by Sean Hancock
She looks like she hates me already, so who knows how she’ll react if what I’m about to attempt doesn’t work.
I’m carrying a gun, the one I took from Cato. It’s tucked into the back of my jeans, my baggy clothes concealing it.
This is a huge risk, but it’s a calculated one. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to New York unarmed. The girl on the phone said it herself; I can’t trust anyone, and she’s currently top of that list.
Before the episode in Kaya’s basement, I wouldn’t have had the confidence to attempt something so bold, but since then, since encountering that dark, foreboding fire, I have felt so much more capable, and dare I say it, powerful . . .
I remind myself of something important: using only the power of thought, I was able to force a man to stab himself in the heart.
If I can do that, I can do this.
“Extend your arms,” Jayla says, and as I follow her instructions, I begin using my mind to probe hers. Using the power of my will, I am tuning into the frequency of her consciousness. Once I have found the right station (so to speak), I will make the necessary adjustments. The goal is to convince Jayla to believe in me and trust me so completely that whatever I say is accepted as bedrock truth, overriding her own thoughts and training. It’s a form of deep hypnotism. It’s also unethical, but these are desperate times.
I can feel something happening (it’s the mental equivalent of a key overcoming a stubborn lock), so I lean forward and whisper that I’m an undercover FBI agent and that she will ignore the gun tucked into the back of my jeans. It’s a matter of national security.
“I’m your friend, Jayla,” I continue. “I’m on your side. You have nothing to worry about. Everything is going to be okay.”
She looks dazed for a moment, even a little bit drunk, but then starts patting me down. I feel her hands on the gun, which is when doubt sets in.
What if I can’t do this?
I’m expecting Jayla to raise the alarm, thinking I’ll have to run and fight if she does, but instead she smiles, her eyes glazed and strange looking. Jayla ushers me forward, telling me to have a nice flight.
The following morning at 11:50 a.m., I’m on the ground floor of the American Museum of Natural History, which is located on the Upper West Side of Manhattan across the street from Central Park. Made up of twenty-seven interconnected buildings and housing forty-five permanent exhibition halls (I’ve done my research), as well as a planetarium and a library, it’s rightly celebrated as one of the largest and most important institutions of history in the world, even if it does get lots of things glaringly wrong.
It’s Sunday, and the place is buzzing with tour groups and families, excited children pointing things out to Mom and Dad, their teenage siblings looking as if they have better things to do.
Even though this could be a trap, I feel sharp, strong, and ready to defend myself. I just wish Tammuz wasn’t here with me. I asked him to wait at the hotel, but aside from the fact he point-blank refused, it’s obvious he has some sort of role to play in all this, which is why I decided to stop resisting the inevitable. I did make him agree to keep his distance in the museum and not to get involved if things became violent. He hasn’t got a great track record of doing what I ask him; then again, if he did, we wouldn’t be here now.
As I pass through the meteorite display and enter the Hall of Human Origins, by far Ashkai’s favorite exhibition, I’m reminded of the last time he brought me here, not long before our enemies tracked us down. It is becoming clear he told me something important within these walls. I know because my brain is trying to piece together the details of what was said. So far it has failed, although I have a feeling it will come back to me soon. I just need to be patient.
The museum has been updated significantly over the past two decades. There are large screens displaying colorful, interactive images along with other technological advancements in lighting and sound. The basics are pretty much the same though, that is (in this room at least) the arrangement of skeletons and skulls and dramatic historical reconstructions of early humans doing things like making fire and hunting.
Right now I’m looking at two skeletons standing side by side behind a thick pane of glass, amber lights illuminating the scene. The collection of bones on the left, complete with that famous protruding brow, is Homo erectus. The figure on the right represents Homo sapiens.
“If you’re going to name yourself, you might as well choose something flattering rather than true,” a familiar voice says, only this one is male.
I turn to my right, and standing beside me is Ashkai. He’s the person he was the last time we were together: tall, black, and handsome with that ever-present gray streak in his hair, along with those kind, brown eyes.
I look around the exhibition hall. Other people are still here going about their business, but it’s as if they are occupying another plane of existence. In fact, everything outside my immediate field of view is opaque and blurry.
I realize what’s happening. This is a flashback. I’m reliving a moment from my past, a moment that unfolded in this exact spot.
“Homo stultus would have been more appropriate,” I say, repeating the exact words uttered by Suzy almost twenty years ago.
Ashkai laughs, but I can tell he’s not himself.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, speaking ancient Egyptian.
After a prolonged silence, Ashkai says, also switching to the language of the pharaohs, “I understand that Sleepers do not remember the lives they have lived, but even so, it’s curious they believe in such fallacies.”
“What fallacies?”
“About our past as a species.”
Ashkai points at the skeleton on our right. “According to the current geological record, anatomically modern humans have lived on Earth for a hundred and fifty thousand years.
“The story goes that for about a hundred thousand years, we didn’t make any meaningful progress. We were hunter-gatherers who were totally incapable of innovation. Then, out of nowhere, came the first signs of culture in the form of cave art. But civilization as we know it, according to those who call themselves experts, didn’t begin until the rise of the Sumerians some five thousand years ago.
“It’s a story of slow and assured progress culminating in the self-aggrandizing magnificence of the current age.
“As you know, the truth is much more complicated than that. Smart hominids, who carry the flame of consciousness, have been in existence since the long ago. And in place of a neat and clean ascent, their story on Earth has been marked by a series of dramatic ups and downs and new beginnings.”
After a short pause, Ashkai continues, “It’s impossible for Sleepers to conceive of this, but human souls once inhabited other planets across the universe.”
“Don’t they still?” I ask.
My master, who has sadness in his eyes, shakes his head.
“Why?”
“Because they have long since been obliterated . . . take Mars, for example, Earth’s older brother. An advanced civilization flourished there before sowing the seeds of its own demise.”
“What happened?”
“They gave in to the powers and temptations of darkness, letting fear and hate overwhelm them. As a result, they weren’t ready when the great comet appeared from the sky, wiping the slate clean. This unfortunate episode took place close to a million years ago. If the people’s hearts had been filled with love and their eyes had been open, they would have been able to work together to ensure some sort of future.”
“Fear, hate, temptations,” I say. “It sounds very much like the world we live in now.”
“It does, only the stakes are even higher.”
“Why?”
Ashkai looks into my eyes. “I have not told you this before, but Earth is the last habitable planet in the universe, as far as we know. If she is destroyed, the human story is over. Once and for all.”
I let the gravity of his message sink in, wondering if that’s the
reason I’ve started to feel dizzy.
If Ashkai is correct, and he usually is, there is no room for error when it comes to our mission of awakening souls and bringing them into the light. I realize something else, something extremely unnerving. Ashkai, who is not usually prone to worrying about things that may or may not happen, is gravely concerned. And that means he knows something.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Ignoring my question, he says, “The world is riddled with so much bitterness and paranoia, and it’s growing by the day. When the time is right, and we have both seen this happen many times before, a dark and powerful force—one must only look to Adolph Hitler as an example or Stalin or even Genghis Khan—will harness that hate and use it to cause damage on an unprecedented scale.”
“You’re talking about a world war,” I say.
Everything goes black for about three seconds, and my hearing becomes muffled.
What’s happening to me?
Ashkai says, “With the technology and weapons this civilization has at its disposal—and will have in the years to come—that means complete and utter destruction.”
“What makes you think that is our biggest threat?” I ask. “Why aren’t you worried about a comet hitting Earth? It ended life on Mars, why not here as well?”
“Because that is not this planet’s destiny.”
“How do you know?”
“It has been foreseen.”
“By whom?”
My master turns to face me and places a hand on my shoulder. “There are things you do not know, things I have not been able to tell you.”
“Such as?” I ask, but everything goes dark again.
When my vision returns, Ashkai is no longer there. Meanwhile, the skeletons and artifacts of the museum have started spinning around me as if caught in a huge whirlpool. I am feeling myself becoming unsteady when something strikes me across the face, bringing me back to the here and now.
“Pull yourself together,” says the brown-skinned girl with indigo eyes. She looks about the same age as Rosa. “One of us has been followed.”
She’s dragging me out of the Hall of Human Origins, and for some reason, I’m not resisting. We’re heading north into the Grand Gallery, a large, white room with a marble floor. A huge, sixty-foot canoe is hanging by wires from the ceiling, its bottom about two meters above the ground.
We’re on the starboard side, running toward an exit. The only problem is there are three people striding toward us from across the room: two guys and one woman. My head is still fuzzy and I feel weak, but fortunately, guns don’t require much effort. I’m on the verge of pulling mine out when the other girl raises her left hand in the direction of the boat. Almost immediately, two of its suspension cables snap, and its front half crashes to the ground, cutting our pursuers off, giving us time to slip out onto Seventy-Seventh Street.
The sky is dark with low hanging clouds, and rain is falling.
The girl bundles us into the back of a black BMW and tells the driver, who is smoking, to put his foot down. Just before we pull away, there’s a bang on the window. I reach for my gun and point it at . . . Tammuz. I tell the girl to let him in, but she ignores me, the car skidding away at speed. I look out of the rear window. Through the droplets of rain, I can see Tammuz chasing after us, his face full of fear and desperation. The three people from the museum are behind him.
I shout a warning, but then we turn a corner, and he’s gone.
THIRTY-ONE
I point my gun at the cool-looking Asian with a Mohawk just as he flicks his cigarette out the window.
The rain is coming down hard, and the windshield wipers are swishing left and right.
“Stop the car,” I say.
He ignores me, so I lean forward and press the muzzle into the side of his head. “I’m not leaving my friend behind.”
Mohawk glances at me through the corner of his eye, but then returns his attention to the busy, wet road, weaving through traffic at high speed.
“Don’t listen to her,” says my kidnapper. “Keep going.”
Mohawk speeds up, so I point the gun at his boss instead.
“Tell him to stop, or I’ll pull this trigger.”
This is the first time I’ve been able to properly look at her since she grabbed me in the museum, everything after that whizzing by in a blur of adrenaline and confusion. The girl, who is no more than twenty years old, in this life at least, has a very striking appearance. She’s Latino, beautiful in an interesting and androgynous way, with short, tousled hair and full, pillowy lips.
As I’m looking into her indigo eyes, something strange happens. At first, it’s just a bit of dizziness, similar to what I experienced in the museum before she appeared, but then I realize I’ve forgotten where I am or even what my name is. But it doesn’t matter because I feel so incredibly good and safe, a voice in my head saying, Don’t be afraid. We’re on your side; just go to sleep . . .
What a great idea, I think, drifting away like a summer cloud, hoping this feeling lasts forever . . .
I open my eyes and have to blink a few times to focus them.
I can smell cigarette smoke.
Where am I? I think, feeling thirsty and needing to pee. Who am I?
It’s as if every memory inside my head has been wiped. I have an awareness of danger, but that’s about it.
My wrists, which are on the other side of a metal beam that’s supporting my back, have been tied together with a strong cord.
Someone with a Mohawk—where have I seen him before?—is sitting on a chair facing away from me, leaning to his right now, stubbing a cigarette out in an ashtray that’s on a small wooden table. Beyond him are three other people. There’s a tall, slender guy with messy, curly hair standing in front of the far wall, which has been covered with a large sheet of white paper. On it are hand-drawn images, photographs, and scribbled notes. I’m quite far away (it’s a large room), so I can’t make out any meaningful details, although it looks like something the police or FBI would compile during an investigation.
A wooden desk runs alongside the adjacent wall, which is northeast of me. It’s covered with cameras, laptops, and guns. Another man, whom I can only see in profile, is standing over it, loading one of the many firearms. He has dark, short hair, two days worth of stubble, and looks physically powerful, like a child’s action figure come to life.
The third person is a light-skinned black girl with short dreadlocks that come down to her defined and prominent cheekbones. She’s the strangest of the bunch, petite and elfin, and is staring at me. She’s sitting opposite Mohawk, so she’s facing my direction, but a little to his right. Her face is expressionless, and her eyes are lifeless and cold.
Is she dead? I wonder, but then I hear, Hello, Samsara, in my head. It triggers a rush of memories: Ashkai and the museum, leaving Tammuz behind . . .
Using telepathy, I ask the black girl, Was that you? but nothing comes back.
As discreetly as possible, I check left, right, and over my shoulder, taking everything in. I’m in the center of a spacious and beautiful warehouse apartment with dark wood floors and large, arched widows, all of which have been closed and shuttered. I guess they don’t want any of their neighbors seeing all those guns, or me, for that matter. An expensive-looking camera on a tripod is next to one of the windows.
A small skylight that’s being splattered with rain is directly above. It’s daytime still, but night feels just around the corner. Dominating the far end of the room is an elaborate and stylish Edison bulb chandelier. It’s switched on, along with a couple of freestanding lamps. The furniture is sparse, clean, and modern. Overall, it feels more like a showplace than a home where people live, although these guys have obviously been here for a while.
There are two questions I want answers to: What are these people planning, and how does it involve me?
Last time I saw the girl with indigo eyes, in the flesh at least, she was at war with Rebus. They say your
enemy’s enemy is your friend, but the way things are going, I’m not so sure about that.
Moving slowly and quietly, I test the strength of my restraint. It’s sturdy and tightly fastened.
How long have I been unconscious? And where am I?
As well as the rain, I can hear car horns and a distant fire engine, so I’m guessing we’re still in New York and that it’s been a few hours max since I was taken.
The girl with the dreadlocks is still looking at me. I wait for her to say something else, but instead, she raises a hand and smiles. There’s something childlike and innocent about her.
Mohawk notices what’s going on and turns. Seeing I’m awake, he stands, pulls his phone out, and makes a call.
The two others have stopped what they were doing. The one with scruffy hair over by the far wall, who had his back to me until now, is wearing glasses and has a nerdy, bookish demeanor. What’s particularly interesting is they all look about the same age as Rosa and the Latino girl, somewhere between eighteen and twenty-one.
I start paying closer attention to Mohawk, recalling how he barely even flinched when I threatened to shoot him in the car. He’s short but has an athletic, toned build and is wearing narrow, fitted jeans, white trainers, and a black T-shirt emblazoned with a large pink skull.
Phone against his ear, he says, “She’s awake.”
Mohawk, who strikes me as confident but also quirky and smart, hangs up and walks over to the small table. An ashtray, Marlboro cigarettes, and a Zippo lighter are on it.
“Try anything stupid, and I’ll have to put you to sleep.”
He’s standing over me now, holding a syringe with clear liquid in it.
“That how you guys knocked me out in the car?” I ask, thinking Indigo must have jabbed me on the sly.