The Traveler fr-1

by John Twelve Hawks

  At six o’clock in the evening the Protective Link device tracked Lawrence as he left the research center and drove back to his town house. Locking the front door, he stripped off his work clothes, pulled on a black cotton robe, and entered his secret room.

  He wanted to give Linden an update on the Crossover Project, but the moment he got on the Internet a small blue box began flashing on the top left-hand corner of his screen. Two years ago, after Lawrence was given a new access code to the Brethren’s computer system, he designed a special program to search for data about his father. Once the program was released, it scurried through the Internet like a ferret hunting for rats in an old house. Today it had found information about his father in the evidence files of the Osaka Police Department.

  Two swords were displayed in Sparrow’s photograph: one with a gold handle and another with jade fittings. Back in Paris, Linden explained that Lawrence’s mother had given the jade sword to a Harlequin named Thorn who passed it on to the Corrigan family. Lawrence guessed that Gabriel Corrigan was still carrying the weapon when Boone and his mercenaries attacked the clothing factory.

  A jade sword. A gold sword. Perhaps there were others. Lawrence had learned that the most famous sword maker in Japanese history was a priest named Masamune. He had forged his blades during the thirteenth century; when the Mongols attempted to invade Japan. The ruling emperor had ordered a series of prayer rituals at Buddhist temples, and many famous swords were created as religious offerings. Masamune himself had forged a perfect sword with a diamond in its handle to inspire his ten students, the Jittetsu. As they learned how to hammer steel, each of the students had created one special weapon to present to their master.

  Lawrence’s computer program had found the Web site of a Buddhist priest living in Kyoto. The site gave the names of the ten Jittetsu and their special swords.

  I. Hasabe Kinishige – Silver

  II. Kanemitsu – Gold

  III. Go Yoshiro – Wood

  IV. Naotsuna – Pearl

  V. Sa – Bone

  VI. Rai Kunitsugu – Ivory

  VII. Kinju – Jade

  VIII. Shizu Kaneuji – Iron

  IX. Chogi – Bronze

  X. Saeki Norishige – Coral

  A jade sword. A gold sword. The other Jittetsu swords had disappeared-probably lost in earthquakes or wars-but the doomed line of Japanese Harlequins had protected two of these sacred weapons. Now Gabriel Corrigan was carrying one of these treasures and the other was used to kill Yakuza in a blood-splattered banquet hall.

  The search program moved through the lists of police evidence and translated the Japanese characters into English. Antique tachi (long sword). Gold handle. Criminal investigation 15433. Evidence missing.

  Not missing, he thought. Stolen. The Brethren must have taken the gold sword from the Osaka police. It could be in Japan or America. Maybe it was stored at the research center, just a few feet away from his desk.

  Lawrence Takawa was ready to jump up and drive back to the center. He controlled his emotions and switched off his computer. When Kennard Nash first told him about the Virtual Panopticon, it was just a philosophical theory, but now he actually lived inside the invisible prison. After one or two generations, every citizen in the industrial world would have to make the same assumption: that they were being tracked and monitored by the Vast Machine.

  I’m alone, Lawrence thought. Yes. Completely alone. But he assumed a new mask that made him look alert, diligent, and ready to obey.

  35

  Sometimes Dr. Richardson felt like his old life had completely disappeared. He dreamed of his return to New Haven like a ghost from Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, standing on the street in the cold darkness while his former friends and colleagues were inside his own house laughing and drinking wine.

  It was clear that he never should have agreed to live at the research compound in Westchester County. He thought it would take weeks to arrange his departure from Yale, but the Evergreen Foundation appeared to wield extraordinary power at the university. The dean of the Yale Medical School had personally agreed to Richardson’s sabbatical at full salary, and then asked if the foundation might be interested in funding the new genetic research lab. Lawrence Takawa hired a Columbia University neurologist who agreed to drive up every Tuesday and Thursday to finish teaching Richardson’s classes. Five days after his interview with General Nash, two security men showed up at Richardson’s house, helped him pack, and drove him to the compound.

  His new world was comfortable, but very restricted. Lawrence Takawa had given Dr. Richardson a clip-on Protective Link ID, and this determined his access to the different parts of the facility. Richardson could enter the library and the administrative center, but he was denied access to the computer area, the genetic research center, and the windowless building called the Tomb.

  During his first week at the facility, he worked in the library basement practicing his surgical skills on the brains of dogs and chimpanzees as well as a fat cadaver with a white beard that the staff called Kris Kringle. Now that the Teflon-coated wires had been successfully inserted in Michael Corrigan’s brain, Richardson spent most of his time in his small apartment at the administrative center or in a cubicle at the library.

  The Green Book gave a summary of the extensive neurological research performed on Travelers. None of the reports had been published, and thick black lines disguised the names of the various research teams. The Chinese scientists had apparently used torture on Tibetan Travelers; the footnotes described chemical and electric-shock treatments. If a Traveler died during a torture session a discreet asterisk would be placed beside the case number of the subject.

  Dr. Richardson felt like he understood the key aspects of a Traveler’s brain activity. The nervous system produced a mild electric charge. When the Traveler was going into a trance state, the charge became stronger and showed a distinctive pulsing pattern. Suddenly everything seemed to switch off in the cerebrum. Respiration and cardiovascular activity was minimal. Except for a low-level response in the medulla oblongata, the patient was technically brain-dead. During this time, the Traveler’s neurological energy was in another realm.

  Most Travelers showed a genetic link to a parent or relative who had the power, but this wasn’t always true. A Traveler could appear in the middle of rural China, born to a peasant family that had never traveled to another realm. A research team at the University of Utah was currently preparing a secret genealogy database involving all known Travelers and their ancestors.

  Dr. Richardson wasn’t sure what information was restricted and what could be shared with the rest of the staff. His anesthesiologist, Dr. Lau, and the surgical nurse, Miss Yang, had been flown in from Taiwan for the experiment. When the three of them ate together at the cafeteria, they talked about practical matters or Miss Yang’s passion for old-fashioned American musicals.

  Richardson didn’t want to discuss The Sound of Music or Oklahoma. He was worried about the possible failure of the experiment. There was no Pathfinder to guide Michael, and his team hadn’t received any special drugs that would force the Traveler’s Light out of his body. The neurologist sent a general e-mail asking for help from other research teams working at the facility. Twelve hours later, he received a lab report from the genetic research building.

  The report described an experiment involving cell regeneration. Richardson had studied the concept many years ago in his undergraduate biology class. He and his lab partner had cut a flatworm into twelve different pieces. A few weeks later, there were twelve identical versions of the original creature. Certain amphibians, such as salamanders, could lose a leg and grow a new one. The Research Project Agency of the United States Defense Department had spent millions of dollars on regeneration experiments with mammals. The Defense Department said it wanted to grow new fingers and arms for injured veterans, but there were rumors of more ambitious attempts at regeneration. One government scientist told a congressional panel that the future Americ
an soldier would be able to sustain a major bullet wound, heal himself, and continue fighting.

  Apparently the Evergreen Foundation had gone far beyond that initial research in regeneration. The lab report described how a hybrid animal called a “splicer” could stop bleeding from a serious wound in one to two minutes and could regenerate a severed spinal nerve in less than a week. How these scientists had achieved these results was never described. Richardson was reading the report a second time when Lawrence Takawa appeared in the library.

  “I just found out that you received some unauthorized information from our genetic research team.”

  “I’m glad it happened,” Richardson said. “This data is very promising. Who’s in charge of the program?”

  Instead of responding, Lawrence took out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Could you send someone over to the library,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The Evergreen Foundation isn’t ready to publish its discoveries. If you mention the report to anyone, Mr. Boone will see it as a security violation.”

  A security guard entered the library and Richardson felt sick to his stomach. Lawrence stood beside the cubicle with a bland expression on his face.

  “Dr. Richardson needs to replace his computer,” Lawrence announced as if there had been some kind of equipment failure. The guard immediately disconnected the computer, picked it up, and carried the machine out of the library. Lawrence glanced at his watch. “It’s almost one o’clock, Doctor. Why don’t you go have lunch.”

  Richardson ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of barley soup, but he was too tense to finish the meal. When he returned to the library, a new computer had been placed in his cubicle. The lab report wasn’t on the new hard disk, but the foundation’s computer staff had downloaded a sophisticated chess simulator. The neurologist tried not to think of negative consequences, but it was difficult to control his thoughts. He nervously played endgames for the rest of the day.

  ***

  ONE NIGHT AFTER dinner Richardson remained in the employee cafeteria. He tried to read a New York Times article about something called the New Spirituality while a group of young computer programmers sat at a nearby table and made loud jokes about a pornographic video game.

  Someone touched his shoulder and he turned around to find Lawrence Takawa and Nathan Boone. Richardson hadn’t seen the security man for several weeks and had decided that his previous fear was an irrational reaction. Now that Boone was staring at him, the fear returned. There was something about the man that was very intimidating.

  “I have some wonderful news,” Lawrence said. “One of our contacts just called about a drug we’ve been investigating called 3B3. We think it might help Michael Corrigan cross over.”

  “Who developed the drug?”

  Lawrence shrugged his shoulders as if this wasn’t important. “We don’t know.”

  “Can I read the lab reports?”

  “There aren’t any.”

  “When can I get a supply of this drug?”

  “You’re coming with me,” Boone said. “We’re going to look for it together. If we find a source, you need to make a quick evaluation.”

  * * *

  THE TWO MEN left immediately, driving down to Manhattan in Boone’s SUV. Boone wore a telephone headset and he answered a series of calls-never saying anything specific or mentioning anybody’s name. Listening to scattered comments, Richardson concluded that Boone’s men were searching for someone in California who had a dangerous female bodyguard.

  “If you find her, watch her hands and don’t let her get near you,” Boone told someone. “I would say eight feet is the approximate safety zone.”

  There was a long pause and Boone received some more information.

  “I don’t think the Irish woman is in America,” he said. “My European sources tell me she’s completely dropped out of sight. If you see her, respond in an extreme manner. She has no restraint whatsoever. Highly dangerous. Do you know what happened in Sicily? Yes? Well, don’t forget.”

  Boone switched off his phone and concentrated on the road. Light from the car’s instrument panel was reflected off the lenses of his eyeglasses. “Dr. Richardson, I’ve heard reports that you gained access to unauthorized information from the genetic research team.”

  “It was just an accident, Mr. Boone. I wasn’t trying to-”

  “But you didn’t see anything.”

  “Unfortunately I did, but…”

  Boone glared at Richardson as if the neurologist were a stubborn child. “You didn’t see anything,” he repeated.

  “No. I guess I didn’t.”

  “Good.” Boone glided into the right lane and took the turn for New York City. “Then there isn’t a problem.”

  ***

  IT WAS ABOUT ten o’clock in the evening when they reached Manhattan. Richardson stared out the window at a homeless man searching through a trash can and a group of young women laughing as they left a restaurant. After the quiet environment of the research center, New York seemed noisy and uncontrolled. Had he really visited this city with his ex-wife, gone to plays and restaurants? Boone drove over to the east side and parked on Twenty-eighth Street. They got out and walked toward the dark towers of Bellevue Hospital.

  “What are we doing here?” Richardson asked.

  “We’re going to meet a friend of the Evergreen Foundation.” Boone gave Richardson a quick, appraising look. “Tonight you’ll discover how many new friends you have in this world.”

  Boone handed a business card to the bored woman at the reception desk and she allowed them to take the elevator up to the psychiatric ward. On the sixth floor, a uniformed hospital guard sat behind a Plexiglas barrier. The guard didn’t look surprised when Boone pulled an automatic pistol out of his shoulder holster and placed the gun in a little gray locker. They entered the ward. A short Hispanic man wearing a white lab coat was waiting for them. He smiled and extended both hands as if they had just arrived for a birthday party.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Which one of you is Dr. Richardson?”

  “That’s me.”

  “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Raymond Flores. The Evergreen Foundation said you’d be dropping by tonight.”

  Dr. Flores escorted them down the hallway. Even though it was late, a few male patients wearing green cotton pajamas and bathrobes wandered around. All of them were drugged and they moved slowly. Their eyes were dead and their slippers made little hissing sounds as they touched the tile floor.

  “So you work for the foundation?” Flores asked.

  “Yes. I’m in charge of a special project,” Richardson said.

  Dr. Flores passed several patient rooms, then stopped at a locked door. “Someone from the foundation named Takawa asked me to look for admits picked up under the influence of this new street drug, 3B3. No one’s made a chemical analysis yet, but it seems to be a very potent hallucinogen. The people taking it think they’ve been given a vision of different worlds.”

  Flores unlocked the door and they entered a detention cell that smelled of urine and vomit. The only light came from a single bulb protected by a mesh screen. A young man wrapped in a canvas straitjacket lay on the green tile floor. His head was shaved, but a faint haze of blond hair was beginning to appear on his skull.

  The patient opened his eyes and smiled at the three men standing over him. “Hello, everyone. Why don’t you take out your brains and make yourselves comfortable?”

  Dr. Flores smoothed the lapels of his lab coat and smiled pleasantly. “Terry, these gentlemen want to learn about 3B3.”

  Terry blinked twice and Richardson wondered if he was going to say anything at all. Suddenly he began pushing with his legs, wiggling across the floor to a wall, then forcing himself up to a sitting position. “It’s not really a drug. It’s a revelation.”

  “Do you shoot it, snort it, inhale it, or swallow it?” Boone’s voice was calm and deliberately neutral.

/>   “It’s a liquid, light blue, like a summer sky.” Terry closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. “I swallowed it at the club and then I was cracking out of this body and flying, passing through water and fire to a beautiful forest. But I couldn’t stay for more than a few seconds.” He looked disappointed. “The jaguar had green eyes.”

  Dr. Flores glanced at Richardson. “He’s told this story many times, and he always ends up with the jaguar.”

  “So where can I find 3B3?” Richardson asked.

  Terry closed his eyes again and smiled serenely. “Do you know what he charges for one dose? Three hundred and thirty-three dollars. He says it’s a magic number.”

  “And who’s making that kind of money?” Boone asked.

  “Pius Romero. He’s always at the Chan Chan Room.”

  “It’s a midtown dance club,” Dr. Flores explained. “We’ve had several patients who have overdosed there.”

  “This world is too small,” Terry whispered. “Do you realize that? It’s a child’s marble dropped into a pool of water.”

  They followed Flores back out into the corridor. Boone walked away from the two doctors and immediately called someone with his cell phone.

  “Have you examined other patients who have used this drug?” Richardson asked.

  “This is the fourth admit in the last two months. We put them on a combination of Fontex and Valdov for a few days until they’re catatonic, then we lower the dosage and bring them back to reality. After a while, the jaguar disappears.”