He did not bring up the hallucinations. He wanted to avoid the notion that the Marker was sentient, and in any case, he wasn’t sure the hallucinations really came from the Marker—maybe they were simply triggered by it. He didn’t talk about the strange creature on the beach or show them the sign of the tail of the devil, or tell them that the Yucatec Maya believed the devil’s tail was deep beneath the waves, just where the Marker had been found. Most media outlets, he quickly realized, saw him as an interesting curiosity, an extremist whom they could parade before their viewers and listeners. They were more interested in poking holes in his story. Couldn’t the vid be faked? How did they know that it was actually the size he said it was? Size could be simulated on a vid, and there were no human figures in the vid to compare it to. Hadn’t he gone to Chicxulub to work on a university research grant? Then how was it he had ended up working for the military, living on this alleged floating island? Didn’t that sound a little too much like something out of a sci-fi novel?
But there were a few people who asked more serious questions. And once he had answered, they looked at him in a different, more thoughtful way.
They arrived at the historic Watergate Hotel late, past midnight. There was another round of interviews the next day, requests still coming in over the phone. Also a meeting with a lawyer about possibly filing an injunction against the government. Public opinion seemed to be building; maybe it would be enough to apply the right amount of pressure on the places that needed it.
“It’s going to work,” Ada said as he opened the door. “Markoff won’t be able to keep the Marker for himself. Everybody will know about it now, everyone will have a chance to share in its message.”
Not knowing what to say, he didn’t answer. They opened the door. He flipped on the light and then stopped dead.
One of the walls had a large hole in it, plaster scattered all about the floor. Just behind it, sitting in a chair beside the bed, was Markoff.
“Hello, Altman,” he said.
Altman started to turn toward the door, but found a gun with a silencer on its end pointed at his eye, another pointed at Ada’s chest. Krax was holding one, a guard he didn’t recognize the other. There were two more guards deeper in the room. They came forward now.
“I don’t need to tell you that I’ll shoot your girlfriend first. No screaming,” said Krax. “Nothing but polite silence unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
Altman nodded.
“Move into the room,” he said. “Get on the bed.”
They moved in, were pushed onto the bed. Krax stepped back and sat in a chair that he’d set up across the threshold of the bathroom, keeping his gun trained at Altman.
“I take it you’ve seen the press conference,” said Altman.
“Shut up, Altman,” said Markoff. “Nobody likes a smart-ass.”
“It’s too late, Markoff,” hissed Ada. “Word is out.”
Markoff ignored her. “Let’s have a little talk, Altman,” he said. “Talking can’t hurt, can it?”
Altman didn’t say anything.
“I don’t suppose we could encourage you to drop everything,” Markoff said. “Hold another press conference, let them know that you were only joking, that there is no Marker, that there is no conspiracy, that you’ve been the victim of an incredible hoax.”
“No,” said Altman.
“If you do,” said Markoff, “we could come to some sort of arrangement. You’d be allowed to come back to research the Marker.” When Altman didn’t say anything, he added, “With total access.”
Total access? It was tempting. But no doubt Markoff was lying. And in any case, he was far enough along that there was no going back. The Marker had to be investigated openly.
“He doesn’t answer to you,” said Ada. “He answers only to the Marker.”
Markoff reached out, cuffed her hard. “Shut up,” he said.
“Don’t touch her,” said Altman.
“What’s your answer, Altman?” asked Markoff.
“I’m sorry,” said Altman. “No.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Markoff. “That’s it, then. You’re going to have to come with us.”
“I don’t think so,” said Altman.
“We’re not asking you if you want to come or not. We’re giving you the choice between coming or dying.”
“Then kill me,” said Altman without hesitation.
Markoff looked at him coolly. “Call me superstitious, but I think that Marker has something in store for you. I don’t want to kill you yet.” Markoff nodded toward Ada, and Krax’s gun slowly swiveled until it was pointed at Ada’s head. “But I don’t have the same reservations about your girlfriend.”
Altman looked over at Ada. She didn’t look afraid, but it was that very fact that made him afraid. She was eager to die a martyr. “So the choice is either both of us go with you or just I go,” he said.
Markoff smiled. “Got it in one,” he said. “Krax here has a sedative for both of you.” He gestured to the others. “These fine boys will repair the hole we made, make everything as good as new. As far as anybody knows, you simply got cold feet and disappeared.”
“You’re a real bastard,” said Altman.
“Takes one to know one,” said Markoff. “Now be a good boy and take your medicine.”
53
And so Altman was back where he’d started, though also a little surprised that they hadn’t simply killed him. He suspected a trap, something awful they were saving him for, but didn’t know what it would be. He wondered if his press conference or his disappearance following it had had any effect, but doubted he’d be able to find out while inside the floating compound.
As for Ada, when he awoke from the drug, she was gone. When he demanded to see her, they just laughed.
“She’ll be safe,” Krax had said. “As long as you cooperate.”
A few hours after waking up, still a little groggy, he had found himself in Stevens’s office. The latter sat with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his fingers tented in front of his face.
“Why am I here?” Altman asked. “Why am I still alive?”
“Markoff is curious about you,” Stevens admitted.
“Curious?”
“You have some resistance to the effect of the Marker, a resistance that most of your colleagues don’t have. Markoff realizes you might be of use for his project.”
“And what project is that?”
Stevens smiled. “You can understand why he might wonder about you,” he said. “You’ve survived trips in the bathyscaphe that have driven other people mad. Even when you’ve had headaches and hallucinations, they haven’t caused you to degenerate into violence or madness the way so many of the other hallucinators seem to do. Many of the believers on board have an almost religious awe of you. And I have to say that I find myself half sharing their belief. I suspect that a few of my colleagues feel similarly.”
“That’s insane,” said Altman.
“They think you’re a reluctant prophet,” said Stevens.
Altman shook his head. “The Marker is dangerous,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”
“And yet you’re fascinated by it,” said Stevens. He leaned forward. “We still suspect you know things that you’re not telling.” He opened his desk drawer and removed from it the chunk of rock from the Marker. “This was found in your jacket pocket while you were unconscious,” he said. “Care to explain?”
“No,” said Altman.
Stevens nodded. “Up to you,” he said. “If you don’t want to explain to me, perhaps you can speak with Krax.”
But Krax didn’t seem to want to talk exactly. “You know why you’re here?” he asked.
Altman nodded. “You want to know about the chunk of the Marker.”
“That’s part of it,” he said. He led Altman to a chair with leather straps affixed to the arms and legs. “Sit here,” he said.
“Why?” said Altman. “Where’s Ada?”
“Don’t worry about Ada. Just sit,” said Krax, pushing his chest lightly so he tipped back into the chair. “Now I’m going to strap you in,” he said.
“There’s no need to strap me in,” said Altman, panic starting to rise in him. “I’ll stay as I am.”
Krax shook his head and began affixing the straps. “You won’t,” he said. “I’m afraid, Mr. Altman, that this is going to be a bit of a bumpy ride.”
“What do you mean, a bumpy ride?”
“How do they feel?” Krax asked as he tested each strap in turn. Not uncomfortable? Not too tight?”
“I’m fine,” said Altman, “but what—”
Krax pulled the left wrist strap painfully tight, then the right. Altman could feel the strap cutting deep into his flesh. “How about now?” he asked.
And then he left the room. For a moment Altman was alone, straining against the straps, and then he stopped. Maybe he could tip the chair over, break it somehow. But when he tried to rock it back and forth, he found that it had been bolted to the floor.
A moment later, Krax was back, bringing a wheeled cart with him. On top of the cart was a tray covered in a white cloth. Krax brought it close, pulled the cloth off it with a flourish. Beneath was a row of scalpels and knives, a pair of pincers as well. Krax ran his hands slowly over them.
“You didn’t think you could just waltz off and report on us and suffer no consequences, did you, Mr. Altman?”
Altman tried to speak, but his mouth had gone suddenly dry.
Krax selected the smallest knife. “Let’s start small and work our way up, shall we?” he said.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Altman.
“Just a few small cuts at first, Mr. Altman. Just something to make it interesting and to make you respect my artistry.”
He grabbed hold of Altman’s index finger and very carefully crosshatched the tip of it, the knife just cutting through. At first it didn’t hurt, just felt warm. And then the finger began to throb, a drop of blood forming on the tip. He went on to the next finger and then the next, just three or four small cuts per finger, hardly deeper than papercuts. Altman watched a drop of blood collect at the end of each finger, the hand feeling like it was on fire.
“We’re going to be here for days and days, Mr. Altman. We’ll get to know each other very intimately.”
He left the room again. Altman tried not to look at the hand, tried to ignore its throbbing, but he couldn’t help it. Before it was all over, it would, he knew, become much, much worse. He’d wish he were dead.
And then Krax was back, a bowl full of salt in one hand.
“Have you heard the expression ‘rubbing salt into a wound,’ Mr. Altman?”
Altman felt his hand clench involuntarily. He closed his eyes. Krax slapped him. “You’ll want to watch this,” he said. But Altman kept his eyes closed.
Suddenly his hand was burning, his fingers being ground into the salt. He couldn’t help but gasp. He clenched his eyes tighter. “Fine-grain salt works best,” Krax explained in a calm voice. “Sea salt in particular. Iodized, of course.”
Krax released the hand. “That’s it,” he said. “You can open your eyes.”
He did. The light in the room seemed abnormally bright through the pain. “What do you want to know?” asked Altman through gritted teeth.
“All in good time,” said Krax. “No need to rush things.” He returned to the cart, placing the bowl of salt on it. He replaced the small knife, ran his hands over the knives that remained. “I love my job,” said Krax, smiling, and then plucked a slightly larger knife from the tray and came toward him. “Open wide,” he said.
Markoff was alone on the command deck, standing in his usual spot. To someone coming in, it might look like he was staring out through the observation window and into the dark water. What he was really doing was monitoring a series of holovids, set up to be seen only from that one position. They showed various parts of the ship, cycling rapidly between them.
Something was up, he could tell. A disturbance in the Marker chamber. “Stay with that,” he said, and one of the holovids dedicated itself exclusively to that chamber. Lots of guards and scientists shaking fists. Where was Krax? He was supposed to keep shit like this from happening. And then he remembered Krax was with Altman and smiled.
The door slid open and Stevens stepped in. He stood there a few tiers down, waiting, until Markoff gestured him forward.
“We’ve got problems,” admitted Stevens.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” said Markoff.
“The believers are getting restless. Somehow they know Altman is back on board. They’re demanding to see him.”
“Absolutely not,” said Markoff. “I’ve given him to Krax to play with.”
“If we don’t let him make an appearance, we’re likely to have another riot on our hands. Besides, Krax has already found out enough. He knows where he got the chunk of the Marker and how—it didn’t take long for Altman to give that up. I’ve watched the vids, had Altman’s microexpressions analyzed. I don’t think Krax is likely to get much more out of him.” Stevens came a little closer, put his hand on Markoff’s shoulder. “I know you hate him,” he said. “We all hate him. But we can use him.”
Markoff just shrugged the hand off.
“He’ll be a distraction to the believers,” Stevens said. “He’s more useful to us that way than he is dead.”
Markoff focused his hard stare fully on Stevens. Stevens met it placidly.
“How do I know you’re not one of them?”
“One of whom? The believers? Do I seem like a believer to you?”
“All right,” Markoff said. “He can be useful. Get him from Krax. But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
In the middle of the sixth knife, two guards showed up. He was released suddenly and without warning, hands and feet sore and bleeding, cuts on his back and thighs, but basically in one piece. “We’ll see each other again soon,” Krax promised.
The guards bandaged him and hustled him down to Stevens, left the two of them alone.
“It would have been easier to tell me,” said Stevens. “Keep that in mind next time you have a choice.”
“Screw you,” said Altman.
Stevens smiled. “I can send you back to Krax anytime,” he said. “Keep that in mind as well.”
Altman didn’t reply.
“The only reason you’re here now,” said Stevens, “is because I have a use for you. There was a skirmish between believers and unbelievers the other day that left people dead. People are taking sides. If it goes on like this, more people will die. I’d like to keep that from happening. I think you can help.”
“How?”
“The believers trust you,” he said. “They may listen to you.”
“The pulse signal is broadcasting again,” said Altman. “The conflict between the believers and the unbelievers is hardly your biggest problem.”
“No,” admitted Stevens, “but the two feed one another. You’re here instead of with Krax and his knives because Markoff thinks you may have a chance of keeping things stable.”
“And if I say no?”
Stevens shrugged. “Then you go back to Krax. And if you misbehave or try to stir the believers up, I’ll shoot you myself. But keep things stable and you’ll prevent a lot of people ending up dead. And it goes without saying that we’ll be watching you at all times.”
“I want to talk to Ada first,” said Altman.
Stevens hesitated for a moment. “No,” he finally said.
“Why not?”
“You’ll have to trust me that she’s safe,” said Stevens. “If everything goes well, I’ll let you talk to her.”
Field was there, many other scientists he recognized as well, all of them happy to see him again. It was Field who told him about the firefight with the military, the deaths. He showed him, too, where he had been shot in the foot, but didn’t remove the dressings.
“That must hurt,” said Altman.
Field smiled happily. “Without the morphine, I wouldn’t be able to walk,” he said. “But that’s not important,” he said. “I’m not important.”
“Of course you are,” said Altman, patting him on the shoulder as if he was crazy.
Field shook his head. “What’s important is that things have begun to change. A lot of us are dead now and a lot of us are crazy. Those of us who are left have a different perspective.” He clutched Altman by the shirt, pulled him closer, the weird morphine smile still plastered clownlike across his face. “Those of us who are left,” he said in a stage whisper, “believe.”
“If you say so,” said Altman, trying to free himself.
“It’s the Marker,” said Field. “It talks to us.” He gave Altman a searching look. “It spoke to you, too. That makes you a believer. It’s separating the sheep from the goats. Either you believe or you die.”
“That’s crazy,” said Altman.
“Is it?” said Field. “Look how many people are dead now. Look how many are mad. Is that normal? Can you explain it any other way?”
“There are other explanations,” said Altman. “There have to be.”
“Like what?” asked Field. When Altman didn’t answer, he said, “Be one with the Marker, Altman. Accept its message of oneness and unity. Join with us.”
Finally he let go. Altman took a step back, trying not to reveal to Field how disturbed he actually was. Mad or dead or religious—what the hell kind of choice was that?
“More and more people believe in our unitology,” Field said with his same mad smile. He reached clumsily into the neck of his shirt, grasped a leather thong. He tugged it out. At the end was a crude sigil: two slivers of metal twisted together to form a representation of the Marker.
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