty car, memory hits. The language lesson. She’d spent an hour repeating nonsense phrases in total darkness. What was that? She shuffles through the box of CDs, sees nothing unusual. Italian, Mandarin, Spanish, Portuguese, French. She starts the player. The CD is in French, not the gibberish lingo she’d practiced that night, the language of the spell poem. Ejects the disk, reads the label. Bonus CD! Boudoir French! Master the Language of Love with real conversational examples! Ooh-la-la.

  Slamming the car door, Tharcia shakes her head. Marketing people.

  Brujeria

  The noise and commotion died out days ago. Everyone has left the unusual building. Around him a constellation of metallic objects hangs suspended in his protective armor, their fierce energies held fast. At some future moment that energy will be released.

  He is feeling curiosity. No human could have found the ancient text to summon him. Mortals summon lesser demons, this is completely new in his experience. He carefully thinks through the possibilities. Two answers come. It could be a wizard powerful enough to snub his nose at conventional physics, the shape of space and time, the age-old rules of conjuring. But all those ancient Brujos are known and can be accounted for. Or, it could be some hapless fool who got lucky and will soon show up, have time for one sphincter-grinding glimpse of fate. Just prior to having his head crushed to a pulp.

  He wonders how contemporary Brujeria would come into possession of the text. Throughout human history, that spell has never been recorded, never written into the arcane volumes. Such things are held close, shared verbally, and only among the Defenders from earliest creation. Only a few would be able to pronounce correctly the seven stanzas. Only his split-apart could ever know, unless it was screamed from her very lips through torture. Impossible.

  His entertainment now is to contemplate, among the seven billion methods he recalls individually, which he will use to finish this witless fool. He’ll spend little time enjoying that. Being on Earth has aroused his hunger for a more attractive possibility. His One, the object of his eternal quest. For all her obstinacy, her occasional blind rages, her promiscuity, she is the one female who has never in all of deep time left his thoughts. His split-apart, the One with whom he shared his very soul.

  She, to whom he had given half his substance, the One he had carefully imagined as his feminine counterpart, the patient eons seeking permission from the Creator. All had been worth it. But not for her to be set upon by winged creatures with sharp swords, to be rendered into a hundred pieces and cast to dogs, while he was far from her, unknowing. It has taken all the mental presence he commands to resist being eaten from within, during all this time without her.

  A thought strikes hi
m. What if this wizard has conjured him from the future? If time is disrupted, the spell may not yet have been read. He smiles. If that is so, the foolish Brujo will become visible to him, the moment this stream of time intersects with the future moment when the spell is cast.

  Time is the simplest thing.

  Suicide and Remorse

  After two hours on the hunt for party clothes, Tharcia is on her way up the hill home. She found a cute toreador middy jacket at a thrift shop in Santa Cruz and plans to go clubbing tonight. She has a friend at the University she could call, a student, but is interested in meeting someone new. She tires of girlfriends quickly. Or her hunter does.

  As she drives Highway 9 among tall redwoods, impatient in a line of traffic, the car ahead pulls off the road. Impulsively, she hits the gas to go by, then has to get on the brakes quick because a paramed vehicle and a Sheriff’s car are screaming down on them red lights flashing. She gets herself stopped a foot from the guy’s bumper. The emergency vehicles turn up the hill on Redwood and wail out of sight. The line of cars eases back on the road.

  A bloom of morbid curiosity as she approaches the intersection. Tharcia pulls hard left where the sirens went. They are out of sight around the bends. She rolls her sunroof back and listens. There. Certain they are still on Redwood, she floors it. At an intersection two people stand looking up a side street, so she turns that way, drives up a mile and there they are, the ambulance in the driveway of a small home, the Sheriff’s car angled across the patchy front lawn.

  She drives ahead slow and pulls off, no homes here, only trees. Gets out and makes her way into the thicket of brush, follows a game trail toward a Sheriff’s radio that blares scattered dispatch traffic. Walks quiet through the woods, shoving branches out of her path. Sees eaves and a rooftop, little house where the action is.

  Knows she’s being really snoopy and wonders at her intention to stick her nose in some stranger’s business, but it doesn’t stop her. Finds a spot close enough to hear and not be seen. A woman’s desolate wail from a deep well of pain. Crying on the front porch, repeating over and over, I just found him there. She goes back into the house.