John Hawks - The Traveler

Her blade flashed through the shadows.

The beams from the truck’s headlights 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 Evergreen Foundation Research Center,” 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 Evergreen Foundation Research Center 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.