by A. G. Riddle
“What are you telling me?”
“I’m showing you evidence of our future. An event we can’t avoid. One that’s closer than you realize. Right now, Desmond, there are humans who think differently. I’m one of them. And I believe you’re one of them, just as I said to you months ago. You are awake.
“Very soon, the next revolution will begin. It will be more profound than the emergence of fiction. Or agriculture. Or the scientific revolution, or global capitalism, or the internet—though they were all necessary precursors. This revolution will change everything. Forever. And we are creating it. The Citium is creating it. Look closely. Consider what you’ve learned. The next step is inevitable. Do you see it? It’s written in the pattern of history.”
Desmond pondered Yuri’s words, what he’d learned, the long arc of human history. He saw a pattern now, pieces fitting together, the wide view—as if his eyes had been mere inches from a painting, but now he had stepped back and could see it all, understand it.
The pieces were there, in history—the stepping stones that had created the modern world. The first event: brains that operated like simulation machines. Then agriculture and cities to power them. Cities to network them together. Ships to trade goods and ideas, then railroads, the electric telegraph, telephone lines, fax machines, dial-up modems, fiber-optic lines. Faster and broader networks, facilitating access to calories and the exchange of information. He saw it all, and for the first time, he saw where it was going.
He glimpsed the Looking Glass, and he was in awe.
Chapter 30
Conner sat in Lin Shaw’s kitchen, the refrigerator and freezer door open, the blast of cold air barely dampening the heat from the blaze. Sweat dripped from his face onto his body armor.
Major Goins entered and squatted down in front of him. “Sir, we have to go.”
“We stay, Major.”
“Sir—”
“You have your orders.”
Goins marched into the garage. Conner heard muffled voices, men arguing with Goins’s orders, threatening to mutiny and leave.
The conflict steeled Conner. He thrived on opposition. It had been the key to his survival as a child.
He walked to the doorway, watched as the men fell silent.
His voice was calm. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”
A tall, short-haired man with a scar on his chin glanced at the five mercenaries gathered behind him. “Will that be before or after we burn to death?”
Conner let his hand fall to the gun holster at his side. “If you open your mouth again, it will be after I kill you.”
Silence. The man’s gaze softened and fell to the concrete floor. With each second the roar of the fire grew louder, like a wind tunnel being turned up.
“Load up,” Conner said. “I’ll be driving.”
That was the only way to guarantee the van didn’t leave before he was ready.
As they filed into the van, he leaned close to Dr. Park and whispered, “Time, Doctor?”
“Minutes. Not long.”
Conner got behind the wheel, buckled up, and rolled the windows down.
A voice called over the radio. “Zero, Unit two. We’ve got a problem. X1s are using El Camino Real as a firebreak—they’ve got air support dumping suppressant on the road. It’s impassable. They’re doing the same on Valparaiso Avenue. They’ve got checkpoints set up. They’re cataloging evacuees and routing them to Stanford. Flame-retardant barricades are set up at the other intersections.”
“Use the drone,” Conner said. “Find a weak checkpoint and converge a block from there. Wait for us. We’ll breach it together.”
Assuming the fire didn’t arrive first.
If Conner did make it to the checkpoint, he knew everything would change: the X1 troops would know for sure a sophisticated adversary was operating in their theater. They would likely assume that Conner’s team had set the fire. The X1 units would then turn Menlo Park upside down looking for them. He hoped the next Labyrinth location was far away.
To Desmond, the world looked completely different than it had just a second before. The past made sense. The future was clear.
In the hotel room overlooking Victoria Park in Adelaide, Yuri finally spoke. “Tell me what you see, Desmond. What is our destiny?”
“A world where only one thing matters: the strength of your mind. Where it doesn’t matter where you’re from or what you look like. A world where all wounds can be healed, even the ones in our minds. Where a person can start over.”
“You understand now.” Yuri stood, and Desmond followed suit. “We’re building that world. Will you help us?”
“Until the end.”
Yuri nodded.
“How?” Desmond asked. “Tell me exactly how the Looking Glass will function.”
Yuri spoke at length, describing the one Citium conclave that had been removed from the archives. He described a device of breathtaking ambition. Desmond asked question after question, and each time, Yuri had an answer. Much of the technology would still need to be created, but there was a roadmap to do just that.
“Where do I fit in?” Desmond asked.
“Soon. You’ll know soon.”
“Then where do we start?”
“With the ones we love. The ones we’ll save.”
Desmond’s mind flashed to a smiling face, framed by dark hair, lit by the glow of the moon behind her. He saw them lying on a blanket in the sand dunes, wind whistling off the sea, Peyton kissing him with reckless abandon. Then he saw a baby’s face, sitting in a high chair, smiling at him. The memory of Conner was the last he had.
“Would you like to see your brother again?”
They rented a car, and Desmond drove while Yuri recited directions from memory. The route took them north, out of Adelaide, into industrial areas and high-crime suburbs. Well-kept neighborhoods turned to dive bars and run-down strip malls, then warehouses and body shops. They entered Port Adelaide. Desmond took it all in. There were signs for the rubbish dump north of A9. The fisherman’s wharf. Train and bus stations.
“You knew,” Desmond said. “He was here all along.” What he didn’t say was, And you let me search in vain.
But Yuri answered the unspoken accusation. “It’s natural. You couldn’t help but look for him. I would have.”
“What happened to him after the hospital?”
Yuri stared through the windshield. “Turn left here.”
The apartment building was in bad shape, with tarps over several sections of roof. Motorcycles and old beat-up muscle cars sat in the parking spaces.
“Park near the back,” Yuri said.
Desmond did so and turned the car off. He pulled the door handle.
“Stay.”
Desmond glanced at Yuri, who whispered, “You need to see him first.”
Desmond pulled the door closed, now worried. He watched the apartment complex’s outdoor staircase as people filed out and headed to work.
“Not long now,” Yuri said.
Desmond wondered if he would recognize Conner. It had been twenty years. He had been a baby then. But Desmond had read the reports. Third-degree burns over thirty percent of his body. Sadly, his brother would be easy to pick out. And he was.
On that overcast day in late May, in the early days of the South Australian winter, Desmond saw his brother for the first time as an adult.
Conner trudged up the stairs from his garden apartment, grungy, long hair hanging down over his face. Thick burn scars covered his right cheek, chin, and forehead. Mottled flesh pulled at his right eye, making him look like a photograph that had been rained on, the image partially washed away, the damage irreversible.
He lit a cigarette and swapped it from hand to hand as he pulled on a hooded sweatshirt, covering the red marks and bruises in the crook of his elbow. As he walked away, Desmond realized something.
“He’s why you chose me, isn’t he? You knew, even before you came to my office.”
“He’s only half
the reason.”
Desmond waited.
“There’s a piece of the Looking Glass that only a mind like yours can create.”
“What is it?”
“Rendition.”
Desmond saw it then—the true sequence of events, how everything was connected. Him and Peyton. Lin Shaw had seen her daughter’s despair, had gone to Yuri, suggested they bring Desmond in and use the Looking Glass to help both of them. Yuri had researched Desmond, discovered that he could be useful—and more, that he could be controlled. But Yuri likely concluded that Peyton wouldn’t provide enough leverage to control Desmond; after all, romantic love could be fickle. Conner was the key.
Desmond felt that he understood Yuri a little more then. The man had said before that his specialty was knowing what people would do, but the truth was darker than that—Yuri needed to control people. That’s how he knew what they would do. The revelation brought Desmond pause, but even then, he knew he was already committed. He couldn’t walk away from his brother. And Yuri might hold the only hope of healing his wounds.
As Conner slipped out of view, Yuri said, “He’s like us, Desmond. A victim of circumstances. But it’s not too late for him. The Looking Glass is his only hope.” He paused, let the words sink in. “We have that power.”
“What happens now?” Desmond asked.
“I need something else from you.”
Desmond waited.
“I need to know you’ll finish what we start. We’ll have to cross bridges that will make you uncomfortable.”
Desmond stared at the older man, this visionary who was literally holding out the promise of saving his brother’s life. “I walked through fire to try to save him once. I’ll do it again—even if it burns me alive this time.”
Chapter 31
To Desmond’s surprise, they didn’t contact Conner. He paid the private detectives, including Arlo, and told them the search was over. He stayed in Adelaide, and so did Yuri. They rented condos in the city center and began planning.
They sat in the living room, Yuri drinking tea, Desmond fidgeting, anxious to get on with it.
“Where do we start?” Desmond asked.
“Delphi.”
“What?”
“The Temple at Delphi,” Yuri said. “The words printed above the entrance: Know Thyself. That’s the key to understanding Conner’s path. He has spent his life reacting to his environment, fleeing pain, minimizing his suffering, never truly discovering who he is.”
“Okay,” Desmond said slowly. “How do we help him discover who he is?”
“We take him out of his environment.” Yuri laid a folder on the coffee table.
Desmond rifled through it. To his surprise, it was the financial statements for an Australian web hosting company named Yellow Brick Road. “I don’t follow.”
“We need a crucible in which to burn away the things this world has poisoned Conner with. A way to discover his strengths and weaknesses.”
“Right. But a web hosting company?”
“In the coming years, internet infrastructure will become increasingly important—like the railroads during the industrial revolution. They’re also essential to the Looking Glass.” Yuri placed another folder on the coffee table. Another company profile—one Desmond recognized. Rook Web Hosting.
“You’ll invest in Rook via Icarus Capital,” Yuri said.
Desmond looked up.
“Icarus will become a Citium subsidiary. We’ll divest irrelevant companies and focus on companies relevant to the Looking Glass.”
Yuri had just asked Desmond for his entire fortune as casually as if he were asking Desmond for a cup of coffee. And Desmond was willing to give it. Anything for Conner.
“You’ll join Rook’s board,” Yuri continued. “And Rook will purchase this Australian company, Yellow Brick Road. You’ll oversee Yellow Brick’s integration with Rook, under the guise of a concerned board member. I believe you’re familiar with IT infrastructure.”
“Very.”
“You’ll make suggestions. One will be to have the network engineers focus on what they do best—programming routers, rebuilding servers, and software patches.”
Desmond could see where this was going. “And we’ll hire a small group of manual laborers to move the servers, unpack new equipment, maintain the cages, even pull wire. A job Conner could do.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then we heal him. We’ll introduce voluntary drug rehab as an employee benefit. If he doesn’t go, we’ll begin drug testing and make rehab mandatory.”
“What if he doesn’t go to rehab?”
“He will. By then he won’t want to lose his job and everything that comes with it.”
Yuri handed a brochure to Desmond. It was for a treatment center called Red Dunes. “This is where we’ll do the real work. Get him healthy again. Classes on how to keep his addiction in check. And we’ll have skill-building courses. We’ll see what’s inside him, and we’ll nurture that.”
Desmond flipped through the brochure. The facility was in an old English-style country home with a stone exterior, limestone lintels over the windows, and green vines growing up the sides to a gray slate roof. It was a bit run-down on the outside, but the interior was updated—not lavish, but clean and cozy. They grew their own fruits and vegetables—the home was set on two hundred acres—and bought meat from local farmers. Cooking was one of the courses, as were gardening, sewing, even computer programming.
“Do we own it?”
“Red Dunes? It’s a non-profit. But I made a sizable contribution last week when I met with the executive director. They’ll form a partnership with Rook and take very good care of the people we send.” Yuri paused. “When he returns to work, Conner will be a new person. He’ll be the person he was supposed to be. And you’ll guide his career.”
Emotion overwhelmed Desmond. Hope. Gratitude. He swallowed and said the only thing he could manage. “Thank you.”
Desmond watched Yuri’s plan unfolded exactly as predicted. He knew that Yuri was doing this not only to help Conner—and Desmond—but to prove that he could be trusted. And that his plans became reality.
Conner took the job at Rook Hosting—for the money, Desmond assumed. At first, he injected most of that money into his arm, and tucked the rest into the bikini bottoms and bra straps of strippers. After a while, he began saving a bit of it and slowly made a few changes. He moved out of North Adelaide, closer to his job in the city center. He bought some clothes. With each passing week, he became a little more attached to the job that provided for his new lifestyle. Attached enough to go to rehab when asked.
During that time, Desmond was receiving an education of his own—on the Citium and its many branches. Companies. Subsidiaries. Non-profits. Research projects. It was a web seemingly without end, a labyrinth of which he had glimpsed only pieces during his time at SciNet.
Twice Desmond asked Yuri if he should begin on his portion of the Looking Glass, and both times, he got the same response: “Focus on your brother for now.”
Yuri gave Desmond a dossier on Conner that was much more detailed than what Desmond had been able to assemble. It traced the young man’s journey through the South Australian foster system. Most of the records were unofficial, simply recollections of people who had worked there and cared for the young boy. They described a child who was curious and happy as an infant and toddler. That was followed by a troubled childhood. He was laughed at. Picked on. He was constantly getting in fights, listed as a troublemaker, always one of the first to be transferred when a new spot became available at another home.
He bounced around for years. He was the child no one wanted—including the adoptive parents who visited the homes. Desmond imagined Conner lining up or sitting in the playroom, his badly scarred face twisting into a smile for the first few families who came to call. Then learning to remain stoic, to expect rejection. Desmond’s heart broke all over again as he read the notes. His memori
es of his brother were of a happy-go-lucky, kind-hearted child. An innocent boy with his whole life ahead of him. And it had been snatched away by a twist of fate. It wasn’t fair. Conner had done nothing to deserve the life he was given.
Desmond replayed the fire in his mind. If only he had kept going, crossed the wall of fire, gotten to the home, he could have gotten Conner out. If only he had been stronger. Had more will. If only he had stayed home that day. Or come home earlier. He had been so wrapped up in building that stupid fort.
In foster care, Conner found escape in video games, much like Desmond had retreated into books as a child. Most of the homes had some sort of game system—mostly used, donated by some family who had upgraded. Conner started on the Atari, moved to the Nintendo, and then the Super Nintendo. He was only at peace when he was sitting in front of the TV, lost in a role-playing game or strategy game. Despite his real-world record of fighting and disorder, he disliked any games with excessive violence. He never cared for Mortal Kombat, Contra, Ninja Gaiden, or even racing games like R.C. Pro-Am. His favorites were epic role-playing games where a young hero sets out from a broken land to save his people. In games like Dragon Warrior, he spent hours gaining experience points, leveling his players up, and saving money to buy better armor and weapons. He made allies, and beat the game over and over. The game console was his only companion, and the foster home administrators were happy to leave him to it.
Yuri’s notes solved another mystery Desmond hadn’t thought about for a long time: the fate of his beloved dog, Rudolph. He assumed the fire had claimed him as well, but it hadn’t. In fact, Rudolph was partially responsible for saving Conner. The aid workers had found the kelpie barking at the burned remains of the home. One of the aid workers who found Conner went on to adopt the dog. The records ended there, but the news brought a rare smile to Desmond’s face.
He was surprised to learn that Conner had been adopted at the age of fourteen. But there was no information on Anderson and Beatrix McClain. In its place was a handwritten note: