“Yeah,” Skye said, sobering, “they blindfolded me before they put me in their car, so I can’t give a description of it.”
“Oy can,” Carver said solemnly. “’Twas a late model four-door sedan, only about two years old, Oy’d make it, navy blue, one ‘a th’ oriental makes…which one is it what’s got the stars f’r the logo?”
“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said, jotting down notes. “Any distinguishing features, or license plate number?”
“Didn’ git th’ license,” Carver admitted, “but it had a long scratch down th’ passenger side, a’most from the front wheel well all th’ way t’ th’ back bumper. Kinda dented in, it was, too, like ‘e’d got too close ta sumpin, an’ dragged alongside it.”
Sherlock nodded, recording the information. Only then did he pick up his tea. The others took their cue from him, and began sipping their own tea. Skye nodded her compliment to Mrs. Carver, who smiled.
“Oy hear tell you make a nice cuppa, too, Mrs. Holmes,” she grinned.
Skye shot an amused glance at Mr. Carver, who smiled sheepishly.
“Thank you, Mrs. Carver,” she replied with a smile. “I do try.”
“And now,” Sherlock declared, “I should like, not only to introduce my wife to young Brendan, but to see the pup one more time before he departs for his new master.”
“Oy kinda figgered ya t’ be wantin’ t’ do that,” Carver grinned. “Hazel, wouldja open th’ back door an’ call th’ lit’le feller?”
Mrs. Carver rose and went to the back door. “Breeeeendan!” she called. There was an answering yap, and the little pup exploded through the door. Catching sight of Holmes, he let out a howl of delight, and ran directly to the detective, fawning all over him.
“Aw,” Skye said, delighted by the scene, as her husband enthusiastically petted the small animal. “So he’s already sold, you said?”
“I’m afear’d so,” Carver said, straight-faced.
“What a shame. I’m sorry I didn’t come over here with you sooner, Sherlock. The two of you are like bread and butter.”
“Well, there it is,” Sherlock sighed. “Here, Skye, meet the boy.”
Skye held her hand down for Brendan to sniff, and the dog promptly began licking her hand, nuzzling in order to get the top of his head scruffed. Skye laughed and gave the puppy what it wanted.
The pair stayed for a good hour before departing.
* * *
As soon as they returned to Gibson House, Holmes phoned in a description of the car to Ryker, who passed it through the APW. But nothing more was heard of the matter, saving one thing. A clandestine call to the hidden Victor twins revealed that the scratch on the car’s side was produced during the kidnapping of Mary Victor, as they revved the car down the driveway, which was lined on one side by a stone wall. A quick visit to the Victor residence turned up copious evidence, complete with paint markings and even tiny metal shards. Skye and Sherlock collected these into more poly bags, so the car could be positively matched to the kidnapping.
* * *
But the Holmeses could turn up no more clues.
“We have been searching diligently for five days already. Obviously they have gone to ground,” Sherlock decided at lunch one day in Gibson House, “and have planned exceedingly well for it.”
“Dammit,” Skye muttered, patently uncomfortable with the notion that her kidnappers were still on the loose.
“We are safe here, Skye,” Sherlock said, despite his own private misgivings. “It is only some two to five days before our counterparts return and begin brane regeneration, and you will be occupied again. In the meanwhile, sometimes, as you know, a good detective must be patient and wait for the clues to come to him—or her, as the case may be.”
“I know. But I don’t have to like it.”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, letting a twinkle appear in his grey eyes, “I can find a way to take your mind off of it.”
“What, exactly, did you have in mind?” Skye raised an eyebrow.
“Oh,” Sherlock said airily, “I am quite sure I can think of… something…”
He took her hand and led her, unresisting, back to the bedroom.
Chapter 10—Weak Branes and Weak Brains
FIVE MORE DAYS PASSED. THE HOLMESES stayed inside Gibson House, waiting on the other continuum and word regarding the case, generally pleasing each other. No news came in at all, save that the sarcophagus repair was taking longer than anticipated, due to the deterioration of the cave floor.
On the morning of the tenth day, they awoke together, almost as if the touch of minds brought them awake. They gazed at each other for long minutes, then by unspoken consent, pulled each other close and began the prelude to ringing alarm clocks. Afterward, they lay quietly, holding each other for some time, in silence.
After awhile, again without a word, they rose together, showered and dressed, and moved into the kitchen, where they wordlessly prepared breakfast, in complete harmony and coordination. A large omelet was split between two plates, coffee was poured, and toast and jam rounded out the meal. Then they sat down to eat.
“It is day ten since they decided to rest,” Sherlock finally noted at the breakfast table. It was the first thing either had said since awaking.
“I know. They can’t let it go much longer. The brane will start to deteriorate again if they do.”
“We know,” Chadwick’s voice announced. “We’re here. We wanted to let you know before we tried regenerating the brane’s rest energy.”
“Oh!” Skye exclaimed, putting her hand to her chest, startled. “Well, now I know what it feels like to be on the other end of the dratted thing, I guess.”
“Sorry,” Chadwick said sheepishly. “We literally just dialed in. You look a lot better, Sis.”
“Thanks,” Skye grinned ruefully. “The bruising is almost gone—finally.”
“How are you both?” Sherlock asked quietly.
“Quite well,” Holmes responded in an upbeat tone, “though Skye is anxious.”
Both Sherlock and Skye noted the comfortable informality with which Holmes addressed his compatriot.
“Yeah, I have to admit, Sherlock’s right on that,” Chadwick added. “But we’re both a lot more rested and…happier…than the last time you, er, heard us.”
“Capital,” Sherlock murmured, glancing across the table at his wife. “We are glad for you both.”
“Oh, good grief,” Chadwick grumbled, her embarrassment evident in her voice. “Is it THAT obvious?”
“Only because we know you like we know ourselves,” Skye grinned, then sobered. “And because it was painful to us to see you together, and know what could have been.”
“And now is,” Sherlock added, heedless of grammatical conventions.
“True,” Holmes agreed. “However, Skye—MY Skye—and I discussed the matter on the drive down the pass, and we have decided on a different choice from the one which you made.”
“You decided to forego a formal ceremony, and file paperwork?” Sherlock verified.
“Someday maybe I’ll get used to levels of deduction bordering on psychic,” Chadwick complained. “Yeah, that’s what we decided to do.”
“I did offer to share my name,” Holmes indicated, “but Skye noted, after all this time, she was happy merely having me by her side. And I am sufficiently Bohemian in outlook to allow matters to remain so, as she is content with it.”
“I am,” Chadwick declared. “Assuming we make it past today, we’ll probably go get the forms tomorrow.”
“And now we must see about matters of tomorrow,” Holmes declared.
“How will we know if you succeeded or failed?” Skye asked.
There was a pause. Suddenly the kitchen around them began to fade, and Skye and Sherlock found themselves looking into the Chamber. Two figures rose from the control console, moving to stand just outside the core.
“We’ll come back and tell you, one way or the other,” Chadwick said solemnly. “We promise.”
&nbs
p; “Indeed,” Holmes averred quietly. “And there is one other thing…just in case…”
Chadwick nodded, then choked out, “Thank you. Both of you. For everything.”
The two at the breakfast table exchanged glances, then rose and moved to stand as close to the other couple as they dared.
“Thanks are not necessary,” Sherlock noted softly. “Being who we are, we could do no less.”
“He’s right,” Skye agreed. “We’d have done the same, even if there was absolutely no risk to our own continuum.”
“We know,” Holmes nodded. “But thanks are given, nevertheless.”
“Then we accept them,” Sherlock nodded in a near mirror image of his counterpart. “And we will await your word.”
“I’m sure everything will go fine,” Skye soothed. “Deep breath and all that, girl.”
“Don’t I know it,” Chadwick chuckled ruefully. “See you soon, Sis, for good or ill.”
There was a soft hiss, and the cottage kitchen returned.
* * *
“All right, let’s get to it,” Chadwick said, drawing in a deep breath. “No sense in waiting any longer.”
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “Do you have the coordinates calculated?”
“Yep, here ya go,” Chadwick passed a sheet of paper to her spouse.
“Hm…” Holmes scanned the numbers on it. “Those are…quite different from what I am used to seeing.”
“Yeah,” Chadwick confirmed. “Think of it as like the Cartesian coordinates: zero—infinity, I guess. We’re going into the parent brane, so we’re accessing one end of who knows how many universe strings.”
“Ah, of course. This should be interesting.”
“Yeah. I have no idea what the inside of the core will look like. I just hope it’s not something that’ll make us toss our cookies.”
“Now that, I will agree with in toto. Before we actually begin, however, I should like to ask a question regarding the science. It may help me better anticipate matters, if I comprehend a few things first. I likely should have asked sooner, but I did not want to risk bringing worrisome matters to mind while you were resting.”
“Shoot,” Chadwick said.
“Why is it necessary for the brane to maintain a specific energy level?” Holmes wondered. “I comprehend well enough to calculate that level, and to determine bleed-off rates, but…” he waved his thin hands in the air. “I should have thought, once we got the brane stabilised, nothing more was needed.”
“Well,” Chadwick screwed up her face. “Sis and I don’t have all the details pegged down yet, but our take on it was like this: You know Einstein’s most famous equation.”
“Yes,” Holmes nodded. “E = mc2, where matter and energy are shown to have equivalence.”
“Right,” Chadwick verified. “Specifically, MASS and energy are equivalent. Now, mass is a measure of inertia…”
“Yes.”
“So what we’re really working with here is the rest mass of the brane. A brane with several—an unknown number, at this point—strings attached.”
“Read: other universes,” Holmes translated.
“Yup. Now, each of those open strings has a particular vibrational energy state. And the brane is, for all intents and purposes, an anchor for the strings. It therefore has to have sufficient mass-equivalence to damp those vibrational energies, or the vibrations get passed to the other strings as instability waves.”
“Ah!” Holmes exclaimed, suddenly grasping the entire concept. “And our brane is not currently ‘heavy’ enough to do so.”
“Right, and that’s why we’re having tremors. Since our continuum—our string—is the source of the deterioration, it’s the one initially most susceptible to feeling the vibrations being passed on. Sis and I haven’t figured out quite why, yet, but we’re working on it.”
“And so even after stabilisation, the brane begins to lose energy again after a time, because of the vibrational energies flowing through it,” Holmes mused. “I should think part of the energy of the brane is picked up occasionally by the vibrations…”
“Right. And transferred randomly to the various attached strings via instabilities.”
“Excellent. I understand now. Thank you, Skye.”
“No problem. Ready?”
“Insomuch as is possible, yes. I will handle the focusing, Skye, but you must handle the string beam.”
“Can do. That’s exactly what I’d planned. We’re on the same page.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Initiate focus.”
Holmes dialed in the coordinates with care. Between the monoliths, a swirling, roiling, almost psychedelic neon maelstrom formed briefly, then faded into a homogeneous grey mist.
“Coordinates reached,” he murmured, staring into the core curiously. “So that is what a brane looks like.”
“In as much as we can perceive it, yeah, it seems so. Okay, how does the rest energy read?”
“Approximately ten percent low,” Holmes read off his screen. “It appears to have recovered a bit on its own in the interim, since we stopped the tachyon condensation.”
“Excellent,” Chadwick said, surprised. “It rebounded by itself. Maybe we don’t need to do anything. Maybe the vibrations had the opposite effect, and dumped some energy into the brane, instead of taking it away.”
“No, rest energy just dropped two hundredths of a percent. The bleed-off has begun, just as the other Skye predicted. Three more hundredths down…”
“Damn. Okay, here goes, then,” Chadwick drew another deep breath and began typing commands into her computer keyboard. “Higgs boson injection beginning…” she hit
Holmes nodded. “Rest energy just rose to original reading,” he observed. “Continuing to rise…slowly…very slowly…”
“How’s this?” Chadwick tweaked the intensity of the string beam.
“Increase in rest energy to minus nine point three percent of calculated,” Holmes read off slowly. “Nine point one…eight point eight…”
Chadwick bumped the beam intensity another notch.
“Six point two! Five point seven! Five point oh!” Holmes exclaimed, the readings increasing swiftly now. “Four point three! Two point one! Reduce the beam, Skye, or we shall overshoot!”
Chadwick grabbed for the keyboard and entered commands as a tremor shook the Chamber.
* * *
No sooner had the other continuum broken contact than Ryker came by Gibson House in a decidedly agitated state.
“Come on, you two,” he said, barely making it through the door before waving the Holmeses at the coat rack. “Get your things and come. Right now. We’ve had an…incident.”
“What?” Sherlock barked as he and Skye shrugged into their coats.
“The guards on the cave,” Ryker replied tersely. “One was assaulted while the others were patrolling the area. We can’t tell for certain yet, but we think the entrance was accessed. The guards had electronic keys, in case of an emergency.”
“Oooh, shit,” Skye muttered as they followed Ryker outside. There, a Hummer awaited; Tin Can rode in the boot. The three piled into the military vehicle, with Ryker behind the wheel, and threw gravel as they headed for the McFarlane farm. “You think it was a disgruntled neighbor, determined to prove a government conspiracy, or…?”
“I’m banking on or,” Ryker replied shortly.
“And I agree,” Sherlock vouched. “I assume Tin Can is along to verify what may or may not be inside?”
“It is,” Ryker noted, taking the country lanes at the highest speed the wide vehicle could manage. “You were right, Boss, we should’ve finished sealing off the cave, right away.”
“A big ol’ wall in a hillside with a high-tech door in it ain’t subtle,” Skye shrugged. “Even if it is set back from the cave entrance. Not to mention all the materiel you must have going in and out.”
Moments later they entered the McFa
rlane property and arrived at the cave opening. The rest of Ryker’s unit was already there. Doctor Wilder was tending the injured guard, who had taken a nasty blow to the base of the head; Huggins had his control equipment set up and merely awaited the arrival of Tin Can to check the cavern’s interior.
As soon as the Humvee pulled up, the unit sprang into action. Tin Can was extracted from the boot and activated, its sensors calibrated. Then the door was opened, and the little robot trundled in, while the decontamination team prepped for its eventual return. Sherlock, Skye, and Ryker bent over Huggins’ monitor and watched the scene from Tin Can’s infrared “eyes.”
Nothing out of the ordinary was visible for a good fifteen minutes. Cherenkov radiation gradually came into view as Tin Can rounded the bend in the passage.
Huggins gasped. Ryker let out a long, low whistle. Sherlock said, “Ah,” in an unsurprised but subdued tone. Skye simply stared, paling.
The bloated, burned, peeling bodies of Fereaud and Cunningham lay tangled in the rebar immediately beside the partly covered opening in the floor of the cave. Pale blue light trickled through the cracks between the PVC coated flooring sheets, and a beam of Cherenkov radiation poured upward next to the bodies.
“They wouldn’t listen,” Skye whispered, before silence reigned.
* * *
“What do we do?” Skye finally asked after a time.
“You mean to recover the bodies, Wife?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Ryker replied with a shrug. “They’re too close to the opening to send personnel in. Tin Can isn’t powerful enough to get them out, and we don’t dare bring any of the heavy equipment that close to the unreinforced part of the opening, or the whole mess could go crashing down with the weight.”
Huggins looked up at his superior. “Finish the sarcophagus, and pour the concrete over ‘em?” he suggested.
“Yes.” Ryker shook his head grimly. “Follow today’s plan to the letter. Unless you’ve got any better ideas.”
Huggins thought for a moment, then shrugged. “We’ll get on it.”
“Get the last of the damn lead sheeting and rebar down, so we can start pouring concrete,” Ryker ordered, bitterness in his tone. “I want the doped concrete going down by lunchtime at the latest.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 122