by Orton, D. L.
It’s nearly seven when Picasso and I finally make it to the small cafeteria. I haven’t eaten a meal in two days, and I’m famished. On top of that, I’m a terrible cook and mostly consume things that come frozen in small cardboard boxes, so everything looks great. When we sit down at the table, I notice that Picasso has skipped the main course. “Something I should know about the beef in here too?”
“No,” he says with a sad smile. “My wife was a vegetarian, and I guess I never felt the need to go back to eating meat after she left.”
“I know the feeling. My ex-wife sends me bleedin’ self-help books every Christmas.” I cut the steak and take a bite. “What happened with your wife, if you don’t mind me asking?”
So he’s not gay. Damn. Then again, maybe he’s like me and got married by mistake?
He tips his head and stirs his applesauce with a fork. “Things were always a bit fiery between us, and a couple years ago, she left me for a doctoring gig in some godforsaken hellhole.”
“Ah, that’s a pisser.”
“I never could understand why she felt compelled to help people who wanted to kill her.” He pushes peas around on his plate. “She told me she’d check back in a few years to see if I’d grown up.”
“So maybe she’ll be back? You seem to be pretty mature to me.”
He takes a slow breath and lets it out, his eyes on his plate. “She was killed two years ago. Some dickhead rolled an IED into the tent where she was operating. There weren’t any pieces big enough to send home.”
“Bollocks, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too. And she was also one hell of a surgeon.”
We eat in silence for a bit.
His phone buzzes, and he glances at the display and then puts it away.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Do they know what’s inside the sphere?” I stick the banana in my sweatshirt pocket.
He watches me polish off the brownie. “When you’re done, we’ll go find out.”
After dinner, we walk through a maze of hallways, deep into the heart of the mountain. We pass two guards with rifles, standing at attention on either side of a door with SSO engraved in gold foil. Picasso nods at them.
“Sir,” they say in unison, but don’t move a muscle.
We continue on to a door with an elaborate arrowhead insignia and the letters MARSOC on it. Picasso uses a badge to unlock it and then holds it open for me. Agent Dick is already inside, but Junior is conspicuously absent.
Probably past his bedtime.
I sit down in a chair, but Picasso remains standing.
Agent Dick doesn’t bother with formalities. “Dr. Hudson, does the name Diego Nadales mean anything to you?”
I glance at Picasso and then at Agent Dick. “Yeah, sure. Diego used to live down the street from me. Nice guy, smart and friendly, late thirties, writes software for a living.” I shrug my shoulders. “Likes the Dodgers.”
The corner of Picasso’s mouth twitches.
They wait for me to continue, but I don’t know what else to tell them. “Uh, he did some computer work—consulting stuff—for the physics department a couple years ago. Knows a lot about quantum mechanics for a guy who’s not a physicist. Why?”
Picasso looks at me. “His name was on the paper in the artifact.”
“Diego’s?” I blink a couple of times. “Anything else?”
“No.” Agent Dick stands up. “It was handwritten on pink paper that had been cut into approximate fourths using dull scissors. The ink matches that found in a disposable pen. The handwriting is female, left-handed, standard Palmer cursive: probably attended public schools. There are indentations in the paper that indicate the woman wrote the name over and over on stacked sheets of twenty-two pound printer paper.”
“No coffee stains?” I ask.
Agent Dick jerks around and stares at me. “How did you know that?” He looks suspiciously at Picasso.
Picasso’s lip curls up slightly. “Educated guess, I’d say. Anyone who stayed up all night writing the same three words over and over was probably drinking coffee.”
Agent Dick scowls at me. “Do you know his wife?”
I think back to the last time I saw Diego. “No. That is, he’s not married. But he has a new girlfriend. I met her a few weeks ago, right before they moved in together.”
“What do you know about the girlfriend?”
“Well,” I say, “he seems to be quite smitten by her—Isabel, I think. I don’t remember her last name. Come to think of it, she was almost killed by that explosion in the Brown Palace—the one started by the Einstein sphere. Diego managed to pull her out of the burning building right before the roof collapsed.”
The two men look at each other.
Picasso crosses his arms. “Where and when did you see her last?”
“At Starbucks, a number of weeks ago,” I say. “They were having a heated discussion about micro-evolution—more like a wrestling match, actually. And I think she was winning.”
“Anything else about Nadales that might be relevant, doctor?” Dick asks. “A connection to illegal metals manufacturing? Or atomic weapons? Terrorist organizations? Involvement with a rogue foreign government?”
I let out a snort of disbelief and glance over at Picasso, but his face is carefully blank.
Dick shifts his weight. “Well, doctor?”
Stop calling me doctor.
I let my gaze wander slowly around the room. “No. And Einstein’s equation is not a recipe for an atomic bomb, Mr. Johnson. It describes the relationship between matter and energy, and it’s not the least bit illicit, unpatriotic, or nefarious.”
Dick glares at me. “Answer the question.”
I let out an annoyed sigh and sink back into my chair.
“Dr. Hudson,” Dick says. “I would like to remind you that this is a grave and time-sensitive government investigation, and your full cooperation is expected. What else do you know about the suspect?”
“The suspect? You mean Diego?” I respond. “He’s a Tico—grew up in Costa Rica. That wasn’t illegal last time I checked. He does occasionally import coffee beans for me, and given the sod you serve in here, maybe you should recruit him.”
Dick pushes his chair back and starts stuffing papers into his briefcase. “Thank you, Hudson. You can go now. I’ll have Smith drive you home.”
“Wait a minute.” I say, glancing back and forth at the two men. “What about the thumb drive? And the button thing? Can’t you even tell me if it was an effing sock?”
“It’s classified, doctor.” Dick’s voice contains a hint of glee.
Picasso gives him an exasperated look and then addresses me. “It was a sock. And Cyber Ops thinks the thumb drive contains instructions for building a computer, along with the source code to control it. We have people looking at it right now.” He stops for a moment to check his phone. “There are two folders on the—”
Agent Dick jumps to his feet. “You do not have the authority to release that information to a civilian, sergeant.”
The marine pulls an ID out of his shirt pocket and slides it across the table. “It’s master sergeant, Mr. Johnson, and I have been formally assigned by PCAST to lead this project. Professor Hudson’s clearance came through from SSO ten minutes ago. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the President.” He turns to me. “As I was saying, the first folder is labeled ‘Time Portal’ and the main document is entitled ‘Black Holes’. Given your research in that area, I’ve asked that you be shown the files.”
“A time portal? That uses singularities? My god, why would someone send us instructions to build a time machine?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Picasso says.
For a moment, I don’t know how to respond.
This is the opportunity of a lifetime
“Wait a min
ute,” I say, “what was the name of the other folder? And what is that white plastic button with the apple on it?”
“The other folder is labeled Trans-Temporal Viewer.”
Dick slams his hands down on the table. “You’ve told him enough. For chrissake, he works for a public university.”
Picasso ignores his outburst. “We believe the button device is some form of compressed data similar to the thumb drive. Unfortunately, the technology used to read it does not yet exist.”
“Hudson was brought in to evaluate the artifact, soldier. He’s done that.” Dick’s voice is icy cold.
A look of distaste flashes across Picasso’s face and disappears as quickly as it came. There’s a knock on the door, and two marines with rifles step into the room, one holding a folded piece of paper. Junior is right behind them, and by the expression on his face, someone just blew up the White House.
Picasso takes the paper, glances at it, and pushes it across the table. “Professor Hudson will be consulting on this project for the foreseeable future. In the meantime, we’re all moving into the secured area. A national emergency was declared three minutes ago, and I am officially taking over this project on the orders of the President of the United States.”
He addresses the marines. “Escort Misters Johnson and Smith to retrieve their things, and then deposit them at the checkpoint. No need to babysit them.”
“Yes, sir.” The two men salute and step apart.
“Dismissed.”
Agent Dick is fuming.
Picasso brushes past him. “Please come with me, professor. I believe you already have the required clearance, but there are a few things we need to take care of before we can cross over.”
“Cross over? To where? What’s happening outside? Why is there a national emergency?”
“I am not at liberty to disclose that information, but I will fill you in as soon as possible. In the meantime, we are moving to a safe area inside the mountain.”
∞
Dick and Junior are standing in front of a huge blast door when we arrive, Junior playing a game on his phone. Picasso walks by them and types something on a keypad next to the sealed portal.
A female voice says, “Special Clearance Required to Proceed. Please identify.”
Picasso inclines his head. “Master Sergeant Richter. Clearance code: Woden Umbra.”
“Thank you, Master Sergeant. What is the first treble clef note in Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’?”
“G sharp,” Picasso replies.
“Thank you. Please identify your other companions, starting with the tallest.”
Picasso nods at Agent Dick who clears his throat. “Agent Johnson. NSA clearance bravo victor tango twelve forty-one.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. What was your undergraduate degree, and where was it conferred?”
Dick’s face flushes. “Hospitality Management from the University of Missouri at St. Louis.”
“Thank you. You must be accompanied by Master Sergeant Richter to proceed.”
The muscles in Agent Dick’s jaw constrict but he says nothing.
Junior glances at me and stands a bit straighter.
Picasso turns toward the younger man. “Agent Smith. Clearance identical to Agent Johnson’s.”
“Mr. Smith,” the computer says, “please state the name of your childhood pet and the color of your first car.”
Junior looks flustered, “Ah, Poopsie, and, um, orange.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith.”
A smile flickers across Picasso’s face. “Matt Hudson, PhD,” he says, nodding at me. “Physics Chair at the University of Colorado, Boulder. PCAST clearance pending.”
“Working,” the disembodied female voice replies. “Professor Hudson, what is a black hole?”
“What you get in a black sock.”
Picasso gives me a droll smile.
“Thank you, Professor.” The light above the door changes from red to yellow. “The portal will open three seconds after these instructions finish. It will remain open for eight seconds. Once inside the secured area, you will not be able to leave without proper authorization. In the event of an emergency, you must return to this location for clearance to exit. Do you understand? Please state yes or no.”
We all respond in the affirmative, although I’m starting to have second thoughts.
“Thank you,” the computer says. “You are cleared for entry.”
The yellow light above the portal begins flashing and then turns green. The door slides open, and we step through. A few seconds later, the door slides shut and a red square with a hand outline flashes next to it. The sign above it reads: “In case of an emergency, place palm on panel and wait thirty seconds for activation.”
And hope to hell there’s not an armed terrorist chasing you.
We follow Picasso past a second door, which opens automatically, and file into a large freight elevator. I struggle to keep my heart rate steady as the walls of the tight space press in on me. Picasso watches my face but says nothing. When the floor begins to fall away, he takes a step closer and puts his hand under my elbow. I recite a limerick under my breath, trying to focus on the silly wordplay.
There was a young lady named Bright,
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
After far too long, the doors slide open, and we step out into another world.
I stand there with my mouth hanging open. “Sweet Fanny Adams.” Buried deep inside the mountain is a huge underground city.
Down a gentle slope, buildings, some as tall as three stories, line a lake with a fountain in the middle. Trees and grass fill in the open areas, and a wide pathway marked with glowing street lamps lines the edge of the water. There’s even a bowling alley. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people could live and work inside this vast man-made cavern.
I look up. The fake night sky is dotted with stars, but there’s no moon. The whole place gives me the creeps, and it takes me a moment to place my misgivings: the constellations are all wrong! “Well this pretty much explains the national debt.”
Picasso chuckles. “They roll up the sidewalks pretty early, so let’s get you over to the hotel before the lights go out.”
We take two electric golf carts to one of the larger buildings and are escorted to private rooms by men who appear uncomfortable in civilian clothing. Sitting inside the door to my room is a suitcase I own but didn’t pack. A fake window looks out onto stars twinkling in the phony sky behind the Eiffel Tower.
“Blimey, these people are daft.” I step inside and the lights come up.
My lab computer is on the desk, the screensaver plotting distant galaxies in false color.
These guys are over-the-top: they snuck back into my house and loaded up my suitcase, then broke into my lab and made off with my laptop, including the monitor and all the cables.
I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.
Picasso appears in the doorway behind me, flanked by two marines. “Home, sweet, home, at least for now. Meet me in the lobby at oh-seven hundred for breakfast. If you need something, just pick up the phone.”
“Master Sergeant Richter?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is all this stuff real?”
He dismisses the two other men and then turns back to me. “You mean the city, Dr. Hudson?”
“Yeah, the lake and trees, all the buildings. And please, call me Matt. Every time someone says doctor, I’m left wondering who died.”
His face softens. “Sure, Matt. And like I said, call me Picasso.”
I shake his hand again. “It’s a deal.” I glance over at the fake windows. “So, is any of it real?”
“There’s water
in the lake, all right, but I wouldn’t drink anything that didn’t come out of a sealed container. This place was built about the same time as Disneyland, and I think they might have gotten the plans mixed up.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to ask questions tomorrow.” He turns to leave and then looks back. “And if I were you, I’d hit the sack—and not spend too much time wondering about the trees, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I’ll try. Goodnight.”
He shuts the door, and I listen to his footsteps fade down the hallway.
I check the door handle. It’s locked.
A seed of panic forms in the back of my head, but I focus on the window scene, and the fear recedes. I flop down on the bed and eat my bruised banana, wondering what epic disaster has occurred in the outside world—and how long I’m going to be locked up in the Magic Kingdom.
Chapter 12
Diego: Wait for Me
Just as I’m merging onto the freeway, my phone blasts a loud, jarring tone that sets my heart racing. It takes my brain several seconds to recognize the sound: a flash flood warning.
I glance out my window into the clear twilight sky.
Or maybe an Amber Alert?
“Hey Siri, read my notifications.”
“You have one new notification from Emergency Alert. It says: Possible nuclear attack imminent. Take shelter now. Presidential address soon. This is not a test.”
What the hell? A possible nuclear attack?
I consider pulling over to reread the message, but decide the best thing to do is get to Isabel. I take the next exit, cross over the freeway, and get back on going the opposite direction.
“Hey Siri, tell Isabel I’ll be there in ten minutes and to wait for me.”
“Ready to send?”
“Yes.”
I look into the frightened face of the woman driving next to me, and then change lanes and accelerate, fifteen exits—and a lifetime—away from Isabel.
I flip on the radio, but the same message is being repeated there: take shelter; don’t panic; the President will address the country in a few minutes.