by Mark Anthony
At that point, Deirdre had been forced to consult the index, and to go back to the section on vacuum genesis. It was one of the most difficult topics in the book, but also one of the most fascinating. According to Voorhees, various disturbances might cause a bubble to form in the primordial vacuum. Within the bubble, the symmetry of nothingness is broken, and all sorts of stuff falls out of the vacuum, creating a universe. That’s how our own universe might have formed. And countless other universes might have formed in similar fashion. They could exist as bubbles within the vacuum of our own universe, and we’d never even know they were there. And there would be no need for the laws of physics to operate the same way in different bubble universes; each one might have its own logic.
It was a wondrous notion: all these bubbles floating in the dark sea of nothing, like crystalline balls with galaxies inside. But there was a troubling side as well, Voorhees warned.
For if two of these bubbles were to collide, she wrote, the result would be the catastrophic destruction of both.
Deirdre had to admit, Voorhees seemed to enjoy predicting ominous outcomes. Then again, she could very well be right. Was that what perihelion meant? Were two bubbles drawing close even now? The copy of the TimesDeirdre had picked up at the station described how the rifts continued to grow at a fantastic pace. They were enormous now, each covering over 20 percent of the night sky.
And yet the trains were still running. When Deirdre glanced out her window, she saw people trudging along the sidewalks and cars jamming the streets. The end of the world was coming. At least that was how it looked. So why weren’t people panicking? Why weren’t there looting and riots?
A throng of people in white holding black signs flashed by her window, and she understood. They’ve already surrendered. That’s why they aren’t rioting. Why panic when there’s no hope? You either keep going on, keep going through the motions. Or you give up.
But she hadn’t given up. Not yet.
Deirdre set down the paper and picked up the book. Again she had the feeling that she was close to understanding. But understanding what? What did astrophysics have to do with alchemy and catalysts? If she could just find the link between them . . .
The train rattled as it began to slow. Ash‑colored buildings blurred by, then were replaced by darkness as the train entered a tunnel. They were nearing the station. She touched Beltan’s shoulder, waking him, and nearly lost her arm as he grabbed her wrist in an iron‑hard hand. Only after a moment did he blink, realizing who she was, and let her go.
Never wake a sleeping warrior, Deirdre thought, wincing as she rubbed her wrist.
The train rattled to a stop.
“I’m hungry,” Beltan said.
Deirdre handed him the candy bar. “Come on.”
They exited the train with the crowd of business travelers and wended their way across the platform, up and out of the station.
“Are we going to take the Tube?” Beltan said, tossing the empty candy wrapper into a trash bin.
Maybe the people of the world weren’t panicking, but now that she was here in London, Deirdre felt her own panic rising. “No, there isn’t time.”
They took a cab instead, dashing in front of a businessman and climbing inside. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Deirdre waved at the businessman, who was giving them a rude gesture.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked in a musical Punjab accent.
Deirdre pulled the scrap of paper from her pocket and gave him the address. The cab rolled away from the station, winding through the cramped streets of London.
Beltan let out a snort. “I drive much faster than this. We should have taken my cab.”
Deirdre didn’t reply. She was just as glad the cab wasn’t racing; this was her last chance to think, to decide what to do. However, by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in a blue‑collar neighborhood south of the Thames, she still didn’t have a plan. She paid the driver, then watched as the cab drove away, leaving them in front of a strip of red brick storefronts.
“This is Brixton,” Beltan said, looking around at the grimy, half rundown, half newly‑gentrified street. “I take fares here sometimes. Isn’t this where–?”
“Where Greenfellow’s Tavern was,” Deirdre said, her throat dry. In her pocket, she clenched the scrap of paper Marius had given her. She had known the moment she glanced at it that the address was the same. The Philosophers must have built a new building on the site where Surrender Dorothy had burned.
Deirdre started walking; at her instructions, the cab had dropped them off a few blocks away.
“So what are we going to do?” Beltan said, easily keeping pace with his long legs.
“We’re going to get in there and stop the Philosophers from doing whatever it is they’re doing,” Deirdre said, surprised at the steel in her voice.
Beltan bared his teeth in a grin. “Now that sounds like a plan.”
Despite the dread in her stomach, Deirdre grinned back. A moment ago she had felt so tired she could have lain down in the gutter; now she felt awake, and freshly alive.
“Let’s go meet the Philosophers,” she said.
45.
They walked a block down the street, and Deirdre caught sight of the building. It looked like a bank or a courthouse, with a facade of imposing columns and a frieze above the cornices wrought with Greek heroes, gods in chariots, and goddesses. Although brand‑new, the building had been stained to match the more weathered architecture around it. No one was going in or out; the tall front doors were shut.
“This way,” Deirdre said, ducking down an alley.
She imagined all approaches would be watched, but there was no sense in walking up to the front door and knocking. At least not until they had gotten a closer look. They picked their way down the alley, ducking behind overflowing Dumpsters and into dim alcoves for cover. Then Deirdre caught a glimpse of the back of the building, and fear jabbed at her.
Ahead, a large moving truck blocked the alley. A ramp reached from its cargo hold to the loading dock on the back of the building. The steel doors on the loading dock were shut, but the truck’s rear door was still open. Its cargo hold was empty.
She opened her mouth to tell Beltan they were too late, but before she could speak he clamped a big hand over her mouth and pulled her into the shadows behind a stack of empty boxes. Deirdre stared at him with wide eyes. He shook his head, indicating she shouldn’t speak, then held up two fingers and mouthed a word. Guards.
Deirdre nodded, and he let her go. She peered around the boxes. A moment later, two thick‑shouldered men, clad in black, appeared from behind the truck. One spoke something she couldn’t make out into a walkie‑talkie. The other held a gun. So the Philosophers did indeed have minions other than the Seekers.
The guards walked up the steps onto the loading dock and surveyed the alley. The one with the radio held it up and spoke something–it might have been, All’s clear–then the pair descended back to the pavement and continued on their round. They were only a few feet from the crates when they turned and started back toward the loading dock.
It happened so quickly it was almost over before Deirdre realized what was happening. Beltan shot out from behind the crates, swift and silent as a panther. A single blow to the back of the head, and the man with the radio crumpled to the pavement without a sound.
The other guard started to let out a shout as he turned around, but the sound was muffled as Beltan’s fist smashed against his jaw. The guard tried to bring up his gun, but Beltan slammed his arm back down, and Deirdre heard the distinct crunchof bones breaking. The gun fell to the ground and skittered across the pavement.
Beltan’s other hand came up, so that he gripped the man’s head on either side. He made a twisting motion. Again came a loud crunch. The guard slumped into a heap next to the first.
The green light in Beltan’s eyes dimmed. He was breathing hard, and he was grinning. Deirdre willed herself to look away. She knew the two men on the pave
ment weren’t simply unconscious. They were dead.
And you would be, too, Deirdre, if they had seen you.
She took a deep breath, then moved forward and picked up the gun. Beltan was already heading for the loading dock.
Deirdre hurried after him, and they moved up the steps to the steel doors. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign yet of additional guards. But how often was the one with the radio supposed to check in? She couldn’t believe the Philosophers kept just a single pair of guards.
Beltan gripped the handle on one of the doors. It wasn’t locked. He opened it just far enough for them to slip through. Beltan went first, and Deirdre followed, trying to keep a firm grip on the gun. It felt hot and slick in her hand; she wished she hadn’t picked it up.
Bands of fluorescent light alternated with shadow. They were in some kind of storeroom. Bare ventilation tubes ran in all directions. Scattered on the floor were packing materials, crowbars, and long wooden crates. Deirdre didn’t need to count to know there were seven of them. Beltan pointed. Ahead was an open door, and beyond a dim corridor. He started toward it, and Deirdre followed, gripping the gun.
This time it was the guard who saw them first. He had been standing a short way inside the open door. When he saw them, he swore and started to raise the radio.
“Don’t move,” Deirdre hissed as loudly as she dared, pointing the gun at him.
The guard hesitated, then his eyes narrowed, and he punched the button on the radio, opening his mouth to speak.
Deirdre willed herself to shoot, but she couldn’t do it. However, the guard’s hesitation had been enough to allow Beltan to get close. He swiped at the radio, knocking it out of the guard’s hand, then swung his other fist, punching the man in the throat.
The guard fell to the floor, making a gurgling sound. Beltan stepped over him, then gestured for Deirdre to follow. By the time she stepped over the guard, he was no longer moving. She tightened her grip on the gun and followed Beltan.
They halted when they heard voices.
The voices were low, chanting something Deirdre couldn’t quite understand. She knew how to speak Latin; that wasn’t it. She exchanged a look with Beltan. He jerked his head, and they crept as quietly as they could along the corridor. It ended in another door, open like the last. They slipped through and found themselves on a mezzanine that ringed a circular room. Both the mezzanine and the room below were constructed of polished marble. Above was a gilded dome.
The mezzanine was littered with boxes, some open, some closed. Ancient urns, still wrapped in clear packing material, stood on pedestals, next to weathered stone statues half draped in tarps. Inside the nearest open box, Deirdre saw various artifacts–clay tablets, bronze bowls, and stone jars–nestled on a bed of packing foam.
She supposed these artifacts had all come from the secret chamber beneath Knossos. The Philosophers must have ordered their servants to remove everything before the archaeologists who came to investigate the arch stumbled upon the chamber. Fascinating as they were, her gaze lingered on the objects only for a moment.
A pair of staircases descended from the mezzanine, down to the level below. Unlike the clutter on the higher level, the main floor was precisely arranged. Spaced around the perimeter of the chamber were seven long, low shapes, each one draped with a black cloth. Another object stood on a dais directly beneath the center of the dome.
It was an arch of stone.
The chanting grew louder. Now that Deirdre could hear it more clearly, the chanting sounded more like ancient Greek, only it was a form Deirdre wasn’t familiar with. A soft, golden glow filtered from the dome above, and in the light she could make out the slender steel frame that held the arch upright, as well as the angular carvings that marked the stones. Unlike the other stones of the arch, the keystone in the center was worn and pitted, its surface stained a dark brown.
Standing in a circle around the arch were hooded figures in black robes. Their chanting continued, uninterrupted. Beltan and Deirdre edged forward to get a better view of what was happening below.
One of the statues moved, stepping in front of them.
“And who do we have here?” purred a woman’s voice. Gold eyes glinted behind the dark web of a veil.
Shock coursed through Deirdre, short‑circuiting her nervous system so that she could not move. What she had taken for a statue draped in black cloth had in truth been a woman in a robe.
You’re an idiot, Deirdre. Can’t you count?Gathered around the arch below were not six robed figures, but five.
Unlike Deirdre, shock had not immobilized Beltan. He sprang forward and reached out to grab the woman.
Her gold eyes flashed, and Beltan toppled to the floor, arms still outstretched. Now it was he who was a statue. Deirdre stared at him. He had sensed the presence of the guards. Why hadn’t he sensed her in the shadows?
She has her own magic, Deirdre. . . .
“Phoebe,” she murmured.
She caught the glint of a smile behind the veil. “So you’ve read Marius’s little book, I see.”
Deirdre could hardly feel shock anymore. “You knew about it?”
“We know everything, child. We’re the Philosophers.” She lifted her hand in an elegant, indulgent gesture. “Must I explain it all to you? I thought you were supposed to be so very clever.”
The chanting had ceased. “What’s going on up there?” a man’s voice called out.
“It’s our little investigator and her companion,” Phoebe called back without taking her gold eyes off Deirdre. “They’ve arrived just as we expected them to.”
It was perilous to speak, all Deirdre’s instincts told her that, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Maybe you need better guards.”
“Nonsense. They performed their duty perfectly. Each possessed a pulse monitor that emitted a constant signal as long as their hearts continued to beat. I was alerted the moment they died.”
Deirdre winced, wishing Beltan had been able to use more restraint.
Phoebe moved a step closer. “We learned long ago not to place our reliance on weak and fallible mortals. We use them, yes, but we do not depend upon them. I knew it would be best if I dealt with Marius’s little tools myself.”
“But if you’d read his journal, if you knew what Marius intended to do, then why–?”
“Didn’t we stop him?” Phoebe’s voice was a croon of pleasure. “It’s simple, child. It was better to let Marius believe his little plan had a chance of succeeding. He always believed he was better than us; that was his hubris. And that made it all too easy to defeat him. As you saw yourself in Scotland. We knew eventually he would show himself to you. And once he was out in the open, our servant easily removed him.”
A sudden fierceness burned away the cold grip of Deirdre’s fear. The woman before her was immortal, yes, but not invulnerable. As Beltan had said, she could be killed. “You didn’t defeat Marius.” Deirdre pointed the gun at Phoebe. “I’m here.”
Again those gold eyes flashed. Deirdre felt as if her hand had been frozen in a block of ice. The gun clattered to the floor.
Phoebe clucked her tongue. “You didn’t really think you could stop us, did you, child? Marius really did fill your head with notions.”
The words were scathing, but Deirdre only grinned. Her arm was numb, and she felt weak and shaky, but she wasn’t completely immobilized, not like Beltan.
“You can’t do it again,” she said. “Your little trick. You’re not as strong as Marius, are you? I bet none of you are.”
Angry mutters rose from below. Deirdre could feel the eyes of the others gazing up out of their shadowy hoods.
“Be done with her, Phoebe!” the man who had spoken earlier called out.
“Silence, Arthur,” Phoebe snapped over her shoulder. “I told you I would take care of this annoyance as I did the other, the one those filthy sorcerers wanted.”
The desperation in these words emboldened Deirdre. “You can’t stop me.”
Phoebe bent, picked up the gun, and fired.
A clap of thunder sounded in Deirdre’s ears, and she felt as if she had been pushed by an invisible hand. She stumbled back, against the wall, and glanced down. There was a small hole near the right shoulder of her leather jacket. There was no pain; the numbness had crept up her arm, into her chest. Then, with her left hand, she opened her jacket.
Blood spilled down her shirt.
“Oh,” Deirdre said, and slumped to her knees.
“This case is closed, Seeker,” Phoebe said, and pointed the gun at Deirdre’s head.
Again came a rumbling sound. Only it was different this time: lower, deeper, a moan rising from below. In moments it built to a stentorian roar. The floor shook beneath Deirdre. One of the statues toppled over, smashing an urn. Phoebe stumbled back against the railing of the mezzanine. The gun flew from her hand, falling to the chamber below.
The floor continued to shake. Above, a crack snaked across the surface of the dome. The light flickered. It took Deirdre’s astonished brain an instant to realize what was happening.
It’s an earthquake. An earthquake in London.
But that was impossible. There was no active fault line beneath London. Unless . . .
The fault line is here, Deirdre.Her mind was strangely clear. It’s centered around them–the Seven. Perihelion is close now. Very close . . .
“Phoebe!” another man’s voice shouted from below. “Get down here now. We must open the way!”
Below, one of the men had pushed back his hood. His gold eyes shone in an ageless face.
“I have to finish with this one first, Gabriel!” Phoebe called out.
“There’s no time for that,” the man called back. “It comes sooner than we believed. If we want to escape this world before it’s too late, we must complete the spell now.”