Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  He logged into the videocon of the conference already in progress from a secure facility in Whitehall. Trotter had never intended to sit still for all of it since he was quite sure the level of scientific mumbo jumbo would have been a waste of his time. He had watched Leroy Bitterman’s opening remarks earlier in the day; now he wanted to hear the conclusions and judging from Bitterman’s comments, the meeting was down to the short strokes.

  Trotter used his trackpad to train the cameras successively on each quadrant of the conference table. Previously, he had reviewed the security clearances of the participating physicists and had voiced the concern, notwithstanding their confidentiality agreements, whether they could be trusted with the enormity of the disclosures. Now, studying the strain evident on their faces, he continued to worry about them keeping their mouths shut. Bitterman had insisted that these were all top-level people who had solid track records as government consultants and besides, what choice did they have? Outside experts were required.

  “I don’t know how to shut down the portal we’ve created, Mr. Trotter,” Bitterman had said. “Do you?”

  The CIA, FBI, and MI5 had all signed off on the meeting and finally Trotter and MI6 had reluctantly agreed.

  Anton Meissner, professor of high-energy physics from MIT, politely raised his hand and Bitterman acknowledged him.

  “Most of us here today have participated in the Hercules experiment in one way or another over the years,” Meissner said, “and I don’t think there were any dissenters to the final protocols which contemplated raising the collider energies in a stepwise fashion. We all thought it was right to explore lower energies before proceeding to 30 TeV, not because we had outsized concerns about strangelet production, but because it just seemed prudent.” He angrily pointed at Henry Quint who was present at the back of the room having not been afforded a seat of honor at the table. Singled out, Quint bowed his head. “Henry, I don’t know what possessed you to leapfrog to thirty but now we’ve got a heck of a mess to clean up. The problem is, none of us knows how to fix this. We’ve got self-propagating waves of poorly understood and highly exotic graviton-strangelet quantum fields, that’s clear enough, but I don’t think we’ve got any experimental apparati for testing ways to shut these fields down. It’s going to be down to theoretical models.”

  Marcel DuBois, from CERN in Geneva, agreed and said, “I think we have to throw a lot of supercomputing power at the problem. It would be helpful to broaden the base well beyond those physicists here today, Leroy. Each of us could suggest additional people.”

  Bitterman shook his head. “Our goverments are mightily worried about leaks. The UK, in particular, is determined not to have panic and unrest among the civilian population. I’m afraid we’re going to have to restrict information flows to this group only.”

  “I think that’s a bad idea,” Evan Kirkman from Oxford said.

  “We’ll agree to revisit the decision,” Bitterman said. “But for now it has to stand.”

  Greta Velling from the Freie Universität of Berlin

  said, “Look, someone’s got to say it, so let it be me. You’re planning on firing up the collider again in nineteen days. That can’t be a good thing. I’m not saying we know it will make things worse but I don’t see how it can improve the situation. The aberrant quantum fields are bound to propagate further even if we were to shut down the collider as soon as our people return.”

  “So you would advocate what?” Bitterman asked.

  “I would say, don’t run the collider again,” Velling said. “Find the extra-dimensionals who haven’t been rounded up, bundle them with the ones you’ve caught, and figure out what to do with them. Hopefully we won’t have additional transfers.”

  “And strand our people on the other side?” Bitterman asked.

  Velling said “Yes,” at the same time that Trotter shouted it out loud to himself.

  “Well, I say, no,” Marcel DuBois said emphatically, slapping the table hard. “Emily Loughty worked for me. I know her very well. We all know her and like her. She’s braver by far than all of us put together and we owe her, the equally brave men who undertook a rescue mission, and the poor people who got swept up in this disaster, the full measure of our support. I suggest we all go home, sharpen our pencils, and use our brains to solve this problem.”

  Trotter scanned the faces of the scientists and when he saw that Velling had few if any supporters he clicked off the screen and threw a pen across the room.

  25

  Antonio had finally arrived.

  Seated in his saddle he drank in the vast palace soaring over the muddy streets of the sprawling city. To him it was still Rome’s Borgia Palace, and though King Cesare was headless in a rotting room, he suspected that Romans would continue to call it by that name for a long time.

  He munched on a rind of crust waiting for his emissary to return. All his men were dog-tired. They had journeyed from Paris to Rome at break-neck speed, some falling from their saddles in exhaustion.

  “For Garibaldi!” he had cried to rally them. “For Italia!” But only to himself he had said, “For Caterina.”

  Caterina Sforza, Borgia’s beautiful and tragic queen, trapped in her ornate cage for centuries by her monstrous husband, now freed from her yoke by Garibaldi’s uprising to live as a free woman.

  When last he saw her, the smell of gunpowder permeating the inner sanctum of the palace, he had wiped the blood of the destroyed Borgia king from her cheek. She had asked his name and he had proudly introduced himself. She had said the words which he had repeated to himself many times a day: “I do not know my fate, but if your master does indeed spare me, I would know you better, Antonio.”

  Now with the Macedonians advancing from the Aegean, Caterina had to be saved again. And when he did, he would be bolder this time. He would master his shyness and ask to know her better. Much better.

  His emissary returned and gave Antonio the news he was hoping to receive. Caterina was well and would receive him that very evening. As they spoke, provisions were being delivered from the palace to Garibaldi’s nearby palazzo, where Antonio and his soldiers would be bivouacked.

  Antonio rode to the palazzo giddy with anticipation. He would wash away his grime and try to find some suitable clothes. He would lubricate himself with wine—just enough to loosen his tongue, but not enough to turn it foolish. He would not lay with her that night, even if she wished it. First he had to attend to the defense of Rome. Later, when the Macedonians had been sent fleeing back to their ships, then he would claim his prize and all his miserable years in Hell would, at least for a night, fade from memory.

  It was dark when Antonio and his lieutenants rode to the palace. The streets were calm, the taverns they passed filled with knots of merchants, the only men with money to spend on another man’s beer. The approach to the palace was lit with torches. Passing through the outer portcullis, which was manned by rigid guards, Antonio wondered who these men were. Caterina’s private soldiers? Remnants of Borgia’s guard? Garibaldi loyalists? He would have to know this if he was to mount a defense of the city. If there were any question as to their mettle, he would replace them with members of his own brigade.

  In the inner courtyard he dismounted and led his contingent of soldiers inside through galleries festooned with the magnificent oils that Caravaggio had painted under Borgia’s patronage.

  He caught sight of himself in a large mirror, one of the palace’s treasures, and while he was pleased at the way his long black hair flowed from under his new cap, one of Garibaldi’s lent by a servant at the palazzo, he self-consciously realized he had forgotten to have his dusty boots cleaned. That weighed on his mind while he waited in the throne room, hands clasped behind his frock coat.

  When she appeared, preceded by her ladies and bodyguards, she looked as fetching as he had remembered. She had died in her forties, a striking beauty of her day, and while most beautiful women saw their good looks ground down by the ravages of Hell, Caterina ha
d been unusually pampered. She remained quite lovely, with delicate, fine features and reddish hair that framed her face in curlicues. She was wearing the same green velvet dress Antonio had seen the day Borgia was overthrown. He wondered if she was, perhaps, sending him a message.

  He bowed deeply.

  “Antonio Di Constanzo,” she said, after settling upon her old throne. “Come.”

  She held out her hand and he kissed it, allowing his lips to linger on her skin for an improper second too long.

  “My lady, I bring you greetings from King Giuseppe.”

  She smiled. “I am still not used to calling Signore Garibaldi, king. How is he?”

  “He is well, my lady. He has won a great battle against the combined forces of the Germans and Russians.”

  “Has he? With the assistance of that living man who throws bombs?”

  “Yes, this man, John Camp, was of great help, as was the alliance King Giuseppe was able to forge with the French. In fact, he has made a coup against King Maximilien and now he is the monarch of a combined Italian and French kingdom.”

  “That is indeed remarkable. He has come such a long way in such a short time. I wonder where it will all lead?”

  “To a better Europa, my lady. To a better Hell.”

  She smiled. “A better Hell. Fine words. Tell me, Antonio, why have you returned to Rome?”

  “We have received word of an invasion force of Macedonians and Slavs landing upon our shores. Surely you are aware.”

  “I am indeed.”

  “King Giuseppe asked me to lead a force of the finest Italian soldiers to defend our kingdom and that is what I have done. I would meet tonight with those commanders who have remained in Italia while we fought in foreign lands. I would march south to intercept the Macedonians before they are able to lay siege to Rome.”

  “But why would you march south, Antonio?” she asked.

  “Because, my lady, I presume that is where the attackers find themselves. They would take Naples, then march on Rome itself.”

  “I really do not think you have to go to such trouble,” Caterina said, removing her yellow scarf and letting it fall to the ground.

  Antonio stooped to retrieve the garment but as he did, Caterina’s guards launched their spears at Antonio’s men, impaling them with ruthless efficiency.

  Antonio abruptly straightened and went for his sword but a dozen guards rushed him and despite his struggles his arms were pinned to his side.

  A young, bronzed and muscular man in a leather battle skirt and the purple regalia of the Macedonian army entered the hall and stood beside Caterina.

  “What is this treachery?” Antonio shouted over the moans of his wounded men.

  The Macedonian answered in rudimentary Italian. “I save you from a march, signore. I am not in the south. I am before you.”

  “Who are you?” Antonio demanded.

  The young man flashed a smile, not at him but at Caterina who responded by sliding her tongue seductively between pouting lips. Antonio saw he had a dagger in his hand. He tried to break free but was subdued with a knee to a kidney.

  “I am King Alexander,” he said, closing the distance between them with a few long strides and burying the knife to the hilt between Antonio’s ribs. “But you may call me Alexander the Great.”

  After hours of watching the comings and goings around Queen Mécia’s palace, Trevor and Brian came to the conclusion there was no easy way to get inside. They thought there might be an opportunity of stowing away in a delivery wagon but at the main gate they saw soldiers pushing swords through bushels of produce strapped to a cart.

  Standing in a nearby alleyway, turning away from the wretches who passed them by, Brian said, “I reckon we should just go up to the gate and surrender and hope we don’t get summarily executed.”

  “I don’t love the idea,” Trevor said, but just then, soldiers with muskets began marching down the alley from both directions, shouting at them to lay down their weapons.

  “Like it better now?” Brian asked, tossing down his sword.

  An officer poked a pistol against Trevor’s chest and began screaming at him.

  “What’s he saying?” Trevor asked.

  “Best I can tell he’s asking whether you’re a Moorish spy,” Brian said.

  “For fuck’s sake, tell him I’m not.”

  “You think?”

  They were roughly bundled into the palace where the manhandling continued. Stripped of their belongings and their book, they found themselves roped together, back-to-back, inside a windowless room decorated with a few good pieces of furniture.

  A well-dressed man entered and in an apparent state of alarm he began addressing them in rapid-fire Portuguese. When that produced blank stares, he switched to Spanish.

  “English,” Brian said, speaking slowly. “Do you speak English?”

  The man looked surprised. “English? Yes, I can speak English. Who are you? Why you here? Are you spies? Why you seem so different?”

  “We’re not spies,” Trevor said. “And I’m not Moorish. I don’t even know what that is.”

  “We’re here to see the queen,” Brian said. “We’re friends. We brought her a very special book. Did you see it?”

  The Portuguese man said he did and it puzzled him greatly.

  “Untie us and we’ll give you all the answers,” Brian said. “Prepare to be amazed.”

  The man was Felipe Guomez, principal advisor to Queen Mécia, a courtly, nervous man who became increasingly agitated when they told him who they were and what they wanted. To each of his “is impossibles,” they countered with “no, it’s true,” until Guomez threw his hands in the air and admitted that perhaps they were telling the truth after all.

  “I have heard that King Pedro, he consorts with a woman who is like you, by which I mean live in the flesh. I did not believe this but now maybe I believe. Perhaps this is the woman you seek.”

  “That’s definitely her,” Trevor said, jumping out of his skin.

  “Wait here,” Guomez said. “I speak with the queen.”

  Queen Mécia must have been gorgeous in her youth, and she had probably still been handsome when she died of the plague in her forties. Centuries in Hell had left her with the listless eyes and flat countenance common to long-term Hellers, but owing to her high status and good nutrition, she retained a voluptuousness that she accentuated with a low-cut gown.

  When Trevor and Brian were summoned to see her in an intimate audience chamber she looked them up and down but aimed her attention squarely at Brian.

  She spoke no English, relying on Guomez to translate. He had clearly briefed her; she did not demand any further explanation of their situation. Rather she began with two interesting questions: was Hell anything like they had expected and how did they intend to return to the land of the living?

  Trevor began to answer when she stopped him in midsentence and said, “No him.”

  “I think she fancies you,” Trevor whispered.

  “Fuck me,” Brian whispered back, then answered that he wasn’t really a religious man so he hadn’t believed Hell existed at all.

  The queen laughed at that and bade him to continue.

  “Having said that,” he said, “I suppose I would have expected more of the fire and brimstone that you read about, Satan and his minions, that sort of thing. Nothing like this, if you must know.”

  “I too was surprised by what I found here,” she said. “For some it is terrifying. For me it is dull and boring. I crave excitement.”

  “Spice of life,” he said.

  She nodded vigorously and repeated the second question.

  He told her he didn’t understand how all this worked but that there were clever scientists in the modern times who had a machine to send them to Hell and bring them back. “We’ve got to get ourselves and the woman we’re looking for, the one your husband the king’s got, back to England in about two and a half weeks. They’re going to push a button and, poof, we’ll b
e back home.”

  She seemed delighted by the word poof and after she understood its meaning she said it over and over.

  “Tell me about this woman you seek?” she asked. “Is she yours?”

  “Mine?” Brian said. “Heavens no. I’ve never even met her.” He angled a thumb at Trevor. “She’s a friend of his.”

  “Boa, boa,” she said and Guomez affected her pleased tone, “Good, good.”

  “You’re toast,” Trevor whispered.

  The queen added, “So, about this woman: my confidants in Burgos told me there was a strange new woman who has commanded the attention of the king. He often acquires new concubines. Perhaps this is your woman.”

  Brian said, “We think it’s her. That’s why we need to get to Burgos.”

  The queen said something to Guomez who held up their book, The Chemistry of Powder and Explosives, and she asked, “What is this book? Why is it of value?”

  Brian affected the confidence of the BBC presenter he was to sell its importance. “What Señor Guomez has in his hand can change everything for Your Majesty. This book holds the secret recipes developed over many years that will allow you to make powerful weapons to defeat your enemies. Do you have many scientists lying about?”

  “Not so many,” Guomez replied for her. “They do not usually come.”

  Undeterred, Brian said, “Well, no mind. Anyone who can follow a recipe can use this book to make big bombs and such.”

  “Can these bombs defeat the Moors?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. Moors, anyone.”

  “Is he a scientist?” she asked, waving toward Trevor with the back of her hand.

  “No, but he’s a military man,” Brian said.

  “Can he make these bombs?”

  “I expect he can.”

  “Why’d you say that?” Trevor whispered.

  “Play along, will you?” Brian whispered back before quickly turning to her and saying, “He says he definitely can. So what I would respectfully request from Your Majesty, is your help in getting us to Burgos to secure the release of his woman friend.”