Dark Oracle (4 page)

Breathe.

As she trudged behind Li into the caldera, the black grasses whipped snow in their wake. Snow spat from the sky, dusting the ground. Glass particles strewed the snow, like sequins on a wedding gown, crunching underfoot. The footprints they made were uneven, the plastic booties shifting in shape with each step. They stepped over the shallow concrete tracks spreading over the caldera. They reminded her of pipes, and her feet rang hollow against the surface as she clambered over. Based on what little she knew about the technology, she supposed these were the conduits through which the particles were accelerated, to be crushed together at the nexus where their paths crossed in the now-destroyed building.

Seeing the other suits milling about, she realized they were all entirely indistinguishable from one another. Anyone could be here; she had no way of measuring rank or looking anyone in the eye, a true handicap to her work. It would be like working blind.

Her heart hammered, and cold sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. She closed her eyes to center herself and listened. The wind rattled plastic, sliced through the grasses, cut through the zing of Geiger counters and the low murmur of voices. As barren as this place looked to the eye, it seethed with something that made her skin buzz.

Perhaps it was the altitude. Or the residual radiation.

Breathe.

Breathe.

She followed Agent Li to the massive tent, and he drew the veil-like plastic aside. Her breath snagged in her throat as she stepped into an entirely different world.

Chapter Three

W
HILE THE
caldera had been pristine white, nearly peaceful in its sterility, the inside of the shell of the tent seethed black and chaotic and filthy. Like a crushed beer can cast aside by a hungover god, the peeled-open particle accelerator was ripped apart from its moorings. It lay on one side, steel skin sheared back to reveal blackened guts of tightly spiraled copper tubing, wires, and ash. It was massive, at least two floors high, laced by the remnants of ladders. Carbon dusted the scene in a fine blanket of sticky black, obscuring the hazard signs still remaining on the walls and filtering like silt from the twisted ceiling beams. Above, the roof had dissolved, revealing an artificial white plastic sky. Two exterior walls were similarly missing, concrete blocks shattered and strewn on the ground. Like ants searching for food, workers vacuumed up debris with long hoses, carrying it away in handcarts. The spacemen-ants precisely and quickly swarmed over the machine. There was no indecision, no hesitation or flinch; these were soldier ants. Soldier ants with special expertise in these types of cleanups.

Other workers sealed charred electronic components in plastic bags, cataloguing the remains in the autopsy of this monster. Tara surreptitiously snapped a few photos with the tiny camera in her hand, hidden in the too-large folds of the glove.

“They’re destroying the scene,” Li muttered. “There’ll be no evidence left by the time we get to it.”

“We’d better work quickly.” As she breathed, Tara could feel the plastic sticking to her back like an ever-shrinking second skin. She would like nothing better than to get in and out quickly. She wanted to see the scene, to get some feeling for the place Magnusson had spent his days, to get a sense of the invisible fingerprints he’d left on his corner of the world.

“Who’s in charge here?” Li asked a passing worker-ant, but was ignored. He caught the sleeve of another, repeating his demand, and was shrugged off.

“There.” Tara pointed to a suit tapping away at a bright yellow laptop perched on a wheeled cart, covered in a clear plastic bag. She’d seen how the other people diverted their paths around this person, like water around a rock. A man, Tara guessed, by the build and height. Clearly, he was someone important.

Li strode to the white-wrapped figure. “Are you in charge?” His voice was muffled by the plastic and filters, but sharpness still crackled in his tone.

The figure turned. Through the plastic shield, she could see the burn of blistering blue eyes. No verbal acknowledgement, only that scalding glare.

“Are you in charge?” Again, the test of wills.

“Who’re you?” A voice like gravel. He sounded as if he smoked steel wool.

“Agent Li, Special Projects Division. Who are you, and why are you dismantling my crime scene?”

The blue eyes crinkled in amusement. “Major Gabriel, Defense Intelligence Agency. And let me clarify a couple of things for you, Agent Li.” Gabriel stepped close, towering a head over Li. To his credit, the agent didn’t budge.

“First, this is a U.S. Army installation. This is not ‘your’ playground. This is not ‘your’
anything.
” The major’s forceful breath mushroomed the hood of his suit. “Second, this is not a crime scene. It’s not a crime scene until
I
decide this is a crime scene. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Tara stepped forward, letting her fingers rest lightly on Li’s sleeve in warning. She could feel him glowering at her, and sweat glossed her brow. She extended her sticky-gloved hand to Gabriel. “Tara Sheridan. We just need to do a quick look over. Standard procedure, fill out some forms, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Gabriel took her hand, and she felt the tension in his grip. “Ms. Sheridan.” He flipped his gaze, bright as cornflowers, to Li and back to her. His weathered skin looked sunburned beneath the plastic shield. He wasn’t assigned here; he was too much brass. Someone had gone to considerable trouble to bring him in from somewhere distant, some latitude that had enough sun this time of year to burn flesh.

“We’ll file our report with your office.” She nodded at him as she spoke (
yes-yes-yes
), giving him the impression of agreement. “Formalities.” She kept her posture low, looked up at him with an expression she hoped he took as submission.

He squinted at her. “Fine,” he snapped. He gestured, and a petite woman in another white suit materialized beside him. “Dr. DiRosa will assist you. She worked with Magnusson. Keep it short. We have work to do.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“Ma’am.” He turned away from them, back to his laptop. She and Li were dismissed.

DiRosa gestured and walked back toward the ruined machine. “This way.”

Li let DiRosa get a few steps away. Seething, he yanked Tara’s elbow, started to say something, but she held up her hand.

“You can chew me out for emasculating you and kissing Gabriel’s ass later,” she hissed. Her fear made her impatient, and she could feel her empathy draining right out of her, with the cold sweat trickling down her shoulder blades.
Breathe.

“They are taking our evidence,”
Li snarled.

“And you can either be quiet and gather
some
information, or throw a tantrum, and get nothing.” Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Now, promise to play nicely with the other kids, and perhaps they’ll let us play with their toys.”

Li’s brown eyes blazed in wrath. She’d pushed his buttons, and he was ready to ignite. She didn’t have time for this kind of rigidity. She trotted off after DiRosa, letting Li stomp along in her wake.

“Dr. DiRosa.” Tara kept her expression soft, neutral. “What can you tell us about this?” Her gloved hand sketched the hulk of the particle accelerator.

“It blew up yesterday night at 2343, ma’am. Security logged Dr. Magnusson entering the site at 1945.” Though she had been introduced as Magnusson’s colleague, DiRosa’s speech cadences were pure military. Gabriel had turned them over to someone who would handle them perfectly. Tara looked at her sidelong through the shiny plastic mask. Her almond eyes were bloodshot and puffy beneath the careful makeup and salon-highlighted blonde hair. She knew Magnusson. She liked Magnusson. Despite her words, his disappearance had rattled her. Tara could use that to her advantage.

“Was he alone?” Li’s voice strained through gritted teeth. To his credit, he was swallowing his anger and moving forward. Good man.

“Yes.”

“Where was he last seen?”

“Security cameras caught him entering the accelerator room at 2210. He stayed in frame until approximately 2330.”

“Did he turn on the machine?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll need a copy of the tape.”

“Of course.”

Tara didn’t hold out hope they’d get it. From what Tara could discern beneath the white suit, DiRosa’s body language was tense and unyielding.

“What was Magnusson working on?” Li asked, forever direct.

“That’s classified, sir. I’m sorry.”

Tara’s eyes roved over the remnants of the machine. “What exactly do machines like this do?” That was a broad enough question that DiRosa should be able to answer.

“It’s a particle accelerator. An atom smasher, colloquially. The idea is to force an atomic particle, like an electron, to collide with the nuclei of other atoms at nearly the speed of light.”

“Is this a typical device for this purpose?”

“No. Most accelerators are linear or circular, which require substantial real estate to accelerate the particles. This variety is. . . was. . . an experimental type, a spiral accelerator based on an infinity loop design. It accomplishes appreciable amounts of acceleration, but in a much more compact space. Essentially, it uses a three-dimensional array of electromagnets to spiral particles to the collision at the center.” Tara could see her posture loosening as she talked about her research. The cadence of her speech quickened and became more fluid as she spoke. “The drawback is an excess amount of synchrotron radiation, which is difficult to filter out, but the advantages in design and material elegancy render that a manageable issue.”

“Have there been any other accidents with these types of devices?”

“Not at this site.”

“And other sites?”

“That’s classified.”

Tara stuck to the topic. “Do you know what caused the explosion?”

“That’s unknown. The off-site recorder recorded normal power-up, but an unusual power surge crashed the instruments. We expect it was an accident.” Her voice was firm, but she bit her lip, telegraphing her unease with the decision “we” had made.

“Have you found any remains?” Li’s voice was expressionless, but he leaned forward to hear the answer.

DiRosa hesitated before she shook her head. “We found a contact lens and some textile evidence. We’re looking for DNA. As you can see, much of the structure is destroyed. If Magnusson was standing behind the radiation blast shield. . . here. . .”—she pointed to a blistered pile of rubble—“. . . there may be very little to find.”

It was then Tara realized there was very little actual debris. She’d seen the aftermath of car bombs and IEDs. There was always wreckage left equal to the amount of the original structure. Nothing ever disappeared completely. That was simply a basic fact of the universe.

Tara’s brow wrinkled. It seemed wrong. Half a building was destroyed, but there weren’t enough bricks, dust, and scraps of metal to make up the difference. Very little was actually vaporized in an explosion. Here, there was very clearly missing mass, tons of it, which meant missing evidence. She thought of the ants combing over the wreckage. The material had to have gone somewhere. Did they take it? Why?

Li and DiRosa continued the interview dance, and Tara walked to the rubble she’d pointed to. The camera clicked in her hand, as she aimed it toward the ruined particle accelerator. She looked up at the hole in the roof open to the plastic sky. She imagined sky, imagined escaping this prison of plastic, then forced her thoughts back to earth.

Breathe.

This could be the last spot Lowell Magnusson had stood. Tara turned on her heel, trying to imagine what this place would have seemed, humming and whole, orderly. This place would have been close to him, familiar as his own home. The machine must have been sterile and imposing; he would have needed an office area. She saw no wood debris, no suggestion of file cabinets, no broken chairs, no detritus of computers. He must have had somewhere to analyze his data, some space for him to sit in a chair and think, to spin out his theories and compare them with the invisible realities he set in motion in the heart of the machine.

“Did Dr. Magnusson have an office in this building?” she asked.

DiRosa hesitated. “Yes. But there’s not much left to show you.”

T
ARA FOLLOWED
L
I AND
D
I
R
OSA THROUGH THE ARTERIAL
halls of the structure, through the haze of dust and dim emergency lights. Only part of the power seemed to have been restored to this area of the complex. Flashlights shone under doors, and silent strobe alarm lights cast harsh, angled shadows along the walls. Where they walked, industrial green tile was speckled in dust and footprints, illuminated by caged utility lights daisy-chained to orange extension cords. In the churning darkness, Tara could hear the buzz of a generator, the snap of plastic, and the filtered echo of voices. Her heart still trip-hammered in her mouth. She hoped the other two would not see how tightly her fists were clenched. The darkness served only to amplify her claustrophobia, stirring it with dark, unseen hands. She walked behind Li and DiRosa, the plastic of her helmet squeaking like a dog’s toy as she hyperventilated.

This was too much like
before.
Like suffocating.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Card readers glowed with dull green eyes studding each door still important enough to be fed by sparse emergency power. DiRosa slid an ID badge through one reader, keyed in a code on the door lock. The stainless steel lock whirred and opened, suggesting some heavy machinery at work in the walls.

“That seems pretty low-tech for this kind of installation,” Li commented. “I would have expected biometrics—palm and retina scanners, that kind of thing.”

DiRosa’s bow mouth twisted in a frown. “We don’t have the electricity to run them now. That part of the grid’s toast.” She gestured them through the door, unhooking a utility light and snaking its orange tail behind her.

“This is it?” Li stared at the blank white room. It looked like a set piece from an existential film: white walls, steel desk, ergonomic office chair on wheels neatly tucked under the edge. The blotter stretched pristinely blank across the desk, unmarked with any notes, phone numbers, scribbles.

Li yanked open the industrial green file cabinet. Drawer after drawer gaped empty. He turned to the two large flat-panel computer monitors perched on the desk. He reached under the desk to power the computer on, only to grab a handful of dangling cords. The PC case itself lay strewn in pieces on the cold floor, shattered open in a broken mass of technological spaghetti.

Li yanked at its green guts, pulled out the cracked motherboard. “The hard drive’s gone.” He looked up at DiRosa accusingly. “This was your people.”

DiRosa shook her head. “We found it that way.”

“You have backups somewhere?”

“We’re trying to pull them now.”

“I need copies of all his correspondence, reports, memos—”

“We’ll give you the ones we can, after they’ve been cleared.”

“So you’re going to give me a pile of paper covered in Magic Marker redactions?”

“Agent Li—” DiRosa began, and Tara heard the crack in her voice. “Please understand we must follow procedure.”

“I
understand
that you want us to look, not touch.”

“What I want doesn’t matter.” Her voice tremored.

Li leaned on the edge of the desk. Now that DiRosa was outside Gabriel’s earshot, perhaps she would open up. Tara heard his tone soften as he switched tactics and tried to dig into the soft flesh of the man’s personal life. “How long did you know Dr. Magnusson?”