“Shh…relax, Donovan,” says Paige in a soft, reassuring whisper, “take a deep breath and relax. Let me in. Just let go, and let me in.”
Cole tries to calm his nerves by taking in a long, slow breath. Before he can exhale his panic subsides, and the landscape of his mind becomes a serene desert island. His feet sink into the warm, white sand as the surf gently washes up to his ankles. He takes a look around at the people bathing in the sun; a few perfectly bronzed sunbathers lie on white towels, soaking in the scenery as they relax in a meditative state.
“Well,” Cole sighs, “I might as well make the best of this. Maybe someone can tell me where I can get one of those little coconuts with the straw in it.” As he turns to locate a bartender he hears a booming sound echo from the clouds above.
“I’m all finished,” shouts Paige, so loud that Cole is forced to cover his ears. The mysterious voice that thunders from overhead doesn’t seem to bother any of the sunbathers; none of them even seemed to notice.
Cole searches the sky for the origin of the explosive sound, but can’t detect anything unusual amidst the fluffy white clouds gently rolling through the sky.
His eyelids flutter open, and with a few tight blinks he’s back on the couch. Paige is still resting comfortably on his lap, staring down at him with a grin. “You did good, rookie. I usually have to apply a lot more force to restrain people when I pop in for a tour, but you accepted my safe zone almost instantly.”
“Safe zone?” asks Cole, feverishly rubbing his eyes like a child who has been unexpectedly awoken from an afternoon nap.
“The island. I know, it’s kinda hacky, but it’s an easy place to conceive that most people accept pretty willingly. Did you get a chance to order a drink, or did I pull you out too quickly?”
“Ahem,” Dia sarcastically coughs and glares accusingly; deliberately trailing her eyes down to her sister’s current seating position.
“Oh, right.” Paige quickly scoots off of Cole’s lap, stretching her arms out as she steps back.
“So,” says Cole, “what did you see, Paige? Anything interesting?”
“Quite a bit, actually; your first trip to the dentist, the winning goal you kicked in an eighth-grade soccer game, some things you did to my sister last night that I really wish I could un-see…but that’s it. Nothing future-ish. And nothing about The General.”
Cole sits back and slumps his shoulders. “Damn. So now what?”
“Now,” says Paige, “we go visit a specialist.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Dia, making no attempt to hide the skepticism in her voice. “What kind of a specialist can read Cole’s mind?”
“Not his mind,” she explains, “his dreams. Dreams are different from memories; no one really knows what causes them, or what makes our subconscious mind produce certain pictures and sounds. Whatever it is that Cole knows about future events, it’s buried so deep that I can’t get anywhere near it.”
Brodie sounds equally skeptical. “Okay, but where do we find this specialist – the yellow pages? I doubt we’ll find someone like this listed in the phone book next to the astrologists and the palm readers.”
“There are only a few people in the world powerful enough to do this kind of work,” says Paige, “and I only know about one of them specifically. He’s in the Pacific North-West back in the United States. But if we’re going to pay him a visit we should bring as much cash as we can, because the top guys don’t work cheap.”
“Alright,” says Dia, “let’s do this. Give him a call and tell him we’re on our way. I’ll rip open a portal and we’ll head over there right now.”
“I can’t,” Paige shrugs, “he doesn’t have a phone, and he isn’t online. I only know about him through his reputation. I have an address, so we just need to go knock on his door and hope he’s still there…and that he’s willing to work with us.”
“So how the hell will he know we’re coming if we don’t call ahead?” asks Jens.
“Well, if he’s as good as everyone says he is,” Paige replies, “then he already knows we’re on our way.”
Chapter Eight – Covalent
Bridgeport, Connecticut | August 28, 2011 | 4:21 pm, Eastern Daylight Time
Sleep deprived and grumpier than usual, Molloy drives up to the Bridgeport Forensic Laboratory in search of a status update.
The recovered bodies and water samples were sent to Connecticut on Council orders. The media would be hounding police relentlessly within the New York City limits, so a state-of-the-art laboratory in a neighboring state provides a more secure location for the evidence, and privacy surrounding the results.
Pulling up to the station, Molloy is surprised to be flagged down by two men in military uniforms. As he pulls over and rolls down his window a young officer leans down and asks to see identification. Producing a driver’s license from his wallet and presenting his detective’s badge, the officer seems suitably satisfied with the credentials and tries to wave him forward.
“Can you tell me what this is about?” asks Molloy before he proceeds through the front gates.
“Orders from General Davenport,” the officer replies. “Just keeping things secure.”
After parking and enduring a series of additional military checkpoints within the building, Molloy is finally granted access to the laboratory several stories underground. He’s greeted by a short, bearded man in a white lab coat wearing round-rimmed glasses. He appears to be in his mid-thirties, but has the pallor of a week-old corpse; Molloy can’t imagine the last time he could have possibly been exposed to the sunlight.
The man waves him into the lab with an inviting gesture. “I’m Professor Dawkins. You must be Detective Molloy; I’ve been expecting you.”
Dawkins leads his guest to a small workstation where a microscope is set up. He motions to the lenses and Molloy leans closer to take a look.
“So what am I looking at here?” he groans after a few seconds of confusion.
“Water,” the Professor replies. “Regular tap water I just got from the sink. Like any other water molecule it contains one oxygen atom and two hydrogen atoms, all connected by covalent bonds.” Dawkins quickly slides the current sample out of the microscope and replaces it with a different one. “Now here is a drop that Miss Gonzalez scooped up from the site after the building in New York went all kablooey. It has the same oxygen and hydrogen as the sample you just saw, but there’s something else in there. It’s a form of organic nanotechnology.”
Molloy notices a subtle difference; a part of the sample seems to have a metallic quality that reflects like a mirror. “Which means what, Professor?”
“It means that there is a microscopic drop inside each water molecule that came out of that portal. Every one contains highly-concentrated antioxidants that would theoretically slow the users aging process if enough were ingested on a consistent basis.”
“So this is designer water?”
“Precisely. Someone made it, and enough for Dia Davenport to flood a fifty-storey building with; so we’re talking about millions of gallons.”
“Well where they hell could she get this much of it from…and how could someone even make water like this?”
“They couldn’t,” Dawkins replies with a meek smile, “at least not with today’s technology. It will probably be decades – maybe centuries – before humankind reaches a point where we can create this type of nanotechnology, especially on such a massive scale. But the possibilities are endless. Imagine if this was in the general population’s water supply? The antioxidants alone would destroy free-radicals…the average person could live for seventy, maybe one hundred years longer. And that’s just what I could detect by studying it for the last couple hours. With some more time who knows what else we could find.”
Molloy straightens his posture and buries his hands deep in his pockets; his eyebrows knit tightly in frustration. “So you’re saying that she ripped open a portal to gallons of water…which are filled with little rob
ots. Robots that make us live longer?”
“Yes, more or less,” says Dawkins, his quiet voice trembling under the pressure. Spending most of his waking hours alone in a windowless laboratory doesn’t afford him many opportunities for human contact, so he’s even less comfortable when dealing with confrontation.
“Uh-huh. And there’s no chance that you’re wrong about what these magic water drops could do?”
“I could be. Like I said, it’s only been a couple hours. But you haven’t seen anything yet.” The professor shuffles through a nearby set of swinging doors with Molloy following close behind. He grabs a white sheet that’s draped over a metal slab and jerks it back, revealing the enormous frame of a heavily muscled bald man with a thin goatee. A long vertical incision in the body’s chest reveals the early stages of an autopsy, and the organs in his upper chest are exposed.
“This is Heinreich,” says Dawkins. “According to intelligence data he has no first name, no known relatives, and no records of any other kind. His prints are clean. We ran him through the facial recognition scanner and as far as we can tell, he doesn’t exist. Now or ever.”
“So he had someone erase his past,” grumbles Molloy, fishing through his pocket for one of his cigars. “Wouldn’t be the first time we ran across something like that.”
“Possibly…The Council is looking into it. Take a look here, this is his – um, Detective,” says the professor, nervously adjusting his glasses. “You can’t smoke that in here.”
Molloy scowls. “What’s the problem, is he gonna die of lung cancer?”
Not interested in being more confrontational than absolutely necessary, Dawkins continues. “Anyway, as I was saying, this is his heart.”
Molloy glances down at a complex metal apparatus surrounding Heinreich’s heart. A number of tiny tubes and valves are surrounding the organ, attaching it firmly to the ventricles. “A pacemaker,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Not like any I’ve ever seen, detective. A pacemaker simply regulates the heart by normalizing the beats using an electrical impulse. As far as I can tell this thing is a supercomputer. It regulates heartbeats and blood flow, but that’s not all; it monitors and adjusts his liver, pancreas, lungs…all of the major organs are tapped in, and they are continually adjusting to work at optimal levels. It also produces this organic fluid that pumps into his muscles. I need to do more extensive testing, but based on what I’ve seen it could give a regular person two, maybe three times the strength and endurance of an Olympic athlete in their prime. Not just in the short-term, but for decades. Maybe longer.”
“Hmm,” says Molloy, raising his eyebrows. For the first time during his visit the detective seems slightly upbeat, almost impressed by the Professor’s discovery.
Dawkins responds with a tiny smirk. “And the best part is right here.” He takes a large magnifying glass out of his pocket and holds it close to Heinreich’s heart, allowing his guest to lean in and take a closer look.
At first Molloy doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be focused on, but when his eyes adjust he can faintly make out a small inscription etched on one of the valves, just above the aorta.
©2974, The Cellium Corporation
“You have got to be shitting me.” Molloy drops his unlit Cuban on the ground and retrieves the cell phone from his front pocket. “Could you give me a moment? I need to call The General.”
“Oh, yes, of course Detective. I’ll give you some privacy.” The Professor hurries from the room, letting the doors swing shut behind him.
Once Molloy is certain that Dawkins is out of earshot he dials a number on his phone. “Yes, this is Detective Molloy. Can you please leave a message for the Mayor? Tell him to call me back immediately…things just got interesting.”
Chapter Nine – Sybarite
New York City | August 29, 2011 | 10:43 am, Eastern Daylight Time
James J. Kerrigan – or J.J.K., as the tabloids often refer to him – isn’t so much well known as he is notorious. But if you live in the United States of America and have picked up a newspaper, magazine, listened to a radio or watched television in the last twenty-five years, you know exactly who he is. Love him or hate him, he somehow became a fixture of pop culture, and his presence is virtually impossible to avoid.
Many Americans know James Kerrigan as the country’s favorite morning radio show personality; the golden-voiced, silver-haired Southern gentleman who believes in conservative family values, and has upwards of seventeen million people tuning into his show every day.
Some know him as the real estate mogul who owns dozens of skyscrapers across the country, nine golf courses, three football teams, and a small island in the Caribbean.
And fans of political gossip know him as the man who has been divorced three times, and recently became engaged to a twenty-year-old Slovakian underwear model who is young enough to be his granddaughter.
But most residents of New York City simply refer to him as ‘Mr. Mayor’.
“Mr. Mayor?” The voice of his secretary screeches through his intercom, like rusted nails dragging across a chalkboard. In mid-stroke Kerrigan’s putt goes astray, missing his overturned coffee cup by a good three feet.
“Damn it, Arlene,” shouts Kerrigan, stomping across his office to retrieve the ball from beneath a brown leather couch. His irritation is apparent, and somehow punctuated by his Southern drawl. “I told you that I’m busy with some important paperwork until four o’clock.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Mayor, but your doctor is on line one. He says it’s urgent and you haven’t been returning his calls.”
Kerrigan pauses for a moment, drops his putter on the carpet and returns to his desk, placing both palms flat on the surface as he leans in close to the speaker. “I’ve got an appointment next week, so whatever he has to say can wait until then.”
“Understood,” says Arlene cheerfully, “I’ll pass that along.”
“See? That wasn’t so difficult, now was it? So unless a bomb goes off or the building catches fire, please Arlene, for the love of all that’s holy and sacred, do not walk into this office or buzz me on the damn intercom until four o’clock, Eastern Daylight Time. Are we perfectly clear?”
“Absolutely. But while I’ve got you on the line now, you have a visitor waiting here in the lobby.”
Kerrigan walks around his desk and drops back into his soft leather chair, pulling open a golf magazine and begins to casually flip through the pages. “Tell Karolina that if she maxed out her American Express card again she’ll just have to sit tight and wait until I get home. I know she wants one of those fancy black cards with no credit limit, but tell her it just ain’t gonna happen. Not as long as I’m still alive and kickin’.”
“It’s not Karolina. It’s a man in an army outfit and he looks pissed.”
Kerrigan drops the magazine on his desk. “Is it General Davenport?”
“He wouldn’t tell me his name but he has about a million medals on his jacket, so I’m assuming he’s probably right up there as far as rankings go. General is the top one, right?”
He stands and straightens his dark suit jacket, and takes a moment to adjust his obnoxious red tie. “Send him in, Arlene.”
Within seconds both of his office doors sail open and The General marches in with a sense of purpose that catches Kerrigan somewhat off-guard.
“Douglas,” says Kerrigan, greeting him with a warm smile and an outstretched hand, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“It’s ‘General’. And you know exactly why I’m here, you filthy son of a bitch.”
“I think we’re a little past formalities, don’t you, Doug?”
“Why did you go in front of a camera and tell the world we don’t need the New World Council? I’ve spent years bringing it together, you know that.”
“I do, I do. That’s a kick in the pants, ain’t it? You work for years to build something, and I can take it away with a single press conference.” The Mayor motions towards his liquor cabinet
with an inviting wave. “In the mood for a mid-afternoon refreshment?”
The General takes a threatening step forward, clenching his jaw as he forces out his words. “You might have stirred up some controversy, but that’s all you ever do, Kerrigan. Make headlines. Bullshit headlines that appear in bullshit publications, next to celebrity pregnancy rumors and fake pictures of Bigfoot. At the end of the day nothing you say will get taken seriously. I speak with the President on a daily basis; he takes his advice from me, not the tabloids.”
“You might be in the President’s ear right now,” says the Mayor, “but we all know how these things work. Elections are comin’ up soon and I have seven billion in cash and assets. What does the next leading candidate have? A hundred million, tops? I’ll buy ten ads for every one that he does.”
“The American people can’t be bought. They want someone to lead them, to inspire them. Not a radio show host.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong, General. Maybe you need to spend more time reading these tabloids that you hate so much, because that’s exactly what they want. When I showed up on TV in front of the remains of that building, and told those folks we need to fight terrorism, you know what happened? Go online and see for yourself: my approval rating jumped twenty-four points overnight. Hell, I should call ahead and have them move my stuffed moose head into the oval office right now, because this is a lock. When I’m running the country I can pull us out of the Council with a single phone call, and everything you’ve worked to build comes crumbling down. Or, I can tell the people of the United States that we need to stay with the New World Council, and that their safety depends on it.”
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