“Yulia,” he called. “I’ve brought someone to meet you. Her name is Mini and she is magical. She has taught herself to make fairies.”
Mini concentrated on the room beyond the door and realized that she could sense the chaotic flux of energies there: trepidation, loneliness, stubbornness . . . curiosity. She put a hand on Lorstad’s arm. “Let me try something,” she said.
He gestured for her to proceed.
She stepped close to the door and called, “Yulia? Hello. I’m Mini. I have something I want to show you.” She concentrated on a spot just inside the door and created one of her little dancers—a young man with dark, curly hair dressed in knee breeches with a long, flyaway coat and a tricorn hat. She saw him clearly in her mind’s eye standing proudly erect, then sweeping off his hat and giving a deep, courtly bow before executing a crisp jig.
There was an audible exclamation from the other side of the door. A moment later, the door opened. The girl who peered out at Mini was no older than twelve, but fully as tall as she was. She was thin and dark with a heart-shaped face and huge brown eyes.
“You made this dancing man?” she asked, in faintly accented English, pointing at the little figure who had returned to an upright position with his hat tucked beneath one arm.
“I did,” Mini said. “I’m an artist and he’s sort of . . . a living statue.” She sent the little dancer a thought and he turned to look at Yulia with an expression of expectation on his tiny perfect face.
“You taught yourself to do this?”
Mini nodded.
“Can . . . can I learn it, too?”
“You can,” said Lorstad. “Mini and her friends will show you how. But you need to come down to their . . . to Mini’s studio first. Will you do that, Yulia?”
The girl studied Mini for a moment longer, then nodded. “If she will be there.” Then, shyly, “And him,” she said, pointing at the dancing man.
“Oh, he’ll be there,” Mini said with a smile. She held out her hand and the girl took it with only slight hesitation. She came willingly, if cautiously, with them down to the lab, which she entered with her head swiveling every which way and her eyes as big as quarters.
Lorstad and Mini stood patiently by as she took in the long, high-ceilinged room with its varied work areas, then they introduced her to the assembled team. She greeted each with lowered eyes and shy demeanor until she got to Eugene. Then she did a double take, shot Mini a surprised glance, and smiled.
“Oh,” she said, “you are the tiny man that Mini made dance in my room!”
“I’m the what?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Mini said. “I think Yulia would like to have her first zeta lesson. She wants to learn to make dancing men of her own.”
Embarrassed, yet somehow gratified, Eugene returned to his workstation to continue clandestinely monitoring happenings in the outer world. Dice, true to his promise, had given them untrammeled access to the Internet.
He’d set up a search on Chuck’s name and had a list of hits to pore over. One of them, oddly, was the whitehouse.gov page. Eugene followed the link and found something that made every too-curly hair stand up on his head and quiver with excitement. He glanced down the room at the test bay where Dice, Joey, and Chuck were showing Yulia the machinery. He slid from his seat and approached the group, sidling up beside Chuck as surreptitiously as possible.
“Doc, if you’ve got a minute, we really need to talk.”
“Can it wait?”
“Not really. I need to show you something I just found. In your office?”
Chuck turned to look at him. “You found something in my office?”
“No, I want to . . . can we just—” He gestured with his chin at the inner “fishbowl.” “God—just go to your office!”
Chuck’s eyes widened in surprise at the outburst, but seeing Eugene’s face, he nodded and followed Eugene into the inner sanctum. “Does Lanfen need to—”
“I don’t think so. I just need you to see something.”
He hurried into Chuck’s office and moved to his desk to wake his laptop. By the time Chuck had come to the desk, Eugene had entered the password and gone online. Chuck frowned at him. “You know my password?”
Eugene snorted. “Doc, I’ve known your password for years. And I’m pretty sure you know mine. Here, this—this is what I wanted to show you.” He turned the computer so Chuck could read the screen.
There, on the White House website, was a personal message from President Margaret Ellis. It read:
My fellow Americans:
Our current situation requires wisdom, patience, courage, and restraint. We are seeking to contact experts who can aid us in understanding how we may best negotiate with the Triad—the terrorists holding the abandoned military outpost in Pennsylvania.
Anyone with knowledge of the whereabouts of the following individuals is encouraged to contact my administration through the office of Chief of Staff Curtis Chamberlin: Dr. Charles Brenton, Dr. Daisuke Kobayashi, Dr. Eugene Pozniaki, Ms. Chen Lanfen, and Ms. Minerva Mause.
We believe these individuals may have much to contribute to the solution of our present dilemma.
Dr. Brenton, if you should happen to see this appeal, I beg you, please make contact with the White House. This is a matter of grave urgency.
This was followed by the president’s signature and a specially assigned phone number and e-mail address.
Eugene looked up at Chuck, taking in the stunned expression on his face. “What do you think we should do?”
“I think we should try to contact the president’s chief of staff.”
“Dammit, Roman! What part of ‘they don’t care about our politics’ do you not understand?” Margaret was at the end of her rope. She got up from her desk (reminding herself that it was the Resolute desk) and rounded it to sit across from Roman Bluth in the seating area in front of the fireplace.
“This isn’t about politics, Madam President,” Bluth countered smoothly.
“Really? You’re not using this as a declaration of your intent to run against me? Please—I’m not a child, Bluth. But forget that for a second. If this isn’t about politics, then what’s it about? What do you think stonewalling these people is going to accomplish? If I could make sense of your position—if you’ve got some brilliant plan I don’t see, that Curt doesn’t see, that Joan doesn’t see—then for God’s sake share it. If it’s reasonable, if it’s workable . . .” She spread her hands.
“Well,” he said, running a well-manicured hand down his tie, “these things aren’t simple . . .”
Margaret read the gesture as a defensive one, and yet she still almost laughed at the ridiculousness of what he’d just said. “You’re preaching to the choir, Roman. Tell me something I don’t know—and I mean that quite literally: tell me what I don’t know. Why are you pushing back on this, when you know we really don’t have a choice? We can either play this the way the Zetas want or we can expect disaster. You saw what they did in Afghanistan, in Syria, in Ukraine, in Korea, in the Congo—hell, in Mexico. Do you want another Washington Monument or worse?”
“Of course not. But to be honest, Madam President, blind obedience to these terrorists is more likely to end badly for us than standing up to them . . . or negotiating from a position of strength.”
“Position of strength? There is no position of strength. Did you not hear what I just said? You’ve seen the same evidence I’ve seen—I’ve been very clear in making sure Congress was fully aware of all the info I have. Why are you treating this as if it were—” She cut off, reading the answer to her aborted question in his eyes before he glanced away. “Oh . . . I see.” She shook her head at the dawning realization. “You don’t believe this is real. You think we’re being hoaxed.”
He shrugged.
“What—the attack in Kabul happened on a soundstage?”
“It’s possible.”
“To what end? We had verification from multiple sources—all reliable, some
even antagonistic to each other. Not all of them American, meaning I’d have no power over them. Besides all that, you drive past proof every day: the Washington Monument is in ruins, Roman. That was no Hollywood stunt.”
“One of our own helicopters did that.”
She stared at him. “Fine. Imagine for a moment everything we’ve seen so far has somehow been faked—which it hasn’t, but we’ll play that hypothetical game for the time being. What will it take to convince you that this is real? More dead bodies?”
He smiled, and Margaret realized how much she hated that smile.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”
She almost threw her hands up in disgust at that. “I’m not sure you would,” she told him, standing. “Or if you saw it and knew it, I’m not sure you’d admit it.” Bluth tilted his head back ever so slightly, and Margaret knew she had hit the mark. She pressed. “So that’s actually it. I don’t think you really believe we’re being hoaxed; I think you just want to believe it.”
He stood, too, frowning, but with the smile still in place. “That’s hardly fair to me, Margaret.”
“Really, Roman? Really? And how fair is it to me for you to use this situation for political attack ads? Your behavior on the floor of the Senate has been all about how much better you and your party could handle this. It’s perfect timing isn’t it? You take over the media cycle just as your party is about to name a candidate—very convenient, no? Well, Senator, I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you—to put your money where your mouth is. If you’ve got ideas, I want to hear them. And you and your party can have all due credit for them.
“I’m calling your hand, Senator Bluth. What have you got?”
She stood toe-to-toe with him on opposite sides of the National Seal for a long, tense moment in which she thought he was scrambling for a clever comeback and coming up empty. A chill crept up her spine. His smirk revealed that he did have something, a card up his sleeve, something to be played against her. He remained silent, feigning defeat, but Margaret knew better.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, then turned on her heel and returned to her desk. “I’ll see you on the floor of the Senate, Senator Bluth.”
He had started to move toward the door, but paused to look at her, his hand going once more to his tie. “What? That’s highly irregular.”
She looked up at him from behind the Resolute desk. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Senator. These are highly irregular times.”
“Apparently so.” Bluth’s strangely calm demeanor did not rest well with Margaret. It could mean any number of things, but more than likely it confirmed her suspicion that he had something to be played against her.
He left, and Margaret lost herself in going over press releases, threading a zigzag path between truth and fiction. She had been asked to account for the bizarre abilities that a myriad viral videos showed the “terrorists” possessed. She described them as a combination of high-tech tools, staging, and CGI. The irony was not lost on her that, even as she was trying to convince America that the supernatural aspects of the terrorist attacks were fake, she was desperate to assure Congress that they weren’t.
She looked up at the sound of a tap on the door from her chief of staff’s office. “Come.”
Curt Chamberlin entered the room with a look on his face Margaret was pretty sure she’d never seen before. She couldn’t read him.
“Curt? What is it? What’s happened?” She started to rise, but he waved her back.
“I just got an Internet call.”
“That’s fascinating, Curt, but unless it’s for something to wash the stink of Roman Bluth from this room—”
“A call from Dr. Charles Brenton.”
Margaret sat back in her chair. “You just got a call . . . That means he made it through the verification process.” It amazed her how many people lied just for fun.
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“You’re telling me we’re in contact with the real Charles Brenton.” Margaret was pretty sure her facial expression now mirrored her chief’s. “Well, we need to bring him in.”
“That may not be as simple as it sounds.”
What in this new world we live in is?
Chapter 14
Beneath the Surface
Kristian Lorstad was no longer comfortable with all the attempts Chuck’s team had been making to mask their conversations. It had been expected, of course, but with progress on his requested process and formula stalling, frustration and suspicion were enough for him to stop being coy about what he knew and what he didn’t. So he simply decided to confront them openly, knowing Charles did not like to tell falsehoods and often gave himself away when he tried, and Eugene was equally an open book.
The time for games was over.
After the team’s morning session with Giles and Yulia, Kristian dismissed the two trainees and requested that the entire kinetics team assemble in Brenton’s office around the conference table. They exchanged wary looks, which the Learned pretended to ignore, and complied. Once they were all seated, they gave him their entire attention. He made a point of meeting each person’s gaze before turning to their leader.
“Charles,” he said, “I must ask you something. It is obvious that you and your team feel frustrated here and wish to reach out to your fellow adepts in Pennsylvania. We are not unaware of the measures you have taken to keep your private quarters and this room free of our surveillance devices. I am disturbed by this—”
“Then we’re even,” said Kobayashi. “We’re disturbed by your surveillance devices.”
“Be that as it may, I must ask directly: Charles, are you planning an escape?”
Brenton looked up and met Kristian’s eyes, then laughed softly. “‘Escape’ is an interesting choice of words, Kristian . . . but what would be the point? We’ve tested your security—both live and virtual. So, we know how tight it is. I’m sure your tech people have informed you of every poke and prod. I imagine we’ll get out of here when you’re good and ready to let us go. I just hope that’s in time to do something about what’s happening beyond the walls of your . . . fey kingdom. Of course, this brings up an interesting—and rather disappointing—thought.”
“Oh?”
“Quite frankly I am surprised we are regarded as inmates needing to escape, as you put it.”
Kristian tried to read the other man. Charles Brenton did not seem at all like someone who had just been confronted with plotting an escape. He seemed resigned to his fate. Kristian looked to Daisuke Kobayashi next. The engineer was regarding him with narrowed eyes, his jaw tight. Clenched. Dice, Kristian suspected, was most deeply affected by Matt Streegman’s death. Which made him emotionally vulnerable.
“You’re angry, Dr. Kobayashi,” he observed.
“Yeah, I’m angry. I feel like my hands are tied. I’ve lost a lot in the last several months—a colleague, connections with family, my fiancée, my life. It’s like standing on a riverbank watching people you know drown, and knowing you won’t let me even try to save them. This rescue of yours is feeling more and more like a prison sentence every day. But all you care about is your precious evolution. You want to be masters of the universe while everyone else . . . Well, that’s the whole point, Lorstad—you don’t give a rat’s ass about everyone else.”
Kristian shook his head. “I assure you, Dr. Kobayashi, that is not true.”
“No?” That was Eugene. “You expect us to trust you, to work with you—hell, to work for you—but you give damn little in return.”
“How about the fact that we took you in and protected you from Deep Shield and the Alphas? That we continue to do so.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t as if you did that out of the goodness of your hearts. We’re assets. Tools.” Eugene’s face was flushed. “Profane tools.”
Lanfen jumped in, her dark eyes glinting with distrust. “You observe us as if we were lab specimens. You make us perform for you, show you
the extent of our capacities. You want to know everything about us, but you share nothing about yourselves.”
Charles had turned his head to look at her, his expression bemused. She afforded him a glance, then said, “What if we simply stop performing, Kristian? What if we decide that we want to be as big a mystery to you as you are to us?”
Kristian opened his mouth to ask what they’d like to know, then decided this was an opportunity to show rather than tell—and show something that would make his guests feel that they were well rewarded for their trust. Theoretically, that might make them more inclined to trust in return. He had been preparing for the eventuality of having to do something as bold as what he was now contemplating, though he had intended it to be more reward than incentive.
“I understand, Ms. Chen. And I am willing to share with you now one of the things that immersion has allowed me to do.” He smiled briefly, stood up . . .
And vanished.
Chuck all but leapt out of his chair. Eugene, who’d been sitting right next to Lorstad, let out a yip of surprise.
“Holy shit!” he gasped, thrusting his chair back from the table. “Holy freaking shit!”
Mini shook her head, an expression of wonderment on her face. “Quantum physics.”
“What?” asked Eugene.
Mini fixed Chuck with her bright gaze. “You remember, don’t you, Chuck? I said he told me his area of expertise was quantum physics?”
“Quantum . . .” He looked at Dice, who’d also come to his feet. “Quantum entanglement?”
“In English, please,” said Lanfen.
“I’m not sure quantum entanglement translates to English,” said Dice. “It’s hard to—”
He was interrupted by the sudden reappearance of Kristian Lorstad in company with a wide-eyed Brenda Tansy. They simply were not there one moment and then there the next. There was only the tiniest breeze from the sudden displacement of air.
“—explain,” Dice finished.
The God Peak Page 21