Aliomenti Saga 6: Stark Cataclysm

by Alex Albrinck

  Frustration was paramount. Napping seemed a better option.

  A knock startled her from her mental funk. She glanced in the direction of the sound. “Door’s open.”

  The handle turned and a man entered. “Sorry, I didn’t know this office was in use. I’ll get… wow, what’s that?”

  He motioned toward the whiteboard, an old-fashioned relic in a place where three-dimensional modeling tools were common. “It’s a whiteboard. Two dimensions only.”

  He chuckled. “I know that.” He pointed to his graying hair, which carried a hint of the red of his youth. “I’ve been around long enough.”

  She smiled. “Many of our number have been around long enough to use papyrus and vellum.” She gave him a curious glance. “I hope I don’t sound rude for asking, but…”

  “Why do I look old?” He chuckled, then frowned. “That’s a complicated question. I suppose that it’s my way of reminding myself how long I’ve been around. I suppose I could reverse the graying hair, smooth out some wrinkles, but I’m comfortable with my appearance.”

  Angel nodded. “That’s very wise, indeed.” She nodded toward the whiteboard again. “If the whiteboard itself wasn’t the subject of your question, I can only guess your interest lies with what’s written there.”

  He stepped farther into the room, nodded, then frowned. “This looks like an equation to calculate energy needs for something… perhaps a spaceship?”

  Not bad. “Something like that.”

  “The values you’ve entered, the resulting numbers… the energy quantities are enormous. I’m not sure it’s possible to generate that much energy.”

  She nodded. “That’s the problem. If I have to travel the required… distance, the equation says I’ll never make it.”

  He motioned at a chair. “Mind if I sit down? I’ve spent too much time working on numbers of this magnitude on the other side of the decimal point. It’s good to stretch my mind to think about numbers staggeringly large, rather than those which are staggeringly small.”

  She finally recognized him. “You’re the one called the Mechanic, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Not sure how I got that nickname, but it’s stuck.”

  She laughed. “You’ve apparently fixed everything that breaks around this place, things nobody else has been able to figure out. And the advances with the nanobots are pretty staggering as well. I’d say the name is well earned.”

  He nodded once, accepting her compliment. “We all do our best. You… you’re Angel, right? Will and Hope’s daughter?”

  She nodded. “Lucky me, huh? My parents are alive and nobody can find them.”

  He cocked his head. “If nobody can find them, how do you know they’re alive?”

  She frowned. “You know how Porthos, the Hunter, can sense Energy with far greater sensitivity than anyone else? For some reason, I can sense… I don’t know what to call it… perhaps life forces? Something like that. Same degree of sensitivity. I can feel my parents’ existence, no matter where they are. Mom’s nearly blinked out a while ago, but she’s stronger now.”

  The Mechanic looked impressed. “That’s a useful skill indeed. It’s always nice to know your loved ones are alive, isn’t it? Even if you can’t see them.” He nodded back toward the board. “As to your problem… have you considered the possibility that the equation might be wrong?”

  Angel nodded. “All the time. I don’t want to toss the equation as wrong simply because I don’t like the answer.”

  “Maybe you’re asking the wrong question,” the Mechanic mused. He scowled, rose, and moved to the whiteboard. “See, this section here is nullifying the distance traveled, and the section over here is drawing little power from your fuel source.” He stopped for a moment. “This is… wrong. What type of fuel are you planning to use for your spaceship? You’re not getting any real power from that fuel source. If you change the fuel source or derive more efficiency from it, you can get more energy from less fuel and bring your trip back into the probable range.”

  “That doesn’t change the amount of energy we need to generate, though.” Angel stood and paced the room. “I don’t know of a fuel source that could generate that quantity, so changing the source and the conversion efficiency doesn’t matter.”

  “It could, actually,” the Mechanic told her. “When you propel a ship or rocket, you have to account for the mass of the fuel until it’s consumed. If you can reduce the amount of fuel, you reduce the mass of the object propelled. Increase the energy produced per unit by a factor of ten, and you get more than that back in reduced energy requirements, because you’re using proportionally even less energy at the end.” He tapped a portion of the formula. “Right here. See? The exponent here relates to the mass of the craft, but that includes the mass of the fuel. Because it’s exponential, the mass of the fuel you need has a huge impact.”

  Angel walked over to the whiteboard and looked at the formula again. Had she missed something so obvious? “What if I’m limited to a specific type of fuel, though?”

  The Mechanic shrugged. “If your formula is correct and you’ve accurately captured the properties of that fuel source, your trip won’t happen, unless you make a series of shorter trips. If your formula is wrong, though, you can fix it and find a better solution.”

  Angel nodded slowly. “That makes sense.” She held out her hand. “Thanks for stopping in. I need to go take a walk and think about this without staring at numbers, so you’re welcome to move in here if need be.”

  The Mechanic nodded. “I might do that. I hope you find the solution to your problem. That’s a fascinating equation, by the way. I’d love to hear what you learn.”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know. I may ask for your help again. You have a knack for seeing what others fail to see.”

  He nodded and rose, holding the door open. “I need to go grab a few things. Enjoy your walk.”

  She walked out ahead of him. “I will.”

  The pleasant scent of the air of the Cavern always cleared her mind and focused her thoughts, and she needed that clarity. The Mechanic had looked at the validity of the equation, had recognized that the math was correct, and had identified the fuel source as being the limiting factor. She didn’t know if the equation was correct, or how she’d build the machine, but something else he’d said gave her an idea.

  She’d been so focused on the concept of projecting the energy needs of the two trips—the round trip to 2030, and the one-way trip to 1018—that she’d never considered how she’d test the machine. She couldn’t build a time machine and never test it until they climbed aboard to rescue her father. They needed some degree of confidence that it would work.

  The Mechanic’s comment about taking shorter trips gave her an idea.

  She would test a machine by sending it forward in time, not by decades or centuries, but by mere minutes. It would enable her to test the machine itself; watching it arrive a minute into the future as she reached that point in time by normal means. If the machine vanished from her present and appeared in her future, she’d know the machine worked. She’d adjust her equations based upon actual energy use rather than hypothetical theory. The quantity of energy required for such a test would be a miniscule fraction of that required for either planned trip, a quantity she could both fathom and produce.

  They’d use the results, refine the formulas, and might even find that the actual quantity of energy required was a mere fraction of that currently projected. She smiled at that thought. She was treating time travel itself as given, questioning only the duration of travel possible. It was a huge mental leap forward; she no longer believed the trip impossible.

  She headed back to her apartment and located paper and pencil. She liked the scratching sound pencils made against the large wooden table in her kitchen, finding the sound helped her focus. The pencil flew over the paper and the test machine’s image emerged. It need not be large, just big enough to hold sensors to measure the current date and time, ene
rgy consumed during the trip, a GPS device, and a signaling system to track the machine if it didn’t reappear at the time or place expected. She frowned, tapping the pencil against the table. Her father had traveled twelve centuries into the past, and from South America to northern England. How could she move a craft from one point to another while simultaneously turning back the clock?

  She’d worry about that problem at a later date.

  She found her copies of the formulas upon the whiteboard in her desk and began revising the numbers for her proposed test. The sound of the pencil scratching the paper took her back to a happier time, when she’d listen to her mother write, before the effects of ambrosia withdrawal robbed Hope of her ability to hold a pencil.

  It was a time when three of them had been together. Would all four of them ever be together? No hiding, no disguises? Would she ever have the chance to embrace her father, a man she’d never seen or spoken to?

  The knock at her door startled her.

  The Energy signature that leaked through brought a huge smile to her face. She teleported to the door, flung it open with such force that she dented the wall, and smothered her brother with a crushing hug.

  He returned her embrace with a breathless chuckle. “Missed you, little sis.”

  “I missed you, too.” She felt a tear trickle from her eye and slither down her cheek before she pulled away to look at him. “It’s been a long time. You look well.”

  “You look all grown up.”

  She laughed. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  It was only then that she noticed the young woman standing next to Fil.

  The woman looked familiar, someone Angel was sure she’d seen about the Cavern, but whose name she couldn’t place.

  Sensing Angel’s discomfort, Fil smiled. “Angel, this is Sarah. Sarah Swann. She joined the Alliance a few decades ago. Not long after we graduated high school together.”

  Angel snapped her fingers. “I thought you looked familiar, unusually so.” Then she frowned. “I’m not sensing anything from you, no Energy, no thoughts, no…”

  “I’m an Aeterni,” Sarah replied, nodding. Seeing Angel’s look of confusion, she explained further. “It’s a name for those in the Alliance who choose ambrosia but not morange and zirple. I can’t do Energy work. But I’ll be around for a while.” She gave a shy smile in Fil’s direction.

  “Oh.” Angel found that decision odd. Having been born with Energy skills few could attain even after centuries of work, she found the decision to forgo Energy altogether… foolish. She turned back to Fil. “What brings you to the Cavern, besides visiting your wonderful sister?”

  Fil smiled. “That’s actually the primary reason we’ve come. We wanted to see you.”

  We? “Really?”

  Sarah and Fil nodded in unison as her sense of unease grew. The thoughts and emotions coming from her brother were nothing she’d ever expected to sense from him. “Well, come on in! Do you need something to drink or eat?”

  “We stopped by one of the restaurants on the way here from the Beach,” Sarah explained. Angel felt a greater sense of unease; she could detect uncomfortable thoughts from Fil, but absolutely nothing from Sarah. How could a woman without Energy block her?

  “She went through the same training each new recruit receives,” Fil said. Angel sighed inwardly; Fil could still read her thoughts as needed. “She’s quite skilled at the process, and that’s important, given the work she does Outside.”

  They moved into her apartment. As she shut the door, she noticed Fil and Sarah’s hands. Joined together. She sucked in a quiet breath.

  They moved to the sofas and sat down. Angel forced a smile before asking a question she didn’t want answered. “So… what’s new, big brother?”

  Fil glanced down at his hand, joined with Sarah’s, and looked back at his sister as he beamed. “We’re getting married.”

  Angel stood, ran to her room, and slammed the door.

  They could hear her sobs through the thin walls.

  VI

  Fifteen

  2060 A.D.

  It was Adam’s fault that she was here. If he’d told her who her parents were, she wouldn’t need to be here right now. She needed to know, and if he wouldn’t tell her, then she’d find out on her own.

  He’d shared the story—most of it, she corrected herself—of her birth, and for his efforts she’d be forever grateful. She couldn’t understand the need to hide her parents’ names from her fifty years later. They’d be in their seventies or older, or dead of old age. They’d not recognize her even if she knocked on their door this day for what would be her first, and only, glimpse of those who’d created the life Adam fought so diligently to save.

  If he wouldn’t tell her, she’d figure it out on her own. The clues were out there; she need only use them to finally learn the secret of her true identity.

  That mission had led her back to the first place she knew she’d called home.

  Darkness filled the old Pleasanton orphanage, creeping into every cobweb-infested corner. She’d lived here from shortly after her birth—which one, she wasn’t sure—until the Adamses had adopted her as their own. Her adoptive parents had been vague about the process; they’d moved thousands of miles and expanded their family in a short period of time. She thought that meant they’d brought her to Pleasanton with them. Her search in the old town had turned up nothing, and she turned her attention to Pleasanton. Had she been here the entire time, moving just a few miles from the orphanage to her home? Had her birth parents been neighbors? Had they seen her and realized who she was?

  No one lived here now. The orphanage closed decades earlier, the endowment established by the Starks squandered like so much else after their deaths. They’d bolted the doors shut, claiming the shutdown was temporary, if “temporary” meant at least twenty years. Though she knew the facility was empty, Gena felt she was trespassing, as if a guard would discover her presence at any time and arrest her.

  Her footsteps kicked up dust and she coughed, pushing aside cobwebs as she explored the main office. Huge, rusting metal filing cabinets lined the walls, an inch of dust sprinkled on top. Inside the drawers were clues to her origin, no matter how slight. The records ought to show the exact date she’d arrived here, hinting at the amount of time she’d lived in Adam’s Energy cocoon. She hoped to learn her birth name, but considered that highly unlikely; the orphanage might use that name to track down her birth parents and send her back home. She wondered if notes in her file included a description of the stranger who had handled her transport from the Cavern. She’d never learned that person’s identity, but felt certain it was a member of the Alliance. No human would willingly choose to undertake the mission, and Adam wouldn’t force a human to do so against their will.

  The cabinet labels showed a filing system based on alphabetical order. Gena frowned. That presented a challenge. Were records filed based upon adopter surname, birth surname, or adoptee first name? She only knew two of those. Or did she? Had the Adamses changed her name to Gena only after they’d gotten her home? She pulled on the drawer, jumping back as several insects scurried out after she disturbed their slumber, and retrieved the first folder. A quick scan revealed a folder based upon adopting family surname. She put the file back and closed the drawer; the sound as the drawer closed sounded like a gunshot in this space.

  She needed the file for the Adamses.

  She wiped the dust from the labels every few cabinets, using her flashlight to scan the uncovered text. When she found a label starting with the letter Z, she reversed course and moved from cabinet to cabinet until she found the cabinet labeled “AA-AE.”

  She gripped the metal handle with her shaking hands and pulled, wincing as the drawer scraped and moaned on the tracks. After an inch of movement, it stopped. She pulled harder, once, twice, three times, before slamming her fist into the drawer front in frustration. When she pulled again the drawer slid out easily, screeching along on the rusted tra
cks. She flipped through the alphabetized folders before finally spying the one she needed.

  Adams.

  She seized the folder with both hands and moved to the desk at the center of the room, using her sleeve to push aside the ever-present dust before setting the folder down.

  She held the small flashlight with her teeth, unwilling to use Energy to hold the device or provide lighting, and opened the folder. Descriptions of her behavior, physical milestones, and dates for appointments with those who’d considered her and moved along. She felt an unexpected wave of sadness; others had visited with her and decided she wasn’t for them? But their decisions meant she’d ended up with the Adamses. She’d waste no energy feeling hurt. The remainder of the packet held printouts of questions they’d answered, notes relating to interviews with the two of them, discussions about when they’d complete the sale of their previous home and finish the move to Pleasanton.

  On the last page was a handwritten note: matched with Gena.

  There was nothing else, no further clue, nothing that would help her learn her true identity. Frustrated, she threw the folder on the floor. What use was this, anyway? She’d confirmed only what she’d already deduced: that she’d been placed in Pleasanton rather than elsewhere. The thick stack of papers gave no insight to her origin, no guidance about who her birth parents might be.

  She glanced at the papers strewn across the floor and regretted her show of temper. With a sigh, she picked up the empty manila folder, put it on the desk, dropped to her knees, and worked to gather the individual papers. She tried to order them as she picked them up. Why did she bother? It wasn’t as if anyone else would enter this building again soon, look for this exact folder, and wonder why the contents were obviously scrambled. She stood and moved back to the table and the open folder.