The Nosferatu Chronicles: Return to Vambiri

by Susan Hamilton

  “I brought you something to eat, Merk,” said Devonna.

  Instead of finding him running tests, he was hastily packing.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m going to find out who killed Amos,” he said as he accepted the tray from her and began to wolf down the food.

  “They’re not going to just let you take a shuttle,” said Devonna.

  “That’s why I waited an extra day to catch a ride on the helicopter that ferries the NASA employees back to Canada on each rotation,” he said.

  Devonna sighed heavily. “I know you’re upset about Amos…”

  “I’m more than just upset, Twofer,” he said. “That was completely out of character for him. Yes, he was going through a rough patch, but to have explosives surgically placed inside him — never in a million years. And the fact that he had been committed to a sanitarium has closed everyone’s mind to the possibility that something far more sinister was at work.”

  “Like what?” asked Devonna.

  “The frescos with the drawings of Emperor Titus that sent him over the edge were destroyed by flooding immediately after the assassination attempt,” said Merk.

  “I remember you showing us the copies you made,” said Devonna.

  “And it’s a good thing I did,” said Merk as he waved them in front of Devonna. “Surprisingly, all articles about the frescos on the web have disappeared.”

  “If you’re right, Merk,” said Devonna, “then you’re going to be putting yourself in danger.”

  “I intend to,” said Merk. “It’s the only way to flush them out. Amos was controlled by some kind of mind drug, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “So you flush them out and prove it,” protested Devonna, “but at the end of the day you’ll be dead! What good will that do Amos?”

  “If it comes to that,” he said, “I won’t go down alone.”

  Devonna began to say something, but he stopped her.

  “There,” he said, pointing to his locker. “If something happens to me, you can have my music collection.”

  Knowing it was pointless to argue any further, Devonna left him to his own devices.

  DEPARTURE

  Planet Vambiri

  Earth Date March 24, 2049 AD

  Upon becoming a Touch Healer, Kevak spent his free time with Vrin disseminating nanobots to her worst affected areas.

  “How’s that?” he asked as his hands hovered over her knees.

  “I can feel it!” she exclaimed. “It’s a tingling warmth.”

  Kevak helped her into a sitting position with her legs dangling over the side of the examination table.

  “Try to raise one of them,” he said.

  Vrin tightly clasped Kevak’s hands and grunted through clenched teeth as she complied. “It’s working!”

  “You must exercise every day until I return,” he said. “The nanobots will continue to regenerate the cartilage, but the process will stop at some point.”

  “That’s why he left,” said Vrin.

  “Yes,” said Kevak. “The siblings convinced him that his healing powers would greatly increase if he underwent transmutation — which happens to be the truth. He followed them in order to return and help you. I believe that, Vrin.”

  “Find him for me,” she pleaded.

  “Yes, my love,” said Kevak gently. “All will be well again.”

  “Oh, Kevak,” she lamented as she tightly hugged him. “All those wasted years!”

  “The future is a blank canvas,” he soothed, feeling her relax in his arms. “We have more pictures to paint.”

  He bent down to kiss her forehead. Instead of turning away, she lifted her head, and her lips met his in a long overdue display of affection.

  *******

  As Kevak approached the Chapel of Transfiguration, he saw D’Hal waiting at the entrance with an Enforcer.

  “I knew you’d want to come here first,” she said. “Take all the time you need. The Enforcer will ensure you are undisturbed.”

  “Thank you, Primus,” said Kevak.

  He walked into the chapel and knelt at the massive semicircular prie-dieu. While worshipers on Earth were accustomed to gazing upward in the presence of an altar, the Chapel of Transfiguration had been constructed with the precious objects placed beneath the onlooker.

  Through the open viewport of the stasis pod, the Christ could clearly be seen in peaceful slumber, flanked on either side by Moses and Elijah in their pristine states of repose.

  Regardless of what Ikato had done, be it meddling or divine inspiration, what Kevak saw in front of him was proof of the truth of the scriptures. All of the contemporary accounts were in direct correspondence to Ikato’s records. The Bible was an accurate collection of Iam’s interaction with humans, albeit through Ikato, and not merely a fusion of disparate fairy tales.

  Gazing upon the serene face of the Christ, Kevak could not tear his thoughts away from what He had willingly endured on the cross.

  “Impart unto to me, oh Christ, your strength of purpose,” prayed Kevak. “Surely the Vambir odyssey had a purpose! Such great expanses of space and time! Is the Culmination at hand, Iam? If so, then use me well. Use me well!”

  *******

  “You’re sure they’re in the north polar region?” asked Ikato.

  “The plans to relocate the lifeboat there were in an advanced stage when the Newisla departed Earth,” said Kevak.

  “He’s correct,” D’Hal assured Ikato.

  “I’ve designed this space suit for you,” said Ikato, indicating it to Kevak. “As you can see, the helmet is opaque. This will prevent sunlight from harming you — it’s just beginning to rise in the region you call the Arctic Circle. The heating system will regulate your oxygen supply and monitor your core body temperature indefinitely.”

  “Indefinitely?” asked Kevak.

  “It’s powered by a hydrogen cell,” explained Ikato. “There’s also a propulsion unit. Since you don’t have a communication linkage device as Kwetz did with Maz, there’s a small chance you might end up in low Earth orbit. If this happens, the suit will survive atmospheric entry and the propulsion unit can deploy suspensors to cushion your landing.”

  “What about the cloaking device?” asked Kevak.

  “This button on the arm panel will activate it,” said Ikato, showing it to him. “Not even your heat signature will be detectable.”

  “Good,” said Kevak as he stepped into the suit. “Will the suit send out the message automatically upon arrival?”

  Ikato nodded. “It will, using the old Korta Code as planned.”

  “What about the information on how to adapt a Terran particle accelerator in order to return to Vambiri?” asked Kevak.

  “All stored in the arm panel memory disk,” Ikato assured him.

  “Anything else?” asked Kevak.

  “There,” pointed Ikato to a gurney. “Lie flat and try not to move while the beam passes over you.”

  After Kevak was in position, Ikato set the particle accelerator in motion. Kevak watched as the images around him began to distort. He could see D’Hal making the sign of the cross, but her motions were stilted and slower than usual.

  “Godspeed, Kevak!” shouted D’Hal, but Kevak could not understand her, since the Doppler effect drastically lowered the pitching of her voice.

  MENACE

  Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

  March 24, 2049 AD

  “He was given the news yesterday that his daughter is dying from pancreatic cancer,” said Jirza. “Right now, the press is unaware of the situation, but that could change at any time.”

  Josephine crossed herself. “She’s just a toddler! That type of cancer must be rare for her age.”

  Jirza shrugged. “Exceedingly rare, apparently. Mr. Speaker finds himself in an untenable situation of his own making. Every weekend during the campaign, he would appear on talk shows accusing Sebastian of offering false hope to desperate parents of terminally il
l children.”

  “What goes around, comes around,” mused Sebastian.

  “Sebby!” cried Josephine. “How can you say that? The child had no part in her father’s treatment of you.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the child,” said Sebastian.

  “We could save her,” pleaded Josephine.

  “We can do nothing without the permission of the father,” said Jirza.

  “When is his meeting scheduled?” asked Sebastian.

  “One o’clock,” said Jirza, “and the timing could not be more fortuitous. It is a sign from God.”

  “What timing?” asked Josephine.

  “Rumor has it that the House is going to open up an investigation into my trust fund,” explained Sebastian.

  “The one my father set up for you?” asked Josephine. “Nearly half of the current Congress served with my father, and everything he ever did was above board and beyond suspicion! How can they insult his memory like this?”

  “They’re livid that I won, Mother,” said Sebastian, “and because of that, I’ve managed to do something no other president has done — I’ve united both parties in opposition to me. They won’t hesitate to trash your sainted father if there’s a chance that some of the excrement that gets sloshed around will stick to me.”

  *******

  “Please come in and take a seat, Mr. Speaker,” said Jirza.

  Speaker of the House Desmond Elliott looked warily around the room. “I’m supposed to be meeting with the president,” he said, pointing to the door that led into the Oval Office.

  “Of course, sir,” said Jirza, indicating the chair in front of her desk, “but I wanted to take the time to convey how sorry the president was to hear the news about your daughter this morning.”

  Elliott’s physical reactions were instant: his heartbeat and respiration quickened, and his face flushed with anger. His doctor had only delivered the devastating news to him the day before, and he had obviously betrayed his confidence.

  “It didn’t come from your doctor,” said Jirza.

  That witch can read my mind, thought Elliott.

  “Another entity that rents an office in your doctor’s building is under surveillance for laundering money used to purchase weapons banned under an international convention,” she explained. “The vent system is an old one, and the conversation with your doctor was picked up inadvertently. The president has personally seen to it that any mention of it was excluded from the transcripts.”

  Elliott looked at Jirza with blank eyes, saying nothing.

  “We can be of assistance in this matter, if you would accept our Christian help,” said Jirza.

  Elliott closed his eyes and let out a huge sigh. His daughter would live. It would be the end of his career in politics — he had spent the better part of a year accusing Romano of orchestrating fraudulent miracles, and now, out of sheer desperation, he was going to save his own daughter by allowing Romano’s ministers to perform the laying of hands on her. He would never live it down, but his daughter would live, and that’s all that mattered to him.

  “I would be grateful for any assistance,” said Elliott with a choked voice and downcast eyes.

  “I can organize a secret service escort to have your little girl brought her right away,” said Jirza. “And of course, there’s no need to involve the press in any of this.”

  Elliott’s face registered surprise. “You would keep this from the press? Me, one of his most ardent critics, begging for the life of my child?”

  “President Romano acquired a thick hide during the campaign,” explained Jirza. “He understands that it’s all part of the game and doesn’t take these things personally. And he certainly would not turn his back on an innocent child just because of a brief history of animosity with the father. For the good of the nation, the campaign needs to be put behind us, and Congress needs to work efficiently. He needs leaders like you to help do what’s best, Mr. Speaker.”

  Elliott removed the handkerchief from his pocket and used it to quickly wipe away a tear.

  “He’s ready to see you now, Mr. Speaker,” said Jirza as she opened the door to the Oval Office. “Your daughter will be brought to this room while the two of you are meeting.”

  *******

  “Daddy!” cried the little girl as she ran into her father’s arms. “Aunty Jirza says I’m all better now!”

  “All done, Mr. Speaker,” said Jirza with a smile. “The secret service will provide you with an escort home.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Elliott sheepishly.

  “Say your prayers with your daughter each night,” said Jirza.

  “Bye, Aunty Jirza!” said the little girl with a wave. “See you again in three months!”

  “In three months, little one,” said Jirza as she blew her a kiss.

  “Three months?” asked Elliott.

  “Aunty Jirza said they put the Cancer Monster to sleep today,” explained the little girl, “but he’ll wake up in three months. As long as I come back so the monster can stay asleep, I’ll be just fine!”

  *******

  7:00 p.m.

  Safe Room, The White House

  “Does he understand what’s expected of him?” asked Tolum.

  “As soon as the little brat started going on about coming back every three months, he understood,” said Jirza.

  “Then I take it that the investigation into Romano’s trust fund is over?” asked Kwetz.

  “Over before it even began,” said Jirza.

  “Do you think Mr. Speaker has the first clue about how his daughter acquired such a rare cancer in children?” asked Tolum.

  “Right now he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that faith healing, as he understands it, is real,” said Jirza. “And on the heels of that colossal revelation is his new reality that healing can be distributed in drips and drabs.”

  “Or be withheld,” added Kwetz.

  “So the fact that you visited the preschool attended by his daughter for an official Christmas function would be of no significance to him?” asked Tolum.

  “None whatsoever,” said Jirza.

  “Shaking the little girl’s hand,” continued Tolum, “stroking her hair, and picking her up so she could put an ornament on the tree — nothing unusual about that at all.”

  “Nothing unusual at all,” repeated Jirza. “Just like there’s nothing unusual about the fact that I attend the same gym as the Majority Leader and happened to be there when her treadmill unexpectedly came to a halt, causing her to fall hard to the ground.”

  “You were so kind to help her to her feet,” said Tolum.

  “She had a nasty cut near her elbow,” said Jirza.

  “And just a few weeks later, she is diagnosed with leukemia,” said Kwetz.

  Jirza shrugged.

  “How did you get to Justice Stein?” asked Kwetz.

  “Ah,” said Jirza. “Poor Justice Stein, newly diagnosed with glioblastoma. How tragic. That was truly an act of God — I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Who will you,” began Kwetz. “Sorry — who will Romano nominate to replace her on the bench?”

  Jirza smiled. “Someone who can be trusted.”

  “How goes our matter in Rome?” asked Tolum.

  “Arkani has not reported any activity today,” said Jirza. “Have you heard anything, Kwetz?”

  “Nothing,” said Kwetz. “Perhaps she—”

  All three of them abruptly sat up. They all felt it and knew what it meant.

  “Ikato repaired the particle accelerator,” said Jirza flatly.

  TERMINUS

  Rome, Italy

  March 24, 2049 AD

  As Merk walked on the bank of the ancient Tiber River, he looked at the shelters slapped together with wood, cardboard, and plastic tarps. This part of Rome’s Prati neighborhood was a far cry from the Spanish Steps and Colosseum visited by tourists from all over the world. He had lost count of the number of street artists to whom he
had shown his copy of the frescos depicting Emperor Titus. Finally, one of them was able to give him a name: Vassily, a Romanian migrant.

  He knew he was being followed, which meant he was getting too close for someone’s comfort. He was prepared for capture. Part of him even relished the idea of being able to spit in the eye of Amos’s murderer. He was past caring what happened to himself. From what he knew about the existence of alien life, the human bubble of complacency was about to be colossally popped, and he accepted that he would soon become a catalyst in that process.

  “Vassily?” he asked an elderly man who was keeping warm next to fire lit by lumps of coal and wood in an empty coffee tin. Merk showed him the fresco prints and repeated the name. The man pointed to a makeshift tent constructed from pieces tarpaulin duct-taped together.

  “Vassily?” called Merk when he was just outside the tent.

  A woman opened the flap and looked at him with eyes swollen from crying. When he showed her the fresco prints, she tried to snatch them away. Distressed at not being able to obtain them, she began to weep.

  Although Merk had a rudimentary knowledge of Italian, he could not understand the woman. He returned to the elderly man and gave him some money to translate from Roma to Italian.

  “Vassily dead,” said the old man in broken Italian. “She want pictures. They Vassily pictures.”

  The woman tenderly unwrapped a tattered portfolio and showed Merk all of Vassily’s sketches. Merk instantly recognized that Vassily was the artist he had been looking for.

  “Vee,” she said, pointing to an elaborate letter ‘V’ in the lower left corner of each sketch. The letter blended in so well with the various subject matters that Merk had not noticed it until the woman traced over it with her fingertip.

  “Vee,” she repeated, running her finger over the faint image contained in Merk’s copies of the frescos.

  “Yes, Vee for Vassily,” said Merk as he handed the prints to her. She added them to the portfolio then clutched it to her chest.

  “How Vassily die?” Merk asked the old man in broken Italian, since the woman was too distraught to offer any more information.