“What does Arcott say it will do?” Cal pressed.
Dahlquist sighed, took a gulp of the Instant Sanka Doc had cooked up in the microwave. “Okay, here’s the official line…. With broadcasting and telephones down, there’s no way to readily have discussions with anyone beyond your immediate enclave. The world will stay fractured and every city, town and suburb isolated and plunged back to the Middle Ages until we can change that. Hence the Spirit Radio, which will allow two-way communications again. But because it requires such a tremendous outlay of power, they had to get the grid operational first.”
“But the design is…complicated?” Doc inquired.
“Yup,” Dahlquist agreed. “Sorta like the Manhattan Project was complicated.
“I’m not saying this is a nuclear bomb or anything like that,” he added quickly. “It’s just hellishly ornate. It definitely does have features of a very powerful receiver.”
“If it’s a radio,” Colleen asked, “doesn’t it need a similar device on the other end?”
Dahlquist nodded. “Arcott says he’s been writing to a sister community, sharing plans and materials. With our help, they should be ready to launch when we are…. Then it should just fan out from there.”
“Where is this community?” Cal asked.
“Supposedly a few hundred miles to the west.”
There was a sudden chill in the air. Cal glanced about, caught the same thought mirrored on the faces of Colleen and Doc and Goldie, felt the familiar heaviness in his gut.
There was far more to the west, he knew, than the Source Project. And yet…
Dahlquist caught the vibe, too, addressed Cal. “You want me to pull the plug on this, boss, say the word. I gotta tell ya, the deeper I sink my elbows in, the worse feeling I get.”
“Why’s that, Rafe?”
“Hell, this thing ain’t no friggin’ radio. I mean, Jesus, it’s just made to seem like one.”
“What do you think it is?”
“An access point, an entryway, a transferal device…for Christ’s sake, a door.” He shot Goldie a sharp glance. “Not like that fancy little trick you did in my quarters, nothing sweet and benign like that.”
He swallowed down the rest of his coffee and shuddered.
“There’s something on the other side, and you turn this hungry beast on, I mean, really rev up the juice, I think it’s gonna bust on through. This precious gizmo is designed to withstand terrific stresses and energies, for long-term duration-so whatever comes, why, it’ll keep right on coming. Just an educated guess, but I gotta tell ya, I’m pretty damn educated.”
Cal considered a moment, then said, “You have any idea what’s on the other end?”
“No,” Dahlquist replied. “But the other day we ran a test, y’know, just minimum strength to get things going. I heard these…voices…coming through, sounded like thousands of ’em, all overlapping. Couldn’t make out anything, ’cept one word….”
The word was “Wishart.”
It was a rare thing for Jeff Arcott to propose a toast. But then, it had been a damn satisfying day, no two ways about it. With Rafe Dahlquist stirred into the mix, they were advancing miles at a stretch now, not fucking inches.
Which, of course, Theo Siegel reflected, didn’t say a thing about what they might be advancing toward….
The hour was late now, and bone-weary from the day’s labors, he was dining with Jeff Arcott and Melissa Wade in what had once been a faculty conference room on the third floor of the Nils Bohr Applied Physics Building, in the college town of Atherton, at a table that seemed too big for just the three of them.
The walls were decorated with framed NASA photographs: the earth from geosynchronous orbit; the Mars Pathfinder on the ancient floodplain of Ares Vallis; the International Space Station. Icons of a lost age. Was the ISS still in orbit, Theo wondered, or had it come plummeting down through the atmosphere, to impact, perhaps, on a newly medievalized Europe or Japan, startling the serfs and the samurai?
Melissa had done the cooking, had cadged together the ingredients for chicken pasta with tequila cream sauce and a side salad of field greens, candied walnuts and gorgonzola. It was incredible, like everything she set her mind to, remarkable; she must have been striking bargains all over town, even after logging in her own full day on Jeff’s grand mechanism, his Infernal Device.
Theo savored every bite, filled with gratitude…all the while knowing that Melissa had offered up this delectable sacrifice to Jeff, with Theo himself merely a collateral beneficiary, a side effect.
As with so many of their meals together, Theo recognized that, for himself at least, sour grapes was invariably on the menu.
He willed himself to let it go, as much as he could. In this life, the road went a whole lot smoother if you resigned yourself to what was rather than what you’d like it to be, or supposed it should be.
Particularly since the Change had locked its jaws on the planet. A whole hell of a lot came down that you had precious little say in: where you’d live; what you’d do….
Even whether you’d be human or not.
That’s when it really counted who your friends were.
Theo looked about at Melissa and Jeff, and reflected that it wasn’t such a bad bargain after all, compared to what might have been, what he might have become.
He shuddered, remembering the convulsive curvature of his spine that been mere terrifying preamble, just as Melissa no doubt recalled her fevers, her lightening body.
If Theo reached behind his neck, he could feel the small lump where Arcott had sutured a garnet into a pocket of his skin. Melissa, he knew, possessed a similar lump.
Of all those resident in town when calamity had struck, only they two had been granted reprieve, Jeff’s godly dispensation. Of the rest, the luckless ones, the glowing changelings siphoned away by the Storm, the disfigured wretches condemned to hide in shadow and belowground, Jeff hadn’t lifted a finger to avert their fate.
He rescued us because we were his friends. And so we remain his friends.
Or perhaps it was merely because he’d had continuing need of them….
Jeff himself had required no such intervention. He had remained resolutely unchanged, utterly human-at least, as human as he’d been to begin with; incandescent, elusive, cryptic.
How had he known to perform this service upon them? The same way he had known to reelectrify the town, to mount this blazing fresh project that now consumed all three of them. Like everything with Jeff, it stemmed from his brilliance…and from the secrets borne to him on the night winds.
Melissa had been talking about the visitors. “I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “They seem like good people, but this Griffin guy definitely has an agenda, and he’s being cagey about his ultimate goals.”
Jeff Arcott swirled his glass of wine thoughtfully.
“They make a good argument, though,” Theo said. “I talked to the woman, Colleen. Her attitude is, we have this new tech, why don’t we share it?”
“And what did you tell her?” Jeff inquired.
“That it’s all luck and trial-and-error, and we don’t even pretend to understand it ourselves.”
“That’s good,” Arcott said. “It’s even true, more or less.”
“It felt like a lie.”
“What would you have us tell them?”
“Everything. Why not?”
“Everything is a pretty tall order.”
Theo could feel his expression growing icy. Then Melissa stepped in.
“We’re not unsympathetic, Theo,” she said, with that voice like music, like wind chimes, and he felt himself warming again, even knowing that, while she claimed she and Arcott sympathized, she was really the only one who did.
“It would be wonderful to be able to share everything,” Melissa added. “But things are still precarious here. If you signed on to a hunting party sometime, you’d see how hard it is to keep all this going.”
Melissa herself had put in some scaveng
ing duty, Theo recalled. The Atherton “hunting parties” hunted gemstones, not animals. In the early days they had raided the town itself, ransacking abandoned homes for jewelry-a macabre exercise, Theo thought, like plucking gold from a corpse’s teeth. Over the course of more recent months, the search had been expanded to nearby towns. And word was out on the trading routes that some wandering “gypsies” would pay handsomely in dry goods and matches for otherwise useless decorative stones. This was both good and bad: it increased the supply but also drove up the price.
And no amount of gemstones was enough to feed the voracious appetite of Jeff Arcott, whose experiments sucked up every stone not allotted to transportation or basic support.
But then, Jeff’s supply was far beyond what the hunting parties supplied; he had another source, one he chose not to discuss. Theo had seen him, however, on his late-night forays to the outskirts of town; had watched from hiding as the furtive shadows delivered the vast supplies needed to construct the new device of enigmatic design and purpose.
Theo knew these lurkers were not the benign, timid ones he sometimes drove supplies to out beyond the periphery of town, the grunters that had been eagerly awaiting him when that dragon had swooped down out of the setting sun and nearly filleted him; would have, too, if Cal Griffin hadn’t scooped up that fallen rifle and put paid to it.
No, these were creatures of a supremely nastier stripe. And while Theo sympathized, no, make that empathized-hell, tell the truth, identified-with the malformed, sad-sack bastards shivering out in what had once been soy and corn fields beyond town, he didn’t want to even consider any similarities between himself and those muttering dark little monsters that did the grunt work (literally) for Arcott under cover of night.
Even though the sight of them moving rapidly on stealthy feet set off some unspoken call within him that screeched like a smoke alarm.
“If it was widely known what we do,” Arcott was continuing, snaring Theo’s attention once more, “we wouldn’t be able to do it. We’d be fighting over resources.”
It was a good excuse, Theo thought, for maintaining a monopoly. It was probably even true.
“Whereas,” Arcott went on, “given a little time, a little understanding, we can maybe learn to synthesize the effect in a way that’s both affordable and exportable.”
Oh, noble dream. This would have been less convincing had it come from anyone other that Jeff. Arcott had been blessed with credibility. He was tall, raven-haired, with dazzling blue eyes, damn near angelic, if a dark angel. He looked utterly guileless in his jeans and ratty bomber jacket.
Theo pushed aside his glass of wine. It was making him surly.
And after that, if he kept drinking, it would make him loquacious, which was the last thing he wanted to be right now. Because Theo Siegel had a secret, one newly minted.
On his way here through the crisp night air, walking behind the dark bulk of Married Student Housing, he had heard the murmuring of a voice that should not be there, should very much be under lock and key elsewhere.
Not that Theo should have been able to hear that voice through so many layers of lath and plaster, and at such a distance. But there were times, fleeting moments, when his hearing was preternaturally sharp, his eyesight and sense of smell uncannily keen. And other times when he felt unusual aches and pains in his muscles and ligaments and bones, brief discomfitures that thankfully passed and left only dread.
He owed Jeff a lot, Theo knew. And Jeff was his friend-or, at least, had taken actions that a friend might take.
But nevertheless, he chose not to tell Jeff Arcott that the man playing hooky, the errant voice he’d overheard, was Rafe Dahlquist, or that Cal Griffin was there with him.
In spite of his history with Jeff, or perhaps more accurately because of it, Theo realized he was coming to trust Griffin a good deal more than Jeff.
And down what twisting, divergent path, he wondered, might that ultimately lead?
Time would tell, as it always did. Every story had an ending, whether good or bad. For now, he would keep mum, and let the newcomers have their secrets.
Still, Theo felt just giddy enough to offer up one further tidbit from his earlier conversation. “The woman Colleen mentioned something called the Source Project.” He paused. “Almost like she wanted to see if I recognized the name. Whether I would flinch or frown or something.”
The way you just did, he thought, watching Arcott.
“What did you tell her?” Arcott asked.
“That I’d never heard of it.”
“Good,” Jeff Arcott said, but his expression remained thoughtful.
And he kept a careful, sidelong watch on Theo the rest of that night.
THIRTY-ONE
SUN AND HEART AND STONE
In the apartment Melissa Wade had assigned him in Married Student Housing, across the hall from where Colleen and Doc lay sleeping, Cal Griffin was restless.
He had slept fitfully for a few hours atop the old mattress, vagrant springs pressing insistently into his back, dimly aware of the stubborn odors of this room that had seen much use: the array of cold pizzas, textbooks running to mildew, sweatclothes piled in heaps; all of it cleaned out now but too late to exorcise their ghosts. Twice, he thought he heard bells ringing in the distance, or imagined it.
He woke again, at some hour after midnight but still well before dawn, and couldn’t find his way back to sleep.
Awake in the dark, he heard no bells but was alert to a thousand other subtle sounds. The tick and crackle of the old building as it gave up the last of its stored heat to the dark.
From outside, he heard the brittle conversation of autumn trees; he heard an animal, maybe a raccoon, trundling through the unmown grass. His hearing had become very acute.
Hours before, he had sent Goldie to escort Rafe Dahlquist through the door in the air, back to his room. Neither the guards standing unaware at their posts outside his quarters nor Jeff Arcott nor any of his lieutenants must have the slightest inkling that Dahlquist had taken a little sojourn tonight, and told all.
Nor that Doc had shared his day’s researches and findings with Dahlquist, and that together with Cal and Colleen and even Goldie, they had come up with an alternate plan.
One that, if it worked, would put the Spirit Radio to a very different purpose than its designers intended.
But for now, Dahlquist was merely to keep right on working, to draw not the least suspicion down upon himself.
Meanwhile, he would pull a double shift, moonlighting on a series of experiments and tests to see if what Cal had in mind had the faintest prayer of working.
Because if it didn’t, then their only option was to bring this whole place crashing down around their ears, and that was a far from pleasant prospect….
Which explained more or less why Cal was having trouble sleeping.
He climbed out of bed in his T-shirt and boxers, pulled on his 501s and buttoned them, grabbed a jacket from where he had dropped it at the foot of his bed, and eased on his shoes without undoing the laces. He buckled on his sword and walked out of the apartment.
There was a little more light in the hallway despite it being after curfew, with battery-powered LED emergency lights posted on the walls, each tiny white box equipped with a set of garnets arrayed in the shape of a horizontal 8, the infinity symbol.
He found the stairwell and climbed up to the flat roof of the aging apartment building. The moonlight was bright enough to make the town seem cased in white ice. It was almost cold enough tonight for genuine ice-well, chilly, anyhow. The breeze was from the north, and it carried the faint sound of calls that weren’t quite wolves and weren’t quite men. Cal didn’t care for that noise. It was too human, too heartbroken.
Cal practiced his moves on the roof of the school building, where he wouldn’t be seen, shuffling his scuffed Nikes over gravel and tar. The night sky was clear and deep, and soon the wind fell off and the air hung motionless. Despite the cold, with the effort of move
ment he soon felt the sweat on his arms and back.
This sword had taught him a great deal. Even back when he had discovered it atop a heap of trash culled by Herman Goldman from the profligate curbs of Manhattan (and before that, when he’d first seen it in that disturbing, prescient dream), he had recognized its style and quality. As metalwork, its design held simplicity and sturdiness. No need for gaudy ornamentation, it effortlessly wore its purpose and primacy; it took an edge and kept it exceeding well. Its leather scabbard was dyed rust-red and worked with depressions for fingers that exactly matched his own. There was also a subtle design embossed around the finger grooves that could be barely discerned, it was so worn now, of a sun and a heart and a stone.
In the long journey here, both sword and man had been tested and seen hard use; and while it could not be said they had emerged unscathed, they had not been broken, merely further tempered.
The sword itself had been his best teacher. It moved smoothly in certain ways, resisted him in others. It wanted his wrist turned thus, wanted his shoulders squared, his body balanced. It counseled him to use its mass and momentum, not fight them.
He worked for twenty minutes in the autumn night, emptying his head and letting the sword take him. Thrust and parry, crouch and whirl. Had anyone been watching, they would have marveled at the speed and efficiency with which blade and wielder moved as one.
But to Cal there were only the myriad flaws and shortcomings within himself, the many missed opportunities, and the long road ahead toward the proficiency that so eluded him…at the same time sensing that that other road, the one to his dark objective, to Tina and the Source, would be shorter by far.
Time was no ally, Cal knew; it was a merciless, relentless adversary.
At length his arm tired. He let the swordpoint drop. Finished.
But the sword still felt alive with…something. Readiness? Impatience? Perhaps both, and a good deal more. It held mysteries and secrets, of both its destination and origin, a puzzle box that might open if it chose to reveal itself.
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