by Mark Anthony
A sigh escaped her. Ellie had been the culmination of everything Larsen had worked for these last ten years. A pygmy chimpanzee bred in captivity, she had been both curious and accustomed to humans. Ellie had never struggled or fought back as Larsen administered the treatments.
Her progress had been incremental in the beginning, though measurable. Manual dexterity and abstract reasoning test scores rose by over 10 percent. Then Duratek acquired the being E-1, and a whole new world opened up.
Where they had found E-1, she still didn't know. She supposed he had brought it to them—the one in the gold mask and the black robe. At first she had thought him some kind of joke, but just standing near him, hearing that hissing voice, made her shudder. And despite the crudeness of his methods, he had known things; it was the gold-masked one who had told them to try using E-1's blood as a delivery vector for the gene therapy.
Skeptical, Larsen had done so—and the results were astonishing. In a matter of weeks, Ellie's complex reasoning skills more than doubled. Intelligence shone like a light in her eyes. Soon she was on the edge of language—real language—and Larsen had looked forward to the day they could finally speak to one another.
Then everything changed in an instant. Something had placed the secrecy of their research in jeopardy. The order came down to evacuate. However, in the confusion, the human male E-2 escaped the lab, taking Ellie with him. Larsen had watched in horror as Ellie murdered one of the other scientists with her bare hands. Then the guards arrived, and they had shot the chimpanzee.
Ellie was trying to protect him—the man E-2. She jumped in front of the gun.
The experiment had worked. Ellie had finally achieved a human level of consciousness—she had sacrificed her own life to save another. Then, in one moment of lightning and thunder, the gun fired, and all of that work was undone. Ellie lay dead on the pavement, a hole in her chest, the light gone from her eyes.
Despite her shock, Larsen had managed to keep the guards from shooting the human male as well. However, it had all been for nothing. She still didn't know the full story—she never would—but somehow the transport caravan was waylaid on the highway to Boulder, and both of the extraworldly subjects, the being E-1 and the man E-2, had vanished.
In the weeks after, some of her associates whispered it was the Seekers who had stolen the two subjects, but she doubted that. From what Larsen had heard, the Seekers were some sort of scholarly society that sounded every bit as dry and dull as the world of academia. However, she had seen the fierceness in the man E-2's eyes. Whatever world he came from, she could only believe it was a perilous place. More likely it was from there his rescuers had come.
The computer had finished deleting the files. She glanced again at the clock. Twenty minutes had elapsed. She had only one more minute; after that, the guard could return at any second. She switched off the computer, then moved to the door. Just as she touched the handle, the door opened.
A gasp escaped her. This couldn't be happening—she had double-checked the numbers. Statistically, the guard couldn't be here already.
He wasn't. The man who stood in the doorway wore, not a uniform, but a crisp lab coat. In photographs he would have been handsome, but in person there was a waxy quality to his flesh and a stiffness to his manner every bit as artificial as his shiny hair. He had all the life and charm of a manikin.
“I didn't expect to find you here, Dr. Larsen,” he said, baring whitened teeth in a facsimile of a smile.
“I was just leaving, Dr. Adler.” She angled her shoulder as if to brush past him, only he didn't move out of the doorway. He was easily twice her size.
Adler kept smiling. “I just saw Mel. He's on security tonight. He didn't tell me you were in the building.”
Larsen shrugged, hoping the action hid her trembling. “I suppose he forgot to mention it.”
It seemed as if he wanted to frown, but all he could manage was a slight reduction of his smile, though a furrow did shadow his forehead. “Mel never forgets things.”
“What are you doing tonight, Dr. Adler?”
He blinked, obviously confused. Maybe he wondered if she was asking him out; he had hit on her often enough those first weeks when they started sharing the lab, before he finally got the hint she wasn't interested.
“Oh,” he said, finally getting her meaning. “I wanted to get a new PCR reaction going so I can have the results tomorrow. You got the memo, didn't you? There's a bonus for any researchers who complete their current projects ahead of schedule.”
Larsen did her best to mimic his smile. “I'm sure you'll get it, Barry. The bonus, I mean.”
She didn't wait for a reply. Instead she turned completely sideways and edged past him. He still didn't move, but she was small and thin—too thin, some people said, but it was difficult to remember to eat when there were so many experiments to perform, so many answers to find—and she managed to squeeze past him into the hall.
“So what was it you were doing here tonight, Dr. Larsen?”
Something in his voice made her hesitate. Her hand slipped into her lab coat pocket, and she turned around. “I was just reworking some numbers. I thought I had made some mistakes in a calculation earlier today.”
There was a sly light in his eyes now. “You never make mistakes, Dr. Larsen.”
“Yes I do,” she said softly, clutching the disk in her pocket. “Sooner or later, we all do.”
She turned and started down the corridor. Everything was pale in the fluorescent lights, washed of color and life, and she felt dizzy, but somehow she kept going. Only there was no point, was there?
Larsen glanced at her watch. Twenty-two minutes. The guard would be back any second. He would talk to Adler, and Adler was a pathological blabbermouth; he would say he had seen her in the lab. The guard would alert the front gate, telling them to detain her for questioning, and even if she didn't want to, she would tell them everything. Because over the last few months, she had learned that, despite his rigid views, her graduate advisor had been right about one thing. Signing a contract with Duratek had been like making a deal with a devil.
Over the years, she had fooled herself, believing her work would lead to good. She had even been able to rationalize holding the subjects E-1 and E-2 against their wills, even though it broke the most fundamental rules of scientific ethics. After all, one day her research could help to heal those with brain injuries, or give those born developmentally disabled a chance at normal lives. However, she knew now that Duratek cared nothing for such goals.
These last months, she had been performing a different kind of research: observing, listening, trying to understand what it was the company was really doing. As secretive as they were, the managers still let things slip, and while she couldn't be certain—there wasn't enough data to support her hypothesis—she believed she knew something of what they planned. A belief that was confirmed earlier today.
The work we're doing here is going to change the world, Dr. Larsen, said the black-suited executive who had come to the lab that morning to check on the status of her research. In fact, it's going to change two worlds. Once we can reproduce the alternate blood serum, doors will open for us—doors to entire new worlds, new possibilities. Just think of the potential for profit, Dr. Larsen.
In that moment, her illusions had finally shattered like a beaker heated too long on a burner. Duratek wasn't interested in her genetic research—they never had been. All they wanted was a complete sequence of the being E-1's blood and a method for synthesizing it so they could somehow use it to gain access to another world. Only there was one compound in the blood that had resisted all attempts at modeling and reproduction.
Until today. For the last five months, every researcher in this facility had been trying to solve the problem. Today, Larsen had done it. She had found the key to synthesizing the being E-1's blood.
And she was going to do everything she could to keep them from getting it.
Larsen made it to the elevator. She
pushed a button and stared as the numbers crawled by with maddening slowness. At last the doors whooshed open. Down a long hallway were the doors that led outside, to night and to freedom. She started walking, trying not to imagine what was happening upstairs. Adler talking to the guard. The guard picking up the phone . . .
She started jogging, then running. White walls slipped by, the doors grew larger. Beyond the glass was nothing but darkness. A feeble spark of hope flickered to life in her chest. Duratek was always talking about destiny—how they could only succeed in their endeavors because fate was on their side. Maybe fate was on her side tonight. She reached out, her fingers brushing the handle of the doors.
White light went red, streaming through the corridor like blood in an artery. An electronic wail pierced the air, causing Larsen's nervous system to spasm, her hand to jerk back. She heard the metallic sound of metal bars slamming home.
“No!” she shouted, throwing her body against the doors. It was no use. They were locked.
The noise penetrated her skull. She had to run, she had to get out. Except she couldn't. All the doors would be locked, and the elevators as well. In seconds they would find her and the disk. Then the questioning would begin. They would use every method available—intimidation, drugs, even pain—and in the end she would tell them everything, including what she had discovered today in her lab. She leaned against a wall, resting her head against the cool paint, and waited for them to come.
“Well, I wouldn't have thought you'd give up that easily,” said a rasping voice. The voice was low, but somehow she heard it over the wail of the alarm. “I thought you had a bit more stubbornness in you than that, daughter.”
Larsen was too frightened to be startled further. She opened her eyes. A man stood beside her. He was tall and gaunt, dressed in a dusty black suit that hung on him like old clothes on a scarecrow. He watched her with black marble eyes.
“Who are you?”
He laughed: a booming sound far louder than the alarm. “I like you, daughter. You always ask the hardest questions first, don't you? Yet I fear this one will have to wait for an answer. You must leave this place.”
She shook her head. “I don't know how you got in here, but the doors are all locked. There's no way out.”
“Nonsense. If there's hope, there's always a way out.” He gestured with a knobby hand at the doors. “Go ahead.”
“It won't work. I already tried.”
“Then try again.”
It was ridiculous. She didn't know who this man was. Given his shabby clothes, he was probably an indigent who had managed to wander in.
Past the electric fence and motion detectors? Past the armed guards at the gate and magnetic doors that can only be opened with a valid identification card?
Larsen pushed on one of the doors. It swung open. Cold air struck her face, clearing her head, as the night rushed in. Her mind searched for a rational explanation but found none. It was, simply, impossible.
“Go, daughter. Do not fear the guards at the gate. They will not see you if you move swiftly.”
How did you open the locks? she wanted to ask. And why are you helping me? Instead, she said, “Where should I go?”
A smile split his cadaverous face. “A place you can hide. A place for those with nowhere else to go.”
He pressed something into her hand. She looked down and saw it was a business card. On it was printed an address in downtown Denver, as well as two lines of cheerfully bold text:
The Hope Mission
Come on in—we want to save you!
She looked back up, and her breath caught on her lips. The man in black was gone. The corridor was empty, but not for long. Shouts echoed above the alarm. Boots pounded against hard tiles. She clutched the card in her hand.
They will not see you if you move swiftly. . . .
Then Dr. Ananda Larsen fled through the doors, and the night wrapped her in safe, dark arms.
34.
The sun dipped behind the mountains, casting a blue cloak of twilight over the city, as Travis ran out of the park and past the library. This was beyond him now. He had to tell someone what he had learned—he had to warn them about what was happening. And he didn't have much time.
As he staggered down Thirteenth Avenue, he cursed his own stupidity. He had let himself believe they were a world away, that they couldn't reach him. Only they could. The servants of Mohg and the Pale King were right here. He heard again the mocking words of the young witch he had encountered in the park. The Deadies, Jessie had called them, the Brights. They'll find you. You can't win against them. That's the one thing I do know. . . .
She had been weak, her power a fraction of Grace's or Aryn's. He should never have opened the iron box and used the magic of the Great Stones against her. Only he had, and to the wraithlings it would be like a beacon in the night. The first time he had opened the box, when he tried to break the Stones, it would have alerted them he was in Denver. After that, they would have been watching, waiting. Which meant they were already closing in on the park. He had to run.
The blocky outlines of the downtown Denver police station hove into view.
No, Travis, you can't go there. Someone will recognize you, and then even Sergeant Otero won't believe what you have to say. They'll put you in jail.
Travis came to a halt on the sidewalk, staring at the door of the police station, longing to go in. But he couldn't. They wouldn't listen to him, and even if they did, what could they do? The city had signed a security contract with Duratek.
He thought about calling Davis and Mitchell Burke-Favor in Castle City. But he had put the two ranchers in grave peril the last time he had contacted them, and anyway, he didn't know what they could do. Somehow he had to tell everyone in Denver the truth about what was happening here.
All this time, secrecy had been the most potent weapon wielded by Duratek and Mohg; they did their evil work in the shadows where no one could see. However, if people knew the truth, they would rise up against them in outrage, Travis was sure of it. Only how could he tell everyone in Denver what he knew?
He turned his back to the police station and saw it glowing against the deepening purple of the sky: a billboard with four bland, smiling faces plastered across it. DENVER'S MOST WATCHED NEWS TEAM, blared the caption below.
Shock crackled through him, then understanding. Travis shoved his hands in his pockets, hurried east down Thirteenth Avenue, and turned south on Lincoln Street. On the side of an office building hung an illuminated banner with the same four stiffly smiling faces. Atop the building, satellite dishes sprouted like Brobdingnagian mushrooms.
Travis started toward the building, then hesitated. What about Marty and Jay? He had promised to meet them at sundown in Confluence Park, and it was almost full night.
Don't worry about them, Travis. They're probably warm and safe right now in the Steel Cathedral, eating a hot meal, and Jay is laughing at how stupid you are for not coming with them.
He crossed the street, wove his way past a cavalcade of parked news vehicles, and pushed through glass doors into the lobby beyond. After being in the chill of the outdoors all day, the shock of sudden warmth paralyzed him. The lobby was brightly lit, the floor polished stone. Televisions were mounted in each corner, displaying the evening news, but the sound was turned down in favor of generic soft-rock music that drifted from unseen speakers.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Travis wiped his eyes. The lobby was empty except for a receptionist sitting behind a counter. She was young—not much older than the witch Jessie—a gold nose ring accenting her dark skin. Her expression was at once courteous and suspicious. He didn't belong here, and they both knew it.
He shambled up to the counter. “I need to talk to someone.”
She smiled, but her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Let me know whom you have an appointment with, and I'll call to tell them you're here.” She didn't reach for the phone.
Travis licked his lips. He picked thr
ough his brain, searching, but he couldn't remember the names of any of the news anchors, not even the weatherman.
“Sir?”
A name came to him, and he blurted it out. “Anna Ferraro. I need to see Anna Ferraro.”
For a moment the young woman's polite facade crumbled, and her eyes darted to one side. Then she spoke in a formal tone. “I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Ferraro no longer works here.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“You have to leave now, sir.”
He shook his head, and she looked up at him, her brown eyes imploring. “Please,” she said softly. “I don't want to have to call them.”
Her gaze flicked again to the left, toward a door labeled Security. Travis understood. All the same, he had to try; this was his only chance. He stepped away, tensing to make a dash for the hallway behind the counter.
Motion caught his eye. Outside the plate glass windows, a woman walked across the parking lot, a cardboard box in her hands. She passed through a pool of light, and Travis's heart skipped in his chest. Then he was running. Ignoring the startled cry of the receptionist, he slammed through the doors and pounded across the parking lot. He caught up with the woman just as she set the box on the trunk of a car and began rummaging through her purse.
She turned around, an annoyed look on her face. “You're not going to mug me, are you? Not that it wouldn't be the perfect ending to this complete disaster of a day.”
Her tone so completely disarmed him that he could only stare, slack-jawed.
The woman let out a groan. “God, even the muggers around here are incompetent.” She dug deeper in her purse and pulled out a set of keys. “Well?” she said.
“Sorry,” Travis mumbled. He grabbed the box so she could open the trunk, then set it down inside.