Authors: David Sakmyster
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban
Chapter 15
During the flight back on the Solstice private jet, Gabriel and Lauren played an extended game of chess while Mason tried to go through gigabytes worth of abstracts, technical papers, applied mathematics and research from Solstice-paid consultants and experts. Impressive and overwhelming as it all was, Mason’s eyes were getting heavy around the two-hour mark, right about when Gabriel and Lauren escalated their climate change argument to the next level. Gabriel fumed and got that high-pitched sound to his voice as he always did when he embarked on a rant, and Mason was about to call over from his seat to break it up, but listened for another moment and found—with more than a touch of respect—that Lauren was giving it back just as good, and not rolling over at all. Neither side was going to give in or accede anything more than grudging respect, but at least it was a conversation. Mother and son were spending time together.
They droned on, the give and take of ideas and facts and opinions all forming a lulling buzz in Mason’s head that, when mixed with all the weather research and the gentle movements of the plane, created an unavoidable tug towards sleep.
His head nodded, and the plane’s cabin lost focus, then snapped back and for a brief moment it took on the form of a gentle grove: the seats were moss-covered, the aisle a running brook, the windows shafts of light through the forest canopy. He rubbed his eyes, and now the images were blurred together—jet cabin and forest grove, a smudge of intertwined colors and smeared boundaries that made no sense.
Giving in to the pull of sleep, Mason drifted into the dreamscape, going with the unreality of the last visions, feeling the vegetation again creep over the leather seats and the moss cover the windows.
Now tendrils of fog rolled in, gently sweeping over the brook, obscuring the ground cover, and the animals and birds, at first so natural and bold, diminished quickly and then hushed altogether.
I know I’m dreaming,
he thought. On a plane heading home, flying over Indiana now, most likely. Above drought-ravaged cornfields and dried up creeks and rivers. Above a place once called home where a freak tornado had ripped apart and shaped his young life.
But it feels so real.
His feet were bare, the soles shifting in the hard earth under a layer of brittle snow. He could feel bits of leaves and grass, pebbles and moss as he walked slowly, carefully.
Towards something emerging from the mist, something A-framed, with a hint of a thatch roof.
A cottage, he thought giddily, and at once felt at home and yet terrified, certain he should not take another step. This place had been obscured for a reason. Hidden from prying eyes, not on any maps, and yet he was certain he had been invited.
He had to see, had to seek it out, go through the mist and enter the front door (the one he was sure had a shamrock handle). Something was inside, something he needed to see. Something …
A flash of light and suddenly he had been transported somewhere else. He stood on the ice in a dimly lit park. A hazy sun dipped below a jumbled concrete horizon. A chipping sound echoed in his ears, and looking down, he saw his feet were still bare, but felt no pain, no chill from the frozen lake as he walked toward the man kneeling on the ice, chipping away at it with what looked like a stick.
The man, dark skinned with handsome features and short cropping of dreads over his shoulders, kept hacking away at a hole, widening it. Mason saw that it wasn’t a stick, but a perfectly cylindrical staff—with a sword point at the end, gleaming in the pale light.
Mason stopped within several yards, watching as the man reached down into the hole and started to haul something up.
“You,” the man said in a Haitian accent without looking up. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”
“I’m
not
here,” Mason said, looking around at the distant buildings—which now seemed closer, and greener, as if the dying sun had somehow stimulated the growth of moss and vines and ivy, multiplying over the concrete and brick.
The Haitian pulled a body out of the lake, a man still partially encased in ice. “Well then, that’s okay. If you ain’t here, then no harm, no foul. But if you are here …” He looked up, and one green eye settled on him. “Well, in that case, maybe you should lend a hand.”
“With what?” Mason looked closer. “The young man appears to be dead.”
“Appears so, yes.” The Haitian pressed his ear against the cold ice chest. “But then again, appearances deceive, no? I mean, you—you ain’t here, but I’m talking to you.”
“So,” Mason said. “Either you’re crazy, or I am.”
“Or maybe you’re dreaming.”
Mason thought about that, and thought it made some sense.
“And if you be dreaming,” said the Haitian, blinking at him, “then that there changes things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Means you might be spirit-walkin’.” He pointed his staff in Mason’s direction and pressed a button. The sword point withdrew and just the hollow end touched his chest.
“Spirit walking?” Mason blinked, and he licked his lips, looking around now at the forest that had grown wilder, stretching farther than he could see.
“Your spirit be walkin’ mighty far, my guess is, by your bare feet and the twigs stuck between your toes.” He cocked his head. “Wonder where you just was?”
Mason breathed in, barely listening. The buildings making up the skyline were now giant mounds of greenery, with branches and leafy canopies and hanging vines. It looked like nature had taken over centuries ago.
“But no matter,” said the Haitian. “I underestimated you at first, just like I did him.”
Mason returned his focus on the man. “Who?”
The staff point pulled away and aimed at the body. “The one who done this.”
A flash and the Haitian was standing with his back to Mason. He tapped the frozen body with the bottom of his cane once. Twice, and then stepped back.
“But if you come all the way here to watch me, then it be important. You, maybe you be the one help out. Help stop all this before it be too late.”
“All what?” Mason asked, feeling groggy all of a sudden. Wobbly like he was about to fall face first onto the ice.
The Haitian spread his arms and spun in a delicate circle on his right foot, like a figure skater, while he indicated the sun rising opposite where it had just set, breaking dawn over a kingdom of absolute nature.
A kingdom of green.
Behind him, the ice encasing the corpse melted at once, and the man’s flesh turned from pale to reddish hued, and for a moment Mason thought he was coming back to life, about to sit up when …
He burst into flames
. The Haitian spread out his hands for warmth—or something else—it seemed he fanned the fire, but also pushed the smoke toward himself, breathing in the ashes from the burning corpse. Another deep, deep breath and the fire went out, the smoke sucked into the Haitian’s lungs, and he turned away from the charred corpse and faced Mason.
His eyes were closed as if savoring the taste, and then he expelled the smoke and dust all in one exhalation, right into Mason’s face, with one word:
“Wake.”
Chapter 16
Bolting awake in his seat at the same instant the landing gear touched pavement, Mason found himself staring into Gabriel’s smiling face.
“Welcome back.” Gabriel glanced over to Lauren in the next seat. “Does he always sleep this much?”
“Only after near death experiences,” she responded and reached across the aisle to grasp Mason’s hand. “Must’ve been some dream. You kept twitching.”
“I was … walking,” he said, frowning as he looked out the window at the landscape rushing by. The palm trees and sunlight, so starkly different from New York.
Gabriel gave him a sideways look. “See anything interesting on your walk?”
“I’m not sure.” Mason rubbed his eyes. “Can’t quite recall.”
Nothing, except the house in the mist, and the body in the lake, and someone blowing cremation-smoke in my face. But I’m not speaking of that.…
“So, where’s Solomon? Anyone hear from him?”
Gabriel unbuckled his belt as the plane slowed and turned toward the hangar. “He stayed on to meet with the authorities and to schedule a session with the World Meteorological Organization.”
“And he didn’t need us?”
“No, they don’t meet in New York anyway. It will probably be a teleconference, unless we go to Zurich or something, but Solomon thinks we can handle it from our offices.”
“He thinks what happened will be enough to get us their cooperation?”
Gabriel smiled. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“So what’s next?” Lauren asked. “I mean, besides some more rest for you both.”
“We’re fine,” Gabriel and Mason said at the same time, with the same intensity. Mason let a smile break free. “At least we agree on one thing. I’m feeling much better after that respite, and I need to keep busy. I want to work and help out. I feel like I’ve done nothing so far except try out your firm’s medical coverage.”
Gabriel laughed. “Well I know you got the start of a tour. We can continue that and get you set up and prepared for the conference call I expect is coming.”
“That sounds good. Will what’s her name—Hespera—be there?”
Gabriel blinked. “I am not sure. She may be helping out other divisions for the next few weeks. Her status is to go where she’s needed.”
“Okay,” Mason said, standing up and stretching. “Let’s get our bags and get to work.”
O O O
Back inside Solstice headquarters, it was business as usual. The main grove was filled with the typical number of attractive people sipping tea or meditating before starting the day. The calming waterfall and the flapping butterflies, buzzing insects and chirping sparrows all set Mason to ease as he walked through the trees and under the canopy of leaves. He felt rejuvenated, cured from his pains, ready to get to work and do some good.
It felt strangely surreal. For so many years he woke to weather reports, to alerts of meteorological conditions over the Pacific. Now it felt like he was swimming in possibilities to occupy his time. Surely that would all change once he set out to work.
And change came fast. As soon as the elevator doors opened and let him out into the weather research chamber, Victor Nunion was there to meet him. A bandage on his nose and his eyes were bruised.
“Welcome back from the big city. We were concerned to hear of your crash.”
“Could have been worse,” Mason replied, staring up at the giant of a man. Something not right about the guy’s features, like they were molded inappropriately after a failed shape-shifting attempt. Mason shuddered too with the hint of Victor’s breath, which was far from minty. “I could have been inside the U.N. with Mr. Solomon and all the others who weren’t so lucky.”
“Luck comes in strange forms. Or so they say.” His lips moved, mouthing the words, but Mason had the impression Victor was just lip-syncing. Even his eyes were out of focus. Maybe there was a transmitter in his ear and he couldn’t act or speak without taking remote directions.
Victor turned his large back, and led him to the farther exit. “I’ll show you to your office.”
“Oh, I thought I’d be here.…” Mason looked around the great room, his eyes dazzled by all the screens and the wealth of data, the onslaught of visuals. “The Star Chamber” they called it, he found out on this pass, and would have enjoyed staying a little longer, but Victor turned and waved a folder at him.
“No, you can visit here for research any time you want, but really all you need is at your fingertips in your office.”
Through the door, reluctantly leaving the Star Chamber, Mason followed Victor through the black-walled hall and around a corner he hadn’t noticed before. His office was the first door.
“Feels a bit like I’m in a bunker,” he observed before the door opened and he was ushered into what he could only call a magnificent suite. Again, faux windows were displaying projections—set to the Pacific coast seaway, it appeared.
“Scratch that thought,” he added. “Wow.”
“Coffee, refreshments … there’s a room two doors down, or go back up to the grove if you must take the time.”
Lazy white gulls flew in and between the frames of the connected visuals, as the sun rose past the uppermost frame. Mason could actually smell the sea salt, and guessed there was a diffuser somewhere in the room—which on second viewing, wasn’t as big as he first guessed. A lot of play with the features, the angles and the lighting. The desk was sparse and modern, and just a thin-framed but ergonomic chair in front of it. Two wireless speakers and a virtual keyboard/mouse built into the desk in front of a pop-up narrow monitor was all he had to work with. And a bookshelf, with just a few of the classics—Mason guessed, for inspiration. Herodotus, Aristotle, Bacon …
Victor set the folder down on the desk as Mason went to the “windows” and gazed out over the sea. He closed his eyes and imagined himself there. How much did Solomon know? Did Gabriel share this too, that he loved these drives along the coast, and recalled the picnics with the family not far from this very spot?
“It’s all there,” Victor said monotonously, pointing to a file folder. “First page has your passwords and credentials. All self-explanatory, but if you need anything, communication link through the desktop. Dial zero.”
“And ask for room service, I got it.” Mason turned, and his smile faded again as he saw Victor’s unyielding expression.
“The rest,” the big man added, “you’ll figure out. Just get up to speed. There’s a teleconference meeting at eleven. Be ready.”
“Where is it?”
“I’ll come get you.”
With that, and the unspoken command that he wasn’t expected to leave this office until then, Victor was gone.
Leaving Mason to think for a moment and consider his surroundings, his new gig. It felt suddenly lonely, and he almost called out to have him stay another moment. Ask some more mindless questions, but the door slammed and he was left with the gulls and the sea.
And his folder.
After a sigh, he sat down and got to work.
O O O
Two hours and two cups of some sort of proprietary Black Forest coffee later, his head spun with caffeine, Advil and more figures and readings about the Midwest barometric conditions for a time period over forty years ago than he could ever care about. But it was about that time—thirty minutes to go until Victor came for him—that Mason started feeling like he was either being used, or punished. Or maybe he had been given the wrong folder.
There had been a piece of paper in there, different from the others. A blue sheet with a single name on it and a date. Almost as if it had been casually slipped in at the end, as if someone wanted him to read it and look into it, but wanted no one to know where it came from. Mason thought to ask Victor about it, if it was perhaps his first assignment or something, but then he thought maybe that was all part of the informal way they did things around here. A bit like a game, a scavenger hunt.
Or his first test.
In any case, he looked again at the scrolling data on his screen, at all the meteorological data collected from the regional and local weather offices from the time. Cross-referenced, with forecasts overlaid onto each other versus the actual results.
Feeling like an intern, he scrolled through other reports, flipped on satellite imagery, watched the time-stamped Doppler readings from a variety of sources.
Rookie league stuff
, he thought, not having any clue what they expected of him right now, other than maybe boredom. A lull before the storm?
But then he saw it. Or rather, the map showed it once he took leaned back and saw the larger picture. All the anomalous readings superimposed, regardless of the time …
“Holy shit.”
O O O
In two minutes he entered the Star Chamber, and gave a quick look around, making sure Victor wasn’t lurking anywhere, then he went right for the first empty station on the left side of the great sphere. Beside a blonde with straight hair down her back, Mason took a seat.
“May I—?”
The girl smiled broadly at him. “Mr. Grier! Sure, have a seat, how are you?”
“Annabelle, so good to find you here.” Mason set his folder down beside the keyboard, then nervously crossed his arms. “Um, how’s everything? Did you go on that trip with Gabriel?”
She blushed, turning even redder. “Yes,” but she quickly added: “A bunch of us went.”
“The Caribbean, right?”
“Yeah, just sailing. It was nice.”
“I thought it was work-related. Some research?”
Annabelle shrugged. “Always is with Gabriel, but I enjoyed myself. Not too much, mind you but … oh! Is that the first day folder?”
Mason followed her look to the folder. He frowned at her. “Yeah, you got one too?”
She nodded. “Remember it like yesterday.”
Tapping his fingers on the folder, he thought for a moment. “Tell me, did you get something … different in yours? Like a test?”
“Oh we all get a little something personal from Solomon, so I wouldn’t be surprised. Kind of like an individual welcome.”
“Okay. So—did you figure yours out?”
She slowly shook her head, frowning. “No, I don’t think it was that kind of thing. More like a bit of poetry and just some help with my totem.”
“Oh right, the totem. I think I need one.”
“No rush. It’ll come to you, I’m sure.”
“Yeah.” Mason turned and commandeered the station, finding the screen it controlled and calling up the historical meteorological database. “Going to check something. I want to see it on the larger screen, and with more resources.” He glanced around again. “Just making sure I have time.”
“All right then, let’s see what you can do,” said Annabelle, checking the series of clocks on the wall, showing various times around the world.
He moved fast, entering the data, separating the variables, isolating the conditions and the dates and setting the maps, superimposing, and then expanding the view. He stood up, hands on his hips, observing.
Annabelle coughed nervously. “So … this was in your folder?”
Mason nodded, beginning to wonder again if this was some kind of prank. “There … four tornadoes appeared in a single hour at this site in Kansas in 1980.” He thought for a moment. “Most cyclones, in the Midwest especially, travel in unpredictable paths, but afterwards, given the data on wind speed, pressure and other factors, you can at least verify their prior trajectories. But these … they each head steadily from different directions, toward a center location. And then they stop. They swirl and generate massive amounts of torque and energy, and then stand still and finally, after a dramatic pause … they fizzle out.…” He took a stylus and drew on the terminal screen, watching its counterpart appear on the larger screen.
By now, others were taking note. Stopping what they were doing, looking up at the demonstration.
“When I put them on the map all at once, using their last locations as markers …”
“They make a perfect circle,” Annabelle said, leaning back, arms crossed over her chest.
“And if that’s not enough,” Mason pointed out, “there are other anomalous readings all generated around or in this same city in northeast Kansas in the years before this event. I checked back in my office, just to gather some historical data for perspective.” He licked his lips as he projected these one-time forecast event misses in blue on the screen. “I checked, because the data wasn’t in the folder and not part of this research, but for the same period, for different cities in the state or neighboring states, the misses were either very minor, or were so random as to be meaningless.”
Annabelle led him with a question. “So what’s so special about that town?”
“Not the town,” Mason said, looking again at the map. “Montgomery, population thirteen thousand four hundred, isn’t the target. We can go further and narrow it down.”
“Really?”
“Really. If the events make up a perfect circle, then geographically, there’s a center point to that circle. Which in this case, logic would suggest, would be of interest to us if for no other reason than curiosity as to how something so random could create a nonrandom formation.”
Annabelle leaned in. “Let me help you there.” She clicked on her own terminal and called up the satellite Google Earth map of Montgomery, Kansas, then merged Mason’s data over it, enhanced the view and then bisected the circle two ways, finding the center of the crossing lines.
“What’s that?” Mason said, squinting. “Can you enlarge it?”
“Yeah. There you go.”
A forested region, a few power lines and a small lake, but zooming in again … And between the trees … a lone house.
“Why are we looking at a farm in the middle of nowhere? Why is that the center of all this meteorological mayhem?”
Annabelle shrugged. “When was all this data?”
“1980.”
“So there’s you’re next step,” Annabelle said. “I can’t help you anymore, but …” She pointed to the screen. “If it were me, I’d find out who lived there at that time. Find out if they’re still around, talk to them, and then you might have the beginning of an answer.”
Mason frowned, wondering for the moment if maybe she was in on the test—this prank or whatever this was that they wanted him to know about. “What would it matter who lived there? And what do you mean, the beginning of an answer?”