Atmosphere (34 page)

All of them: young men, pretzeled together in an orgy of dance.

Slowly and quietly, Frank and Hector paced around the perimeter of the dancers, eyes peering and necks craning, trying but mostly unsuccessful in avoiding the wildly swinging arms and legs escaping the spasmodic horde.

"What do you make of this?" Hector finally yelled through the raging din.

Frank shrugged his shoulders, quite unsure himself.

So what do you make of this Frank?

For the first time since he and Hector joined forces nearly thirty-six hours ago, Frank saw himself as the leader, the one in control.
He
was now guiding Hector, not the other way around. There would be no more discussions, no more persuading. He wouldn't have to convince his ex-captain of their next move, to try and sway his elementary thoughts. This was
it
, and he would be in charge.

Throughout the unfolding of the investigation, Frank had clearly held the stronger insight, had had some crazy yet conceivable ideas. Yet, with great frustration, he had allowed himself to be guided by Hector's train of reasoning, his by-the-book police logic. But now things would be different. It was
he
—or better yet, a new Frank who was half true detective and half compulsive-irrational—who held the upper hand, here in this assumed domain of the...of the what? Aliens? Cult?

Whomever, whatever they were, only a continued probe would reveal for certain, and this probe would be Frank's.

Taking advantage of an opening in the chaos, he slipped through the crowd, guiding Hector towards the bar. They squeezed into a spot next to a young man with a trail of metal loops running along the entire edge of his ear.

Following the instinctual calling of his detective personality, Frank peered around at the variety of men here, their bodies acting ahead of their minds. He reminded himself of what Sam Richards had said about Harold Gross acting solely under a severe hypnotic daze. Were all the men here captured by this extreme outside force?
 

He stepped from the bar and walked along the edge of the crowd, further into the heart of the club. He found a set of steel stairs leading up and followed them, Hector in tow, passing two young men whose arms and tongues were tangled together in an unknottable embrace.

He reached top but another bald sunglassed bouncer blocked the way. The bouncer raised his hand up, palm facing Frank. "You have a pass?" His voice was deep and phlegmy, monotone.

Frank once again fished the object from his pocket.

The bouncer immediately stepped aside and let Frank pass. No questions asked. But he did not allow Hector to pass, stepping between them. "You have a pass?" His statement sounded identical to the first, so much that it could have been a recording.

Frank peered back at his ex-captain, not wanting to speak out in fear of alerting their non-hypnotic states to the bald men. Hector tossed a slight nod at Frank, then turned and headed back down the stairs. Mentally, Frank heard Hector say,
"Go ahead Smoky, I'll be all right. You go and find out what the hell is going on here."

Now, also for the first time since the investigation began, Frank Ballaro was alone.

He turned a corner to the right and found himself gazing down a long doorless hallway, cobalt wisps of illumination floating within like specters, seeming to emanate from no true source. The walls were glossy and black, like the exterior of the building. Like the the object in his pocket.

He followed the hall for perhaps twenty-five feet, all the way to an impasse. He stopped then twisted his neck and peered back. The bald bouncer stood there, sunglassed sights staring at him. At once Frank felt extremely uncomfortable, as if he were being set up, that perhaps a gang of thugs were planning to leap out at him at any second to make him 'disappear'. He took a deep breath, trying hard to keep his newfound combo-personality from bowing down to duress.

When he faced forward again, the impasse had disappeared, giving way to an entrance.

Frank widened his eyes, making efforts to adjust his gaze as the darkness ahead loomed. He stepped forward and a great round room sucked him in, large but still smaller than that of the main dance floor he left behind. The walls and floor were sleek and black like everything else, devoid of anything noticeable except for a series of gray screens encircling the perimeter.

"
Sit..."
The electronic voice startled Frank, its monotone frighteningly similar to that of the bouncers.

"What's this about? Who are you?" Frank yelled, his voice echoing in the chamber.

"
Sit."
Frank took a step forward. The screens lit up, a dull fractal swirl of blue and silver hues moving with lava-like slowness upon them.

"Sit."
The lights brightened as the words reverberated. Frank, seeking only the truth, finally complied and gently squatted on the floor. He slid his hand inside his jacket and sought the comfort of his gun, just in case. Discomfort and fear ran in line with curiosity here in this surrealistic world.

"
Place the object on the floor in front of you,"
the voice demanded.

With his free hand Frank fished it out. As uncommonly gratifying as it felt to have had it, he was equally eager to be rid of it now. He placed it on the floor and again asked, "Who are you?"

A small slot formed beneath the screen directly in front of him and a black snake-like tube slithered out, wet and glistening, yet strangely crustaceous, twisting like an eel as it approached.
  

Frank tightened his grip on the gun. Bile climbed to the back of his throat. His finger sweated upon the trigger.

The appendage stopped at the object. Its puckered tip kissed the air and Frank watched as it weaved in and about the six spines on the top of the object before attaching itself to one of them. Suddenly the screens changed color, from red to blue to purple, and then a brilliant spectrum of colors spiraled about. He watched with fascination, his breath lost in a confusion of feelings and fear.

The colors quickly faded to gray. The tube detached itself and shot back into the wall like a recoiling tape measure. "
The unit has been evacuated. Harbinger, take the unit, seek out new suppliers."

Harbinger?
Frank clamped his hand over his mouth in thought. Speak no evil. "
What
are you?" It was barely a whisper.

Another slot in the wall opened, this time above the screen. A dissemination of blue laser light burst out and washed over Frank's body from head to toe, then blinked out. It was as if he had been scanned...

"
Subject lacks necessary chemical agent. Unsuitable for harvesting."
  

Frank stood. "Chemical agent? What in God's name is..."

A face appeared on the screen. Well not as much a face as it was a blur. But the eyes were there, large, black, prominent, orblike, taking up almost half of the oval outline of the head. It flickered slightly as it spoke, and Frank could see a small blur of a mouth open as it spoke.

"
How did you find us?"

"I'm a detective. I find things. What is going on here? Who are you?" Frank took a step forward, gazing up at the face on the screen, his feelings of fear indifferent to that of his curiosity. His wary third, hiding in the shadows, showed its face a bit, wondering if this whole scenario might all be some great lunatic show, if the mysterious object before him had been some sort of backstage pass, granting him access behind the scenes. But his stronger detective personality thought differently, knew in fact that this whole spectacle was some huge excursion into a previously unexplored world, a bizarre new macrocosm in which he had become an unwitting participant in its resolve.

"Subject does not carry the necessary chemical agent."

"Chemical? What chemical?"

"
Chemical agent is genetically preponderant in young aggressive males."

"What chemical agent?" Frank's heart slammed against his chest.

Silence.

Then: "
The naturally occurring element testosterone is not unlike our fuel."

Frank at once felt all three personalities turmoiled under a similar stress: that of uncertain fear. All along he pondered the alien theory, that somehow the possibility of visitors from another place might exist as a reality. Now, as the proof of his alarming speculation came to light, the reason for their extreme measures also spilled out. That they—whomever
they
were—were trapped here against their wishes, and that their only means of escape would be to refuel. According to the now feasible essays by Sanskrit, their initial efforts had been to modify the earth's atmosphere in effort to create an environment suitable for their very own existence. Their efforts had failed (thank God), their secondary methodology indicating some degree of success.

He stared up at the screen, legs starting to cramp from squatting. The surreal face there melted away into colors, and then back again, the entire effect a great swirling conglomeration of living, breathing tinctures. "Atmosphere," Frank said, not really knowing how to determine the significance of the word other than to simply utter it.

"It defines all understanding of the human race."

The human voice came from behind, and Frank startled at its intrusion. He rose up, the face on the screen still swirling from non-existent to barely solid, then spun around and immediately felt his stomach knot with loathe.

Bobby Lindsay.

Frank opened his mouth to speak, but could only stammer.

Bobby Lindsay stepped forward, and for the first time since his arrest he wore no sunglasses and had a thin growth of stubble on his skull. "I could ask why you're here, but that much is obvious."

"Lindsay, what is all of this?" Although Frank's fear and anger tore him to shreds, his curiosity held him together. "What defines the human race?"

"
Understanding
of the human race. Don't misconstrue the truth, Ballaro." Lindsay paced a silent circle about Frank until he reached the glowing screen. He stood in front of it, the landscape of intermingling colors and shapes providing an evil tapestry behind the boy. He pointed to the screen. The strange head-like entity appeared for a moment, then swirled away into an amorphous shape. "The Giver. His understanding of the human race. That object before you is an Atmosphere, but then again, everything here is."

"You're not making any sense, Bobby. You never did."

"Think about it, Ballaro. You must know a great deal about this place, about the Giver, to realize how significant the Atmosphere really is. The Giver came here through the Atmosphere, almost redefined it. It hid beneath it for a long time, utilizing its scope to scan us and our language. Haven't you turned on your radio and heard the pulse? That pulse, it is all hearing, all knowing of our ways of life. And it exists solely through the radio. And the radio, well, it's everywhere."

Frank thought about what Lindsay was saying, and even though he appeared mad, it made sense. If this Giver as he called it had initially scanned radio waves at its location beneath the hole it caused upon its entry into the atmosphere in an effort to learn of the human culture, it most assuredly would have picked up a great deal of programming on the sudden, unexpected event. Almost constant programming in fact, and not just from public radio channels but also from within shortwave communications from scientists who had eagerly moved to investigate the sudden phenomenon.

Frank placed a hand on his gun. The music in the walls grew louder.

"Don't move Ballaro, this is my domain." Bobby stepped forward, inches from Frank. He leaned down and grabbed the Atmosphere from the floor. "I am your Harbinger, and you are my Supplier."

Frank watched in terror as the object that had once been in his pocket started changing shape. Bobby rubbed it feverishly, black eyes staring maniacally at Frank, the blackness upon it changing into a spectrum of liquefied colors like those upon the screen. The screen grew brighter, the face now gone, giving way to thicker, more vibrant hues. The object melted from Bobby's grip, dripped to the floor like spilled syrup and seeped onto Frank's legs, quickly ascending them to his crotch. He stood there, frozen, afraid to touch the slithering mess. A warmth spread into his penis and testicles, a sexual-like warmth that he hadn't felt in many years, ever since Diane last pleasured him many years ago.

But of course it had no stimulating effect on him.

Frank was impotent.

The voice of the Giver emanated, its electronic timbre echoing amidst the muffled beating of the music.
"Subject is unsuitable for harvesting. Recognize failure."

The mucky thing that had once been the object slid from Frank's crotch and flowed like a great blob of liquid mercury back into the hands of Bobby Lindsay. Frank watched in horror as the smile on Bobby's face, at first wide and proud, suddenly disappeared and gave way to a scowl of fear and pain. The object, still in its liquid form, started to spread, over his hands and wrists, like wash of driveway sealant. Bobby panicked, crazily shaking his hands up and down in effort to loosen the growing lump. No good. It swallowed his forearms, to the elbows. He rolled to the floor, started screaming in pain, as if he was on fire, trying to douse the flames.