by Rick Yancey
“It is not a name of a place, Kropp. It is the nexus, the core. The nucleus.”
“Oh, sure. The nucleus of what?”
“Reentry.”
“Oh, boy. I don’t guess you’re ever going to tell me what’s going on with these Seals, so I’m going to give it a shot. You don’t have to say anything, just nod or twitch your mouth, some kind of signal I might be on the right track.
“This ring of Solomon’s controls something that’s locked up in the Holy Vessel. Like the name of this boat sort of implies, it’s not something you want to be messing with. Mike got away with both of them, and he’s hightailed it into the Egyptian desert, because he can’t just open the Holy Vessel anywhere and, since we have five hours or so to get there, I’m guessing he can’t just open it whenever he feels like it. Maybe the stars have to be in perfect alignment or there’s some other criteria I don’t know about, like Mars being in Sagittarius or something along those lines.”
He didn’t nod or twitch or move a single muscle. He just stared down at me. If I had some shoes, I’d be a little taller and might not be able to see so much nose hair.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Operative Nine.”
“No, I mean what’s your real name?”
“Whatever it needs to be.”
“I promise I won’t tell anybody.”
He was smiling. It wasn’t a very natural-looking smile. He smiled like smiling hurt.
“I could tell you,” he said. “But then I would have to kill you.”
“That’s a really old joke.”
“I’m not joking.”
He stepped back and motioned toward the bow. “Come, Kropp. We should not tarry. The sea has eyes.”
13
I followed him back to my cabin. I told him my feet were cold and he just looked at me like I’d said something in Swahili, or maybe it was more like he spoke Swahili and I didn’t.
“There are some matters I must attend to,” Op Nine said. He left. I hoped one of those matters included socks and shoes. I sat on the bed. I picked at my toenails, which needed trimming. I was tempted to bite them down, but I hadn’t done that since I was ten, and some things you should move past.
I wondered what happened to Ashley after the helicopter rescue in Tennessee. Was her injury completely healed now? I had mixed feelings about her. She had saved my life, but she had also lied to me about who she was and why she was “attached” to me. I wondered if my feelings were mixed because I thought she was a nice person or if it was because I thought she was pretty.
OIPEP agents fell into two categories, as far as I could tell: the preppie, grad student type, of which Mike Arnold was the perfect example; and the stoic, more menacing type like Operative Nine. That guy was so stiff and precise that I wondered if he was one of those “unacknowledged technologies” that Abigail mentioned back in London.
Maybe he was a cyborg, but that seemed far-fetched. On the other hand, I was chasing after a magical ring that once belonged to King Solomon from the Bible and I didn’t seem to have trouble believing that.
The door swung open and a tall, tanned blonde with blue eyes about the size of quarters walked in, dressed in the standard-issue OIPEP jumpsuit. I stood up and we didn’t say anything for a minute. Then she reached out and hugged me. Ashley smelled good, like lilacs, only I wasn’t sure what lilacs smelled like; it was just the first word that popped into my head. She hugged me and I thought, Lilacs.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “For saving my life.”
“Okay,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
“And I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“Tricking you like that in Knoxville.”
“Well, that’s sort of your job, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I guess.”
“What’s in the Holy Vessel?” I figured if anyone would tell me, it would be Ashley.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Do you know why Mike was trying to kill me?”
She looked away.
“Can you tell me why he stole the Seals?”
“We don’t know why.”
I was feeling light-headed again, so I sank back onto the bed.
“Is there a doctor on board?” I asked.
“Why, are you sick?”
“I feel really dizzy. Plus I found this sore under my . . .” I didn’t feel comfortable for some reason using the word “armpit.” “On my skin. I wouldn’t care, you know, I’m a pretty tough guy, played football and everything, plus I’ve had my share of rough scrapes over the past year, including being killed, but my mom’s cancer started with a sore spot and you know that runs in families. Not sore spots. Cancer. Well, I guess sore spots could run in families too . . .”
“Yes,” she said. She was smiling for some reason.
“There’s a doctor on board. You want me to get him?”
“Maybe in a little while. It’s better when I sit down.”
She sat down next to me as if she needed to feel better too. Her hair fell across her cheek as she leaned forward, swinging her long legs against the bunk.
“I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot lately,” I said.
“After she died, things got really weird.”
She nodded. She hooked a thick strand of her hair around her left ear and looked at me out of the corner of her eye.
“You probably know all about my mom,” I said. “I bet OIPEP has a file on me and you had to read that when they, um, attached you to me. That’s how you knew my blood had the power to heal.”
“That’s pretty smart of you, Alfred.”
“So there is a file.”
“The Company keeps files on a lot of people.”
“How many people?”
“Practically everybody.”
“Why practically everybody?”
“Because practically everybody has the potential to be important.” “Well, I never saw myself that way. I mean, I know I’m the last living descendent of Lancelot, and my dad was pretty rich and important, but it was mostly dumb luck how I saved the world.”
She reached over and put her hand on the top of my hand.
“You’re very special, Alfred. You have a very unique gift; don’t ever forget that.”
“I don’t have any gifts.”
That was sort of an invitation for her to list my gifts, but she didn’t. For a tiny second I thought about putting my other hand on top of hers, but the second passed. She took her hand away.
“I have to go.”
“You’re on the team going in, aren’t you?”
She nodded. Her expression told me she wasn’t exactly thrilled she was on the team.
“Can I go too?”
She looked at me sharply. “Didn’t they tell you? You don’t have a choice.”
14
At that moment, the door swung open and Op Nine walked in. He was carrying a pair of combat-style black boots and a pair of thick socks. Ashley jumped off the bed and I did too, as if he had caught us doing something we shouldn’t. By the expression on his face, I figured maybe we had been.
“The rest of the team has already reported on deck,” Op Nine said to Ashley.
“I was on my way.”
“The deck,” Op Nine said tightly, “is two flights above us.”
Ashley left without another word.
I said, “Don’t dock her pay or anything. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
“It would be unfortunate, particularly for her, if she had,” Op Nine said. He set the boots and socks beside the bed and stepped back.
“Well,” I said. “She did tell me one thing. You’re taking me with you to the nexus.”
“It is unavoidable.”
“And why’s that?”
He just stared at me. I said, “I have this theory you might be a cyborg.”
“You are making a joke.”
“Half a j
oke.”
“How does one make half a joke?”
“I’ve never really thought it through. What if I refuse to go?”
“I would be forced to compel you.”
“I could fight you.” One of his thick eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “I’m a biter. And a scratcher.”
“I would immobilize you and carry you to the nexus over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Half a joke.”
He motioned to the boots and socks. He watched silently as I pulled them on.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Still a little dizzy.”
“That will pass.”
“How do you know?”
“I am a trained medic as well as a cyborg.”
He opened the bulkhead door and jerked his head toward the corridor outside.
“After you, Alfred Kropp.”
Something hit me then, and instead of keeping my mouth shut, which was probably the wisest thing to do at that moment, I blurted out, “I’m the bait, aren’t I?”
“Bait?”
“Or ransom or something. Mike wants you to bring me to him.”
“I doubt that.”
“Then why do I have to go?”
“Because,” Op Nine said calmly, “we say so.”
Dumb, Kropp, dumb, dumb, dumb, I told myself, and walked through the door anyway.
15
We climbed the circular stairs two flights to the top, turned a corner, and suddenly we were in the open air. It was colder outside than I would have guessed, but I think I read somewhere that the desert gets cold at night. The Pandora had anchored about two hundred yards from shore. I could see lights there. Marsa Alam.
A group of agents was waiting on deck. I counted ten besides Op Nine and Abby, so that made me number thirteen, which seemed appropriate and ominous at the same time.
When they saw us come up, the agents turned and stared at me.
“I’m Alfred Kropp,” I said.
“They know who you are,” Op Nine said.
I was about eight thousand miles from home, but some things you never leave behind, no matter how far you go, and right then, I felt like the big awkward dateless dork at the prom.
It was a young group, except for Op Nine. Nobody looked over the age of thirty. The guys were all thick-necked and square-jawed, and their biceps bulged out the arms of their jumpsuits. There were two female agents, both blondes like Abby. They looked like fashion models with their oversized lips and very small chins and boyish hips.
Then I saw Ashley. She gave me a little smile. Op Nine cleared his throat, Ashley looked away, and then Abigail Smith began to speak.
“Well, we’ve come to it, folks. I don’t think I need to remind you of the consequences should the Hyena succeed in opening the Lesser Seal—the greatest intrusion event in a hundred generations. For this reason, the director has invoked the First Protocol.”
She paused to let that particular bit of news sink in with everyone—everyone except me, because I had no idea what she was talking about. The atmosphere got very somber.
“You understand what this means. You no longer exist— in the operational sense, of course.” She took a deep breath. “You still have time to back out.”
Nobody said anything. Abby nodded; I guess she was pleased that nobody was backing out. She asked if anyone had any questions. I had about a hundred. For example, what were an “intrusion event” and the First Protocol? The other ninety-eight were similar in that they were questions I probably didn’t want answered. But the main question was why was everyone else allowed to back out but I wasn’t?
Rope ladders hung over the railings, and we descended on them to the water below, where two speedboats bobbed gently, scraping against the hull of the Pandora. My butt had hardly touched the seat when we leaped forward and whipped hard to the left toward the lights of Marsa Alam.
The Pandora faded into the darkness, the darkest kind of dark, under a moonless sky, though the stars were very bright, much brighter than they appear in the States.
Two Land Rovers were waiting for us at the dock. Op Nine helped me out of the speedboat and I rode shotgun in the lead vehicle as he drove.
The roads in Marsa Alam were not up to American standards, and I was concentrating on keeping my tongue in the center of my mouth so I didn’t bite it off as we jounced along. We didn’t head for the lights of the town. Those lights stayed on our left and kept fading until the desert night closed around us and the only thing I could see were the twin beams of the headlamps cutting into the darkness.
After about fifteen minutes I saw a red blinking light against the backdrop of stars and other blue and yellow lights twinkling on the ground.
“Oh, great,” I said. “This is just great. Where are we?” But I already knew the answer.
“An airstrip,” Op Nine said.
Several men in black uniforms emerged out of the darkness as we got out of the Rovers. They carried automatic rifles and wore black berets. A man with dark skin, dressed in a very nice silk suit, separated himself from the soldiers and bowed to Op Nine.
“Dr. Smith,” he said. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
“I am Dr. Smith,” Abigail said, smiling her brilliant smile and extending her hand. The man looked at her, startled. He wasn’t expecting Dr. Smith to be a woman, I guess. He cleared his throat and made a show of pulling a sheet of paper from his coat pocket.
“I have a communication from His Excellency, the President of Egypt,” the man said. He cleared his throat again and read very slowly, like he was translating Egyptian into English as he read, which maybe he was.
“ ‘As signatory to the OIPEP Charter, dated Copenhagen, 19 November, 1932, the Egyptian government pledges its full cooperation and support in this most urgent operation. Therefore, as President of Egypt and duly authorized signatory agent of the aforesaid Charter, I grant designated operatives of the Office of Interdimensional Paradoxes and Extraordinary Phenomenon, as determined by the director of said office, unconditional clearance in our airspace and any and all logistical support they may need for the successful completion of the aforesaid operation.
“ ‘We cheerfully place the fate of the world and its future generations into your hands. God be with you.’ ”
He cleared his throat a third time, carefully folded the communication, and handed it to Abby.
“Thank you, Ambassador,” she said. “On behalf of the Office, I extend our gratitude and pledge our undying friendship to your government and all signatories to the Charter.”
She bowed to him, he bowed to her, and then they bowed in unison.
He looked at each agent in turn, until he got to me, and the look became a stare.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Alfred Kropp.”
“I know who you are,” he said, and then he turned on his heel and strode toward a black Lincoln Town Car parked near the Land Rovers.
Op Nine said something to the soldiers in Arabic, which sounded very fluent to me, and at one point one of the soldiers laughed and clapped him on the shoulder like he’d gotten off a good joke. I tried to imagine Op Nine joking in any language, and couldn’t. Over his shoulder I could see the dark hulk of a big plane. It looked like the same kind of cargo plane that had carried Bennacio and me over the Atlantic on my first globetrotting secret mission last spring.
We walked toward the plane, the soldiers taking parameter positions around us. Op Nine led the way. I glanced to my right and saw Ashley walking beside me. Her hair was pulled into a knot on the back of her head, the same way Abby Smith wore her hair. Maybe it was a Company requirement, like a dress code. Three Egyptian soldiers kept pace about a dozen yards behind us.
“What’s an intrusion event?” I whispered to Ashley.
She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”
For the first time I noticed how different her voice sounded from when I first met her.
I guess that was part of her transfer-student act. Her real voice was deeper and kind of raspy, the kind of voice you associate with smokers or female PE teachers. But I didn’t think she was either one of those. I hadn’t noticed the smell of smoke on her, and I doubted OIPEP recruited high school PE teachers as top-secret operatives.
I nodded toward Op Nine at the head of the pack.
“He kind of creeps me out. I was wondering if he was a cyborg.”
She gave a little laugh. “A what?”
“You know, some kind of cybernetic robot or something.”
“He’s human, as far as I know.”
“Well, he doesn’t act like any human I’ve ever known.”
“He’s sort of a living legend in the Company.” She lowered her voice, which made it sound even throatier. “He was in Abkhazia in eighty-three. The only one to come out alive.”
We had reached the plane, which had no windows, and that was fine with me. Benches lined either side of the massive interior. We took our seats as the engines revved to life and I searched in vain for the seat belts. Ashley sat on my left and Op Nine on my right. Directly across from me sat Abigail Smith, who in the dim cabin lighting seemed to be smiling, but she might have just been gritting her teeth. Between us sat a half-dozen wooden crates bolted to the floor with heavy chains.
The plane began to accelerate, pressing me sideways into Ashley’s shoulder. My stomach rolled, but things got a little better once we were airborne. Beside me, Op Nine reached under his seat and took out an oversized leather-bound book with funny triangular-shaped designs on the cover. Written in big letters the color of blood were the words “ARS GOETIA.”
“What is that?” I asked him.
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “The Ars Goetia,” he answered. “What’s that mean?”
“It is Latin for ‘The Howling Art.’ ”
Then he proceeded to ignore me, burying his nose in the musty, parchmentlike papers of the old book, his lips moving as he read. I tried to think of something to say to Ashley, but I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound boring or stupid. Of course, I usually didn’t let those considerations bother me, otherwise I’d never say anything.