The Traveler (39 page)

The beams from the truck's head-lights skittered across the road as Hollis drove down the hill from the church camp.

Maya leaned against the door with the Harlequin sword on her lap. She had been either fighting or running ever since she had arrived in America, and now she had failed completely. At this moment, Gabriel and Vicki were being transported to the East Coast in a private jet. And the Tabula had control of both Travelers.

"We need to attack the EvergreenFoundationResearchCenter," she said. "There are only two of us, but I don't see any other option. Drive to the airport and we'll catch a plane to New York."

"That's not a good idea," Hollis said. "I don't have a fake ID and it's going to be difficult to transport our weapons. You're the one who told me all about the Vast Machine. The Tabula have probably entered every police data system in the United States and placed our photographs in a `fugitive' category."

"Could we go on a train?"

"America doesn't have a high-speed rail system like Europe or Japan. Traveling that way could take four or five days."

Maya spoke loudly, showing her anger. "So what are we supposed to do, Hollis? We have to respond immediately."

"We'll drive cross-country. I've done it before. It takes about seventy-two hours."

"That's too much time."

"Let's say a magic carpet took us straight to the research center. We'd still have to figure out the best way to get inside." He smiled at Maya, trying to look optimistic. "All you need to get across America is caffeine, gasoline, and some good music. While we're on the road, you've got three days to come up with a plan."

Maya stared unblinking out the windshield, then nodded slightly. It bothered her that emotions might be influencing her choices. Hollis was right; he was thinking like a Harlequin.

Cardboard shoe boxes filled with music CDs were on the seat between them. The truck had a pair of large speakers and two CD players stacked on top of each other. As they turned onto the freeway, Hollis loaded a CD and punched the play button. Maya was expecting house music with a thumping beat, but suddenly she heard the Gypsy guitarist Django Reinhardt playing "Sweet Georgia Brown."

Hollis found hidden connections between jazz, rap, classical, and world music. As they cruised down the freeway, he kept his left hand on the steering wheel while his right hand flicked through the CDs in the shoe boxes. He began a continuous soundtrack for their journey, merging one song into another so that a Charlie Parker saxophone solo flowed into Russian monks chanting which led to Maria Callas singing an aria from
Madame Butterfly.

The Western deserts and mountains seemed to glide past them like a beautiful dream of openness and freedom. Reality was not part of the American landscape; it was only found in the massive tractor-trailer trucks that raced down the highway carrying gasoline, plywood, and a hundred frightened pigs sticking their snouts through the gaps of a cargo container.

While Hollis did most of the driving, Maya sat in the passenger seat and used her satellite phone and laptop computer to access the Internet. She found Linden in a chat room and explained in soft language where she was going. The French Harlequin had contacts with the new tribes forming in America, Europe, and Asia—mostly young people opposed to the Vast Machine. One of these groups met on a renegade Web site called the Stuttgart Social Club. Although none of these hackers actually lived in Stuttgart, the club shielded their identities and gave them instant communication. Linden told them that there was an urgent need to find out everything about the EvergreenFoundationResearchCenter in Purchase, New York.

At first the Stuttgart Social Club sent
Maya
downloaded newspaper articles about the Evergreen Foundation. Several hours later, club members began to break into corporate and government data systems. A Spanish hacker named Hercules entered the computer of the architectural firm that had designed the research center and electronic blueprints started to appear on Maya's computer screen.

"It's a big compound in a suburban environment," Maya said, scrolling through the information. "There are four large buildings constructed around a central quadrangle. A windowless building is at the center."

"What's the security situation?" Hollis asked.

"It's like a modern castle. There's a ten-foot wall.
Surveillance cameras.

"We have one advantage. I bet the Tabula are so proud and confident that they won't expect an attack. Is there a way to get in without tripping all the alarms?"

"The building that was designed for genetic research has four levels beneath the ground floor. There are water pipes, electric cables, and air-conditioning ducts that follow some underground tunnels. One of the maintenance points for the ventilation system is about two meters outside the wall."

"Sounds promising."

"We're going to need tools to break in."

Hollis slipped in a new CD and the door speakers blasted out dance music by a group called Funkadelic. "No problem!" he shouted and the music pushed them forward across the immense landscape.

It was almost midnight when Gabriel's body was brought into the research center. A security guard knocked on the door of Dr. Richardson's room in the administration center and told him to get dressed. The neurologist slipped a stethoscope into his coat pocket,
then
was escorted outside to the central quadrangle. It was a cold autumn evening, but the sky was clear. The Tomb was lit from the inside and it seemed to float like a massive cube in the darkness.

Dr. Richardson and his guard met a private ambulance and a black passenger van at the entrance gate and walked behind the convoy like mourners following a funeral cortege. When the vehicles reached the genetic research building, two foundation employees got out of the van along with an African American woman. The younger employee said his name was Dennis Prichett. He was in charge of the transfer and was determined not to make any mistakes. The older man had spiky hair and a slack, dissipated face. Prichett kept calling him "Shepherd"—as if that was his only name. A black metal tube dangled from Shepherd's left shoulder and he carried a Japanese sword in a scabbard.

The young black woman kept staring at Dr. Richardson, but he avoided her eyes. Richardson sensed that she was some kind of prisoner, but he didn't have the power to save her. If she whispered, "Please, help me," then he would have to acknowledge his own captivity—and cowardice.

Prichett opened the back of the ambulance. Dr. Richardson saw that Gabriel Corrigan was strapped to a gurney with the thick canvas restraints used on violent patients in hospital emergency rooms. Gabriel was unconscious. When the gurney was pulled out of the ambulance, his head lolled back and forth.

The young woman tried to approach Gabriel, but Shepherd grabbed her arm and held her tightly. "Forget about that," he said. "We need to get him inside."

They wheeled the gurney over to the genetic research building and stopped. No one's Protective Link was authorized to enter the building. Prichett had to call security on his cell phone while the group stood outside in the cold air. Finally a technician sitting at a computer in London authorized the entry for their various ID cards. Prichett pushed the gurney through the doors and the group followed him.

Ever since Richardson had accidentally read the laboratory report about hybrid animals, he had been curious about the top-secret genetic research building. There was nothing imposing about the ground-floor laboratories.
Fluorescent ceiling lights.
Refrigerators and lab tables.
An electron microscope.
The building smelled like a dog kennel, but Richardson couldn't see any lab animals—and certainly nothing that could be called a "splicer." Shepherd led the young woman down the hallway while Gabriel was wheeled into an empty room.

Prichett stood beside Gabriel's body. "We think Mr. Corrigan has crossed over to another realm. General Nash wants to know if his body is injured or not."

"All I have is a stethoscope."

"Do whatever you can, but hurry up. Nash is going to be here in a few minutes."

Richardson pushed the tips of his fingers against Gabriel's neck and searched for a pulse.
Nothing.
He took a pencil out of his jacket, jabbed the sole of the young man's foot, and got a muscular reaction. While Prichett watched, the neurologist unbuttoned Gabriel's shirt and pressed his stethoscope against the Traveler's chest. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.
Then, finally, a single heartbeat.

Voices came from outside in the corridor. Richardson stepped away from the body as Shepherd led Michael and General Nash into the room.

"So?" Nash asked. "Is he all right?"

"He's alive. I don't know if there's been any neurological damage.

Michael went over to the gurney and touched his brother's face. "Gabe's still in the Second Realm, looking for a way out. I had already found the passageway, but I didn't tell him."

"That was a wise decision," Nash said.

"Where's my brother's talisman?
The Japanese sword?"

Shepherd looked as if he'd been accused of stealing something. He handed the sword over and Michael placed it on his brother's chest.

"You can't keep him restrained forever," Richardson said. "He'll develop skin ulcers like patients with spinal cord injuries. His muscles will start to deteriorate."

General Nash seemed annoyed that anyone had raised an objection. "I wouldn't worry about that, Doctor. He's going to stay under control until we change his mind."

***

THE NEXT MORNING, Richardson tried to stay out of sight in the neurological laboratory located in the library basement. He had been given access to an online chess game running on the research center's computer and the activity fascinated him. His black chess pieces and the computer's white pieces were little animated figures with faces, arms, and legs. When they weren't moving across the board, the bishops would read their breviaries while the knights steadied their horses. The bored pawns were constantly yawning, scratching themselves, and falling asleep.

After Richardson got used to the chessmen being alive, he moved up to something called the second interactive level. At this level, the chessmen insulted each other or gave suggestions to Richardson. If he moved a piece the wrong way, the chessman would argue about strategy,
then
grudgingly move to the next square. On the third interactive level, Richardson didn't have to do anything but watch. The pieces moved on their own and the superior pieces killed the weaker ones, battering them with maces or stabbing them with swords.

"Working hard, Doctor?"

Richardson looked behind him and saw Nathan Boone standing in the doorway.
"Just playing a little computer chess."

"Good." Boone walked over to the lab table. "We all need to challenge ourselves continually. Keeps the mind alert."

Boone sat down on the other side of the table. Anyone glancing into the room would have thought that two colleagues were discussing a scientific issue.

"So how are you, Doctor? We haven't talked for a while."

Dr. Richardson glanced at the computer screen. The chessmen were talking to each other, waiting to attack. Richardson wondered if the chessmen believed that they were real. Perhaps they prayed and dreamed and enjoyed their little victories, not realizing that he was in control.

"I—I would like to go home."

"We understand that." Boone offered a sympathetic smile. "Eventually you can return to your classroom, but right now you're an important member of our team. I was told that you were here last night when they brought in Gabriel Corrigan."

"I just examined him briefly. That's all. He's still alive."

"That's right. He's here, he's alive, and now we have to deal with him. That presents a rather unique problem—how do you keep a Traveler locked in a room? According to Michael, if you keep a Traveler completely strapped down, he can't break out of his body. But it might lead to physical problems."

"Exactly.
I said that to General Nash."

Boone leaned forward and tapped a button on the laptop computer. The chess game with all its characters disappeared. "For the last five years, the Evergreen Foundation has sponsored research into the neurological processing of pain. As I'm sure you know
,
pain is a rather complex phenomenon."

"Pain is handled by multiple brain regions and it travels on parallel nerve pathways," Richardson said. "That way, if one part of the brain is disabled we can still react to an injury"

"That's correct, Doctor. But our researchers have discovered that wires can be implanted in five different brain regions, the most important areas being the cerebellum and the thalamus. Take a look at this." Boone took a DVD out of his pocket and inserted it into Richardson's computer. "This was filmed about a year ago in North Korea."

A brownish-yellow rhesus monkey appeared on the computer screen. It was sitting in a cage and had wires coming out of its skull. The wires were fastened to a radio transmission device strapped to the animal's body. "See that? Nobody is cutting this specimen or burning his skin. All you have to do is press a button and ..."

The monkey screamed and collapsed with a look of intense pain on its face. It lay on the floor of the cage, twitching and whimpering softly.

"See what happens? There's no physical trauma, but the nervous system is overwhelmed by a massive neurological sensation."

Richardson could barely speak. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Isn't it obvious, Doctor? We want you to insert wires in Gabriel's brain. When he returns from his traveling, he'll be released from his restraints. He'll be treated well and we'll try to change his rebellious opinions about certain issues. But the moment he tries to leave us, someone will press a button and—"

"I can't do this," Richardson said. "It's torture."

"That's an incorrect word. We're just providing
an
immediate consequence for certain negative choices."

"I'm a physician. I was trained to heal people. This—this is wrong."

"You really have to work on your vocabulary, Doctor. The procedure isn't wrong. It's
necessary."

Nathan Boone stood up and returned to the doorway. "Study the information on the DVD. In a few days we'll send you some more data." He smiled one last time,
then
disappeared down the hallway.

Dr. Richardson felt like a man who had just learned that cancer had been found inside him, the destructive cells spreading throughout his blood and bones. Because of fear and ambition, he had ignored all the symptoms, and now it was too late.

Sitting in the lab, he watched as different monkeys appeared on the computer screen. They should break out of the cage, he thought. They should run
away
and hide. But an order was given, a button was pushed, and they were forced to obey.