by Paul Anlee
Greg’s body remained in catatonic rigor a moment longer and then, as suddenly as it had begun, he was free. He sagged back into the seat, exhausted and wracked by both mental and physical pain, and barely holding onto consciousness. Kathy tenderly wiped the saliva from his chin with her sleeve, and sank back into her own seat. She was conscious but still in shock.
Greg lolled his head in her direction. “What…was that?” he croaked.
49
FOUR DAYS AFTER DARIAN LEARNED THE TRUTH and paid the ultimate price, a private car delivered Larry to the Austin home of Reverend Alan LaMontagne. Larry was tired but relieved. He’d made it to safety.
The morning he’d sentenced Darian to what he considered a unique and fitting death, he’d gone straight to a payphone and called the Reverend’s private number.
“I have to get out now. Right now,” he’d said after identifying himself and apologizing for the early hour.
“What happened?” LaMontagne asked.
“Darian is dead. Gone forever. I did it, and I have to get out of here right away.”
To his credit, LaMontagne did not panic. “Do you have the RAF device?”
“Yes, I do.” Larry heard the Reverend’s relieved sigh.
“Good. Do you have a car?”
“I can rent one.”
“Okay. Very good. Here’s what you’ll do. Can you find where Interstate 40 crosses the border into the New Confederacy between Flagstaff and Albuquerque?”
“I can read a map.”
“Good. It’ll take you about three days to get there. Use your own passport at the crossing. Our people are in place on both sides of the border, and they’ll let you through without recording the fact. Someone will meet you on the New Confederacy side and take you to a hotel in Albuquerque. You can leave your car at the border station; it will be taken care of. Do you have enough money?”
“I can stop at the ATM before I leave.”
“Good. Use only cash, no credit cards, on your trip down. Travel as lightly as possible. You won’t need anything else, just your basic toiletries and such. Stop as little as possible and don’t use your real name anywhere; I mean it. Be careful. Don’t get stopped by the police.”
“How do I make that happen?”
“Drive carefully. Don’t speed. Eat and rest when you need to. Relax and try not to stand out. There’s a lot of traffic along that road. It’s easy to cruise right through without drawing attention to yourself if you just act normally.”
“They’ll think I’m missing along with Darian. My picture will be all over the news.”
“You’d better shave your head and buy some glasses.”
“I don’t need glasses.”
“Neutral prescription or sunglasses, then. That should be enough. It’s not a long trip.”
“No, you’re right, it’s not. I’ll be fine.”
“Very well. After you’ve had a chance to rest up in Albuquerque, my people will put you on a flight to Austin.”
“A flight? Won’t they flag my passport?”
“No, it’ll be a private plane, and the flight will be entirely inside the New Confederacy. Besides, the airport staff is loyal to our Church.”
“Okay, thanks.” Larry bit his bottom lip. “I guess that’s about all. I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Yes. And, Larry, thank you. You’ve done this country and this Church a great service.”
The drive was long but no one paid Larry any attention along the way. He kept checking the news on the radio, TV screens, and websites when he stopped to eat.
His and Darian’s disappearances weren’t reported until Monday afternoon. They were portrayed as Missing Persons, as a mystery. Foul play wasn’t ruled out but no one suspected murder just yet.
Darian Leigh’s face dominated the reports—way too much coverage for Larry’s liking—with only minimal attention devoted to Darian’s assistant researcher. Larry wasn’t sure whether to feel peeved or relieved.
Reporters hounded Greg and Kathy at first, but soon tired when they found the two had little to add to the initial report. The general public’s interest rapidly died down, as well. Missing scientists didn’t grab headlines the way missing celebrities did.
Larry felt a twinge of nostalgia when he saw his photo alongside his three former colleagues in a front-page story about their work and the disappearances. He tapped his finger over the photo; the reporter had somehow procured their old security-identification headshots from a happier time when the team first came together.
He was sure his mom would be worried sick by his unexplained disappearance. Once he got settled in the New Confederacy, he’d call and let her know he was okay. The Reverend will help me come up with a good story. He was certain of it.
At dusk on the third evening, Larry reached the Arizona-New Mexico border crossing and, in keeping with the Reverend’s instructions, dutifully presented his passport.
The official eyed the document, and then took a closer look at the person presenting it. “Please step inside, sir.”
Larry felt his stomach crawl into his throat. All of his life, whether he’d had anything to hide or not, if someone in Customs, Security, or law enforcement asked him to “please…” well, pretty much anything, it caused him to break into a nervous sweat. This time, he had plenty to hide.
He shifted his weight back and forth from left foot to right foot, then heel to toe, and back again, while the security guard read the note attached to his file in the database and called his supervisor. The supervisor came over and the two of them eyed Larry closely. They re-checked his passport, and reviewed the computer screen. After a brief, whispered discussion, the supervisor motioned at Larry to sit down, picked up the phone, and made a call.
Larry chose the first available seat in the waiting area—a hard, orange plastic chair that was attached from below by a single metal bar to five equally uncomfortable chairs. The chairs seemed designed to throw people off balance psychologically as much as physically. He waited as calmly as he could, trying to appear casual and unconcerned. As such, he stood out as the most conspicuous person in the room.
Five minutes later, a tall, well-groomed man in a dark suit left the corresponding New Confederacy border station and walked the twenty-five meters to the Pacifica side. He conferred briefly with the supervisor, who pointed to Larry, who now sat fidgeting like a six year old in his uncomfortable orange plastic chair in the Waiting Area. The man in the dark suit came around the counter and approached Larry.
“Dr. Rusalov?”
“That’s me,” Larry replied, sounding more chipper than he felt.
“Leave your vehicle here and come with me, please.”
“But my things are in there.”
“Your instructions were to travel light.”
“I don’t have much, but Reverend LaMontagne will want me to bring my backpack.”
The man regarded him coolly. “Please don’t mention that name again,” he said. “Is the backpack all you have?”
Larry considered for a moment. “I can fit everything I need in there. Give me a second.”
The man followed him to the vehicle, where Larry moved his shaving kit and a change of clothes into his backpack. He slung the pack over one shoulder and closed the trunk of the car. “Where should I leave the keys?”
The man held out his hand. Larry felt the weight of the keys, more than physically, as he handed them over. His apartment keys and three for the lab shared the ring. They belonged to his old life now. He let them go.
Larry kept his head down and his eyes straight ahead as they passed through the Pacifica border. On the way by the office, the man in the dark suit dropped Larry’s keys into the hands of the supervisor. The two men nodded respectfully, neither uttering a word.
The man in the dark suit escorted Larry the extra few steps into his new country, the New Confederacy, without ceremony or comment.
Almost giddy with relief, Larry risked a glance back at Pacifica in time to see the first b
order guard start up the abandoned rental car and drive it off the road into the desert. Don’t read too much into it—he assured himself.
The man in the dark suit opened the passenger door of a nondescript dark sedan, made his way around to the driver’s side, and got behind the wheel. Larry claimed his seat, arranged his backpack between his feet, and buckled up.
The two-hour drive into Albuquerque felt lonelier than the previous three combined. The man in the dark suit resisted all attempts at conversation, and wouldn’t allow Larry to adjust the station on the radio. They were tuned in to “Rockin’ Country” the entire journey. Thankfully, the radio was set to a nearly inaudible volume.
The only thing he learned from the man in the dark suit was that his name was “Jeff.” Larry doubted that was his real name. What did it matter? He slumped against the door and slept most of the way into the city.
They passed a night in some nondescript motor hotel on the edge of Albuquerque. The next morning, “Jeff” took Larry to the airport where they boarded a private jet to Austin. “Jeff”, Larry, and the two pilots were the only ones onboard. Hot breakfast trays waited at the separate seats to which he and “Jeff” were directed. The two men ate in silence. After breakfast, Larry stared out the window at the land unfurling far below and pondered his future.
He had considered destroying the RAF generator and Darian’s server along with it until he realized that doing so would end his own scientific career as well. Instead, before leaving the city, he used the controller laptop to log into the server from home and download everything he could. As he made his own copy, he erased everything behind.
It wasn’t so much that research into the physical laws of nature was inherently evil. Done with conscience and guidance, it was just another way to come to understand the mind of God.
The problem, in Larry’s opinion, was that the people involved in the RAF project were reckless and drunk on their own egos. They were pushing forbidden knowledge onto a society that was not ready to receive it. Mankind would not be ready for such power until it had acknowledged the absolute supremacy of the Lord and the need for His holy guidance in all endeavors.
It might take him decades to understand the papers that Darian, Greg, and Kathy had been working on. Deciphering their work, with Yeshua’s wisdom steering his heart, would make the basis for a nice career at the University of Houston. Or he could take on a post with the New Confederacy Department of Defense, if the government decided to classify the work as sensitive. That might be even better.
The loss of Darian and the RAF generator would irreversibly cripple the project at SFU and, if that didn’t, the investigation into Darian’s disappearance would. Kathy and Greg are going to have a tough time, as prime suspects, getting budgets and journal papers approved. Serves them right.
At the airport in Austin, “Jeff” escorted Larry over to another nondescript sedan, gray this time, that was parked at the end of the tarmac. They drove almost an hour out of the city and past the suburbs before arriving at the estate of Reverend Alan LaMontagne, head of the Church of Yeshua’s True Guard, the official religion of the New Confederacy.
The estate was in keeping with the stature of the head of the largest church in North America. An ornate double-wide cast-iron gate complete with guard hut greeted visitors. Majestic elms sheltered the kilometer-long driveway leading to the main house. Manicured lawns butted up against carefully planted clusters of tidy shrubs. The main house was easily over a thousand square meters and featured an attached chapel.
Not as ostentatious as I expected—Larry thought, as he got out of the car and stretched his legs. Somewhat understated and tasteful, almost traditional.
“Ah, Dr. Rusalov, you’ve made it,” the Reverend came down the front steps to greet Larry. “I trust you had a good journey, given the circumstances, that is. Lunch will be in a few hours. Perhaps we could enjoy a chat, first.”
He invited Larry into the house. “Jeff” followed them in. They made their way through the foyer and into the study. Larry caught a glimpse of the expansive living and entertaining areas. Apart from the three of them, there was no sign of anyone else in the building.
The Reverend is more animated than the last time we met—Larry observed. Walking more upright. Greater vitality. It must be the better climate here. It was pretty chilly in Vancouver last November. I imagine the cold, damp weather there took a toll on him.
Looking into the Reverend’s eyes reminded Larry of the strong sense of purpose he used to see in Darian. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulders. I’m sure he’s excited to have a look at this.
LaMontagne closed the door behind them, leaving “Jeff” to stand guard outside. The Reverend invited Larry to take a seat behind the desk “Perhaps you could show me the generator,” he said, pointing to Larry’s backpack. “I’m very eager to see it in operation.”
“Of course,” replied Larry, digging into his satchel to retrieve the laptop. “It doesn’t look like much, just an average computer.”
“But it’s so much more, isn’t it?”
Before he fired up the RAF generator, Larry paused. “You know, I’m curious,” he said. “This thing is contrary to everything I know you believe in. Its only purpose is to subvert the Natural Laws that God gave this universe. Why are you so supportive that I should continue working with it?”
LaMontagne rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “True. It is an abomination. But the science, as difficult as it may be to comprehend, is out in the world now. Far better that we should control its use than the heathens living outside of God’s Grace. Don’t you agree?”
Larry pursed his lips. “Well, only a few people on the planet understand the theory. Even I don’t get it all, yet.” He realized he wasn’t helping his future position. “I mean, without a functioning field generator, it’s all just speculation. And we have the only working generator in the world, right here.” He patted the keyboard gently. “As far as everyone else is concerned, the failed live test proved the theory wrong.”
“And now that we will have time to study it, we will know how best to use it to the glory of God.”
Larry wasn’t sure he liked how the Reverend used “we” in the context of studying the generator. “Yes, once I am settled into my new position, I’ll have lots of time to go over the theory and to develop a deeper understanding of the device.” He subtly emphasized the “I.”
“Without Dr. Leigh, how will you be able to reverse engineer the theory from nothing more than a working field generator?”
“Before I left, I was able to download almost everything the entire team has produced. I have notes, papers, and design schematics all right here.” He patted the keyboard again. “Greg and Kathy will have an impossible time recreating everything without their notes. Besides, they’ve never seen the generator work. They have no evidence the theory is even sound. I’m sure they’ll be leaving in humiliation very soon.”
“You erased everything? That’s rather diabolical for a simple scientist, isn’t it?”
Larry smiled. “I’ve had several weeks to think about what I’d do when the day came. I knew I’d be discovered sooner or later.” The laptop beeped to indicate the system had been loaded.
Larry typed in a few commands. “You can see all the files I downloaded from the server.” He indicated the directories loaded with documents, images, and simulation code.
Watching over his shoulder, the Reverend nodded his approval. “Can you show me the system in action?”
“Sure, it’s actually pretty easy to use. I have to admit, Kathy designed a great user interface.” A few keystrokes called up the main control program. “You have to tell it which file of basic parametric equations to use by picking from this browser.” He indicated a small panel with a set of filenames.
“Ah, yes, the virtual particle resonance parameters,” LaMontagne interjected.
Larry looked back at the older man, surprised. “You have been doing your homework. Setting up the equa
tions is quite a lot more work than using them. I’ve been making copies of some basic sets and experimenting by changing just one parameter at a time. Once I’ve gotten deeper into the math, I’ll be a bit more adventurous.”
“Yes. Let’s start with something simple,” said LaMontagne.
“This is the most basic configuration Darian set up.” Larry pointed to a small series of equations in a separate window. “The idea was to alter only the speed of light in a vacuum.”
“That seems like quite a significant a goal to me.”
“Yes, well, it won’t give you faster-than-light travel or anything like that. The effect is confined to a small volume where the fields are properly tuned. But it’s very easy to test…with the right equipment.”
“Can you show me?”
Larry laughed. “Unless you have a vacuum chamber and a laser interferometer around here, it won’t look like much. Wait a minute.” He leaned forward and called up another set of equations, then copied a few terms from that one into the first file. “Okay, I’ve adjusted for the atmosphere so I can at least show you what the system looks like when it works.”
“That would be very interesting,” said the Reverend.
Larry adjusted the laptop so the generated fields wouldn’t overlap with any of the furniture in the room. He entered a few commands and a small blue sphere popped into existence, hovering over a nearby coffee table.
The Reverend straightened and walked over to the sphere. “Remarkable,” he said. “Why is it blue?”
“That’s because of the shift in wavelength of the incident light. The change in velocity causes the colors to be blue-shifted. Actually, most of the light has been shifted into the ultraviolet range so I wouldn’t stand too close to it for very long. What you see here is the shifted red and infrared series.”
The Reverend stepped back. “And you say this was among the simpler of the equation series?”
“Yes. I’ve gained a lot of experience since this level, with much more complicated sets of equations.”
“Is that how you killed Dr. Leigh? Or did you use more traditional methods and hide the body?”