by Alten-Steve
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Gotta disappear fast, before he overrides the lock.
She looks around, desperate, then notices the antique letter opener.
Outside the lab door, Collin Shelby slides his bogus identification card across the magnetic seal. ‘Computer, override lock. Security, Shelby 28497-M.’
The doors hiss open. Shelby enters the lab, stun gun in hand. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer?’
No response. No one visible.
The guard looks around, then checks Gabeheart’s private office.
Empty.
‘Computer, locate Lauren Beckmeyer, microchip identification 341124876-FL-USA
LAUREN BECKMEYER IS OFF-LINE.
‘Off-line?’ Shelby looks around. Sees the letter opener, stained with blood on Gabeheart’s desk. Locates the remains of the crushed microchip implant in the trash can.
‘Clever girl.’
Shelby removes a palm-sized device from his jacket and attaches it to Gabeheart’s computer, overriding the lockout mechanism. ‘Computer, access all e-mail records and hard drive documents and delete.’
Thousands of records flash past the small screen in an instant.
Collin Shelby is a member of UMBRA, a mercenary subcontracting organization that functions in extreme sanction situations for the DIA, CIA, and NSA and maintains liaisons with senior FBI personnel. Formerly labeled the ‘Talent Pool,’ the shadow organization’s primary cover is the prevention of terrorist activities.
Shelby has no idea why he has been ordered to assassinate Lauren Beckmeyer, nor does he care. A harsh by-product of the new global Internet and unified monetary system is that terrorist organizations can now recruit young and old, male and female from any nation and every walk of life. Last month’s biological attack at the 9-11 Memorial killed more than sixty civilians. If the death of one confused college student can prevent more bloodshed …
E-MAIL RECORDS AND HARD DRIVE DOCUMENTS HAVE BEEN DELETED.
Shelby detaches the remote link and looks around.
Inches beneath the soles of his boots, hidden below the lab’s gridlike paneled floor, is a terrified Lauren Beckmeyer. She is scrunched up in a tight crawl space containing computer cables and circuitry, her bleeding palm wedged firmly in her mouth, preventing her from wheezing out loud.
The guard touches the comm link on his forearm. ‘It’s Shelby. She’s gone.’
‘Did you erase Gabeheart’s records?’
‘Yes, sir. Where do you want me?’
‘We’ve got her dormitory covered. Join Bates at her fiancé’s place.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The guard looks around one last time, then leaves.
Lauren remains hidden, her pulse pounding in her ears.
32
NOVEMBER 23, 2033: HANGAR 13, KENNEDY SPACE
CENTER, CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA
Wednesday Dawn
The sound of a brook, running beneath the wooden structure.
A bird chirps somewhere in the garden.
Immanuel Gabriel opens his eyes, surprised to find a slight Asian man in an orange monk’s robe standing in the entry of the open shoji.
‘Ni hao.’ The man grins.
‘Knee who?’
‘I said, “good morning.” Did I startle you?’
‘Everything startles me these days. Guess you’re looking for my brother?’
‘Bu shi.’
‘I’m sorry, did you say bullshit?’
‘Bu shi means, “that is not right.” I am here to meet you and escort you to your brother. I was observing you as you slept. Your soul is not at peace.’
‘No bu shi.’ Immanuel stands, offering the Asian his hand. ‘Samuel Agler.’
‘Chong Xiong.’
He shakes the Tibetan monk’s hand, registering the power behind the smaller man’s grip. ‘I take it you’re one of my brother’s teachers.’
Chong grins. ‘There is a robe in the bathroom. Please get dressed and follow me, your brother is waiting.’
Immanuel heads for the bathroom, his stomach grumbling. Get dressed and follow me … who’s this guy think he is? He tugs the shoji shut behind him, urinates, washes his face, then gets dressed in the white kung fu clothing.
Exiting the bathroom, he heads straight for the kitchen. ‘Hey, Mr. Chong, you want some breakfast?’
‘We will not eat at this time.’ Chong points outside. ‘Please.’
‘But I’m hungry.’
‘Master your appetite.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Imagine a dead rat, its steaming intestines draining on your fly-infested morning toast.’
Immanuel swallows the bile rising in his throat.
Chong’s grin never changes. ‘No shoes, please.’
Moments later, a barefoot and impatient Immanuel Gabriel is jogging along a stone path leading out of the atrium.
‘So you’re a Tibetan monk, huh?’
‘You are familiar with the history of the Shaolin?’
‘Just from watching those old kung fu movies.’
Chong slows to a quick walk. ‘Kung fu is just one part of our training. To understand Shaolin means tracing the history of China, which dates back to 2600 B.C., to the age of the Five Rulers. For two thousand years, China remained divided and at the mercy of the invading Huns and Mongolian nomads.’
‘That’s why your ancestors built the Wall, right?’
‘The Great Wall you see today is a result of tourism. The original structure was merely a collection of short barriers. Since it was not continuous, Mongol invaders had no trouble going around it. It was not until 221 B.C. that Emperor Chin finally made strides in uniting China into one nation. Seven hundred years later, an Indian Buddhist monk by the name of Ba Tao came to China to teach Buddhism. The Emperor summoned the monk to his palace and was so impressed by the man’s wisdom that he offered him his own palace to continue his teachings. Ba Tao declined this offer, instead requesting a large piece of land away from civilization where he could build a monastery. The Emperor granted his request, offering him land in the province of Henan on the side of Sung San Mountain. The district was called “Wooded Hill,” which translates to Shaolin in Mandarin. Thus was born the first Shaolin Temple.
‘In A.D. 539, a holy man named Bodhidharma left his monastery in India to spread the teachings of Ch’an Buddhism, what Westerners refer to as Zen. Bodhidharma was described as a bearded wise man with piercing blue eyes.’
‘He was a Guardian?’
Chong only smiles. ‘It is said Bodhidharma traveled hundreds of miles to reach northern China, crossing the Himalayan Mountains and the Yangtze River until he arrived at the Shaolin Temple. Unfortunately, the abbot, Fang Chang, refused him entrance, and so Bodhidharma located in a nearby cave. It is written that the wise one sat in meditation, facing a stone wall until his piercing blue eyes bored a gaping hole through the cliff wall. Visiting monks supplied him with food and water and became so impressed with his depth of knowledge that they invited him inside the Shaolin Temple.
‘Upon entering Shaolin, Bodhidharma, now called Ta Mo by the Chinese, observed that the monks were too weak to meditate. He taught them three series of exercises, which marked the beginning of Shaolin Temple Kung Fu, which means “hard work and perfection.” These techniques were later refined into fighting methods to repel attacks from local bandits. Eventually more temples were built, each run by several Shaolin Masters—experts in training of the mind, body, and spirit.’
‘You’re a Master?’
‘Grand Master. I began my training as a boy in the Shaolin Temple at Sung San Mountain, then began Pak Mei Kung Fu training in the Gwong How Temple when I was twenty. Ours is a style that incorporates both Shaolin and Taoist practices, allowing the warrior to move from a relaxed movement into explosive power.’
‘How long have you been teaching Jake?’
‘Five years. Now Jacob is teaching me.’
They follow a subterranean passage, then turn
right into an alcove. A steel door slides open as they approach, revealing a narrow, subterranean flight of stone steps leading below.
Immanuel follows the slight Asian down the spiraling stairwell, which is lit only by an occasional oil lamp mounted on the limestone wall. ‘The decor was your brother’s idea,’ the Tibetan says. ‘It sets the proper mood.’
They descend two stories, the temperature within the stairwell dropping noticeably. Immanuel rubs goose bumps from his exposed forearms. ‘Must be one hell of an air-conditioning bill. Whoa …’
The stairwell abruptly ends, depositing them on the top of a snowcapped mountain. The peaks of the Himalayas loom in every direction, crowding infinity itself. As Immanuel steps off the last stair and into a three-foot-high snowdrift, the stone corridor behind him disappears, camouflaging the entrance to the immense subterranean holo-suite.
‘Jesus, it’s freezing.’ Through teary eyes, Immanuel can see his breath. ‘Okay, now what? Hope you guys created a ski lodge somewhere nearby, my balls have turned blue.’
Ignoring him, Chong trudges through the knee-deep snow across the summit.
Immanuel follows, his lungs heaving, his bare feet numb. After several minutes they come to the entrance of a cave.
Seated outside the cave in the snow, his legs tucked into a lotus position, is Jacob. He is bare-chested, wearing only the bottoms of his black kung fu garb. His eyes are closed.
The skin covering his chiseled muscles is a healthy pink.
‘Is he crazy … never mind, I already know.’ Immanuel’s teeth chatter. ‘Wake him up before he freezes to death. It’s gotta be below zero out here, er, in here.’
‘With wind chill, it is minus eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. Touch his skin.’
Immanuel reaches out and grips his twin’s shoulder—shocked to find it warm, almost hot to the touch. ‘He’s burning with fever!’
‘It is not fever, at least not a fever generated by sickness.’
‘I don’t understand. How long has he been out here?’
‘Just under four hours.’
‘Four hours? How—’
‘It is a form of meditation we call Ta Moo, taught to us by our Shaolin wise man. Using the life force, Chi, we can manipulate our internal functions, overriding our brain’s beta rhythms, redirecting with alpha rhythms. Jacob has raised his body’s internal temperature to compensate for the extreme cold. Now see if you can find your brother’s pulse.’
The dark-haired twin touches his brother’s exposed neck, feeling nothing. Bending down, he presses his half-frozen ear to his brother’s bare chest, Jacob’s flushed skin warming Immanuel’s cheek. ‘There’s no heartbeat. He’s in the nexus, isn’t he?’
‘No. This part of his training prepares him for the nexus. It allows him to communicate with your father.’
‘You taught him this?’
‘Yes, but even my own master was never this skilled. When Jacob remains focused like this, his alpha waves are off the scale.’
Immanuel’s teeth chatter. ‘What about … me?’
‘Let us find out. Remove your robe and sit down in front of your brother.’
Hesitantly, he takes off his top and assumes a lotus position. As if in response, a gust of icy wind blows across the holographic mountaintop, its frigid chill burning into his exposed flesh.
‘Damn!’
‘Ignore the cold and close your eyes. Imagine there are small pipes running through your rib cage. These pipes are red-hot. See the pipes in your mind’s eye. Feel their warmth radiating inside your chest. Feel the heat seep into your arms and legs, into your wrists and ankles, filling your fingers and toes. Breathe slowly through your nose … exhaling softly through your mouth. Each slow breath stokes the hot coals that heat the pipes. Relax into the warmth.’
Immanuel slips into the imagery. The tension in his muscles eases. He is no longer shaking.
‘Good. Very good. Now, I am going to place a sheet over your shoulders. The sheet will feel wet. I want you to focus the heat from the pipes up through your body, into the wet sheet.’
The Tibetan enters the cave. Inside is a wooden barrel, filled with icy water. Reaching inside, he removes a bedsheet, wrings it out, then wraps it around Immanuel’s exposed shoulders.
Manny’s eyes flash open, then close again as he forces himself back into the trance.
‘Focus the heat from the pipes up through your chest and shoulders and back, into the wet sheet. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, each breath stoking the hot coals …’
Immanuel slows his pulse, his breathing all but disappearing. He can feel the burning in his stomach, only this time it is soothing warmth, not the lactic acid he experiences while playing football.
His mind wanders, pushing him deeper through the corridors of darkness, until he hears:
It must be boring to be God … omnipotent and immortal, never knowing ambition or desire, triumph or loss. Is that why You created us, Lord? To entertain You? Is that why You ‘blessed us’ with our insecurities, poisoned us with ego, enslaved us with lust and greed, power and revenge? Is the human race one big cockfight to you? Do You enjoy the cruelties we inflict upon one another?
Does it entertain You?
Or have You, our parental deity, simply given up? At what point, I wonder, did we finally cross the line? Not during our infancy, when You instructed us through Noah and Abraham, Jacob and Moses. Was it after Christ was crucified? Did You really forgive us? Perhaps it was during humanity’s adolescence, those terrible ‘teen’ years when most parents feel like abandoning their child. Was that it, Lord? Was it the Holocaust that caused You to shake Your mighty head in shame? Hiroshima? Korea? Vietnam? September 11? The 2012 conflict? The atrocities in Africa? The endless turmoil in the Middle East?
At what point did You say, ‘To Hell with them.’
Selfish and stupid, violent and destructive, shortsighted and cruel. Children step on your toes when they are young, then step on your hearts as they get older.
Everyone makes mistakes, God. Were we Yours?
Or was this whole thing just part of Your master plan?
Forgive my tirade, son, but since your departure from my soul, I am so full of anger, so full of hate, so full of blasphemy that at times I feel as if I could burst—
Immanuel’s ebony eyes flash open as he wails a bloodcurdling scream and leaps to his feet, tossing the now-dry bedsheet from his shoulders.
Jacob grabs him around the shoulders. ‘Manny, what is it?’
Immanuel hugs himself, pacing back and forth in the snow, his limbs shaking.
‘Computer, end program!’
The snow and mountainside disappear, revealing the onyx-tiled sensory chamber. The heavy chill ceases, replaced by waves of heat.
Jacob hovers over his brother, who is kneeling on the damp floor, huddling in the warmth. ‘You heard him, didn’t you, Manny? You heard our father!’
Immanuel looks up, his body still trembling. ‘I heard nothing. Now get me the hell out of here.’
33
NOVEMBER 24, 2033: HEALTH SOUTH DOCTOR’S HOSPITAL, CORAL GABLES, FLORIDA
Thursday Morning
Lauren Beckmeyer is exhausted.
It is not the kind of exhaustion she ordinarily relishes from her physical training. This is something she has never experienced, the kind of overwhelming fatigue that comes from being a fugitive. Perpetually draining, it refuses to allow her mind to rest, her fraught nerves to settle.
It is exhaustion based on the fear of death.
For the last thirty-six hours the track star has been ducking through back streets and alleyways, hiding in shadows—avoiding people. She cannot go to her apartment. She cannot contact her parents or friends, fearing the men who murdered Professor Gabeheart will come after her loved ones, just as they are coming after her. She has not eaten, since the purchase of food requires identity scans, and hers has been excised.
Lauren doesn’t know who the enemy is, but she ha
s her suspicions. Late the previous night, as she lay alone on the beach, her mind had finally quieted enough to piece things together.
Whoever wanted Gabeheart silenced feared the professor might learn the truth about Yellowstone’s caldera. To resort to murder means pressure within the caldera system must be building, which means an eruption is imminent.
The last eruption in Yellowstone led to an ice age. If this next one is anywhere near as devastating … oh, Jesus!
Lauren did not sleep, the threat to her own life suddenly overshadowed by the thought of a super volcanic winter. Somehow she had to get a warning to the public. Somehow she had to make the world listen while there was still time to act … assuming there was still time and there was another course of action.
But who would listen to her? She was a nobody, someone who could easily be snatched away before the first television camera could be turned on. And what proof did she really have?
But there was someone the media would listen to, someone they wanted to interview, someone who received more news coverage than any scientist, any geology student ever could.
Lauren needed to find Sam.
Lauren watches the Student Medical Center side entrance from her vantage behind a row of shrubs. Her hair is slicked back with water and tucked under a baseball cap.
She crosses the street, blending in with a family as they enter the facility. She follows a crowded corridor, then waits in line to access an automated hospital help station.
Presses PATIENT DIRECTORY. ‘Kirk Peacock’s room.’
KIRK PEACOCK IS LOCATED IN ROOM 310, BED B. HAVE A NICE DAY.
She looks around, bypassing the elevator for the stairs.
Kirk Peacock is lying in bed, his drooling mouth open, his eyes cloaked behind a virtual-reality headpiece. Lauren takes a seat by his bed, averting her eyes as a robonurse enters and changes his IV bag.
‘Kirk. Hey, Kirk!’ She knocks on the VR helmet, then yanks it off his head.
‘Cut the fubitchshitting … Lauren? Hey … what’re you doing here?’
‘I came to see you. You feeling okay?’
‘Fuck no. Got needles and tubes comin’ outta my bunghole. Haven’t done a leech in days. They took my contacts, my body piercings, my hair’s growing in over my ’too, and my father’s making me restain my pigment flesh tone. Life blows.’