Herculanium (21 page)

“Pay close attention to our guest,” said Dr. Bentley to his colleagues, before turning his gaze to Preston. “There are things in this world you cannot possibly imagine in yours.”

“I’ll adapt,” said Preston as he looked into the eyes of everyone present. “I think you guys should be worried about
me
.”

Preston held his thumb firmly on the channel advance button, shaking his head at the television shows flashing across the screen. In the half-hour he had spent in the waiting room expecting Corporal Rogers’ arrival, he had literally gone through thousands of channels of programming. There was a show for every possible subject; from the ridiculous to the sublime, the subtle and the gross, and nothing was taboo in this new world. It put the shock and reality TV of his century to shame, leaving little to the imagination and showing the shocking details of controversy with the lens of a Pointillist painting. The channels themselves were still numeric by title, but broken into fractions, decimals, and alphabetic prefixes. Every culture and language was represented, complemented by the overdose of gratuitous commercials and station identification.

Even the type of news had changed in the apparent two hundred years he was away. Hoping to catch an update of the weather, he caught another forecast instead:

“Expect localized tremors in the Peninsula this morning,” said the TV personality, “about 2.6 to 2.9 on the geo-scale. North Bay will be stable, while the East and parts of the South Bay will continue to feel minor aftershocks from last week’s quake. No need to worry though, as these tremblings will subside as the waves push further east, past the Sierra.

“Your outlook for the week is quite stable. Tremors today and tomorrow should subside by midnight to early morning, and we’ll have a flat line until Sunday, when the first waves from tsunami Barbara will hit the outer coast.

“That’s the earthquake forecast for this morning. Here’s Rick Claremont with your local weather.”

Preston finally shut the television off and sprawled on the couch, not knowing what to expect next. Jayna Rogers was military, so he knew she was going to be punctual. He had decided to arrive at the waiting room a little early, trying to glean any type of clue to the world outside the fogged windows. As imposing as the hospital and its personnel were, they all had been surprisingly accommodating, much more than he expected. But he still had questions that needed to be answered, and nothing short of a full explanation would allow him to fully cooperate. He still wasn’t fully convinced that he had been told the truth, and he had it in his mind to find a way to communicate with his wife and his agent.

As soon as he saw the wall clock digits morph to 10:00 am, Corporal Jayna Rogers entered the room with a confident stride. She was an impressive figure up-close; her uniform folded and creased perfectly around her form, and her demeanor of movement was a combination of grace and confidence. Her hair was so perfectly combed that it resembled a flowing sculpture that tucked neatly beneath her cap. Despite her intrinsic tensile strength, there was an apparent glow of joviality about her, making her all the more endearing.

Her accent didn’t hurt, either.

“Buenas días en la mañana, Mr. Jones. How are we today?”

“You’re much too happy this early in the morning,” said Preston, amused at her mixing accents.

“Please, call me Jayna. Lucky for me, you’re not military. I get tired of calling people’s ranks all the time, and it’s worse when they call me by mine.”

“Alright, Jayna. You call me Preston, then. I really don’t know what’s supposed to happen next, so you’ll have to guide me through it.”

“That’s me job, love. Everything’s going to be alright. We’ll muddle through this together. But first, have you had the chance to watch the tele today?”

“You mean the television? Too much of it, actually. I can’t believe the stuff you guys watch here.”

“You might want to turn it to Channel 765,843.6a. This might interest you.”

Jayna grabbed the remote from Preston and sat down beside him, tapping her lap as the television screen faded into the middle of a live news coverage.

“We are standing in front of Babel Clinic,” said the personality with exaggerated intensity, “where we are awaiting the release of a man who claims to be Preston Jones. If that name doesn’t immediately ring a bell, it’s because it is only known to a mere handful of historians. Hospital sources say the man inside claims to be the early 21st century’s most celebrated athlete, who was believed to have died in a plane crash 200 years ago while at the peak of his career. I am surrounded by a sea of reporters waiting for him to emerge. We’ll break into our normal programming as soon as there are new developments. Back to you at the studio.”

Jayna smiled at Preston. “You’re already a handful, even without lifting a bloody finger.”

“See?” he said with a smirk, “I told you I was famous. Are we going to hold a press conference?”

“At this time, no. Until we fully uncover your background, you’ll have to stay hidden a wee bit longer. We’re escorting you to a side garage entrance. We have guards posted at every juncture, just in case.”

“You guys don’t trust me in your brave new world?”

“It’s the other way around. We’re all dealing with the unknown here. As the combat saying goes, ‘When in doubt, assume the worst.’”

“I like you already,” he said, laughing out loud.

“Let’s be off, then. They’ve cleared this section of civvies, and I’ve already informed the guards outside we’re about to leave.”

Escorted by two armed guards, Jayna led Preston through a winding main artery whose sub-corridors veined the entire length of the floor. Unlike Preston’s first sojourn through the hospital and its bare walls, these corridors were heavily furnished and utilized. Guards were posted at every intersection, stone-faced and ready for action. The ambience was as sterile as it was sound-proofed, dead to the world and quiet as a tomb. Their walk terminated at an unassuming loading bay, where a running van was waiting.

Jayna and Preston were quickly secured in their seats, then spirited off through a building parking lot before emerging onto the street and blending in with the rest of hospital traffic. Two guards remained with them as a mobile escort. The windows of the van were heavily tinted, preventing him from seeing the outside world. He could only see the events around him through an overhead monitor mounted down from the ceiling. Preston stared deep into the black glass to see any shred of detail, but to no avail.

“I thought you guys wanted to reveal everything to me. Why can’t I see the outside?”

“It’s for our security,” she said. “Look what’s happening in front of the Clinic’s main entrance. I’m switching to Angle Four.”

Preston looked up at the monitor as Jayna quickly changed viewing channels. A large crowd of journalists and fans had congregated around the front entrance, setting up equipment and chanting for their anomaly to come out. An armed barricade of guards stood in front of the main ward, just in case the mob decided to storm the building.

“If you could do this without even showing your face to the public,” she said, “imagine what it would be like if they actually saw you up close?”

“I’ve had my share of this before. Nothing new.”

“Have you now, love?” Jayna smiled in amusement. “Are you sure all this talk of glory isn’t just wishful thinking?”

“Honey, this ain’t nothing compared to the reception I get overseas. If this is the best you got, I’m not impressed.”

She barely had time to respond before the van came to a lurching halt.

“What is it, Private?” Jayna said with authority. “Why are we stopping?”

“There is a large group of photogs waiting by the lot entrance, ma’am,” said the driver. “They’re taking pictures at every passing vehicle with x-ray flashes.”

“Notify Clinic security, on the double. Transport personnel, Code Two.” Jayna quickly retrieved a pistol strapped around her belt and held it at a ready position. “Mr. Jones, get on the floor, please.”

“Are we under attack? Who’s out there?” Preston was directed to quickly sprawl on the floor.

“We have some overzealous reporters using illegal x-ray flashes for their story.”

“And that’s bad?”

“These photo-flashes can penetrate through lead-lined steel, leaving cancer-causing residue on any organic tissue it touches. Stay down, please. We’ll handle this.”

Their mobile bodyguards quickly took position fore and aft, with Jayna staying close to the supine Preston.

Although he was lying face-down on the van floor, Preston turned his head sideways and looked up. Sections of the tinted windows began to disappear in bright pulses, revealing the outside world in its full color, only to return solid again a few moments later. The pulses came from both sides of the van in scattered splatters, at times seemingly erasing the entire frame of the vehicle itself. Preston could glimpse the attacking photographers with their cameras in hand, snapping pictures at all the cars passing through their gauntlet. Jayna and their armed escorts crouched ready to fire, covering their eyes and barking strategies at each other.

Preston buried his face in his cupped hands, attempting to shield himself. In a startling instant, he saw the bones in his hands through his closed eyelids. With his eyes closed, he heard the van doors swing wide open, then felt the shake of several people jumping out. After a crisp volley of staggered ticks and pops, the van shook to life and again proceeded away from the hospital. Jayna and her guards smiled with glee as they resumed their original seating positions and replaced their firearms in their respective holsters.

“What the hell happened?” asked Preston as he sat up. “Where are the reporters?”

“They’re exactly where they were standing, my dear,” she said. “There’s nothing like target practice in the morning to pep you right up.”

Preston stared at her in disbelief, stunned at her casualness with human life.

“Just a joke, Preston,” Jayna said with an evil smile. “We do have humor here in this century, you know.” She winked at each of the guards and giggled under her breath. The guards laughed in return, shaking their heads in Preston’s direction.

“It looks like we got out just in time. Check the monitor.” Jayna swung the monitor’s view to the van’s rear.

The unruly mob of reporters and fans flanking the hospital entrance had streamed into the parking lot like water from a spewing dam, drawn by the commotion and gunfire. Holding up signs and chanting cheers and curses, the crowd gave chase before slowly receding into the distance. The van steadily pulled away, denying the monsters the prize of their curiosity.

Preston was quiet the rest of the trip to his new home, staring blankly at the images rolling across the monitor screen. The tinted windows remained dark and unforgiving, a glass cage more than a viewing port. Jayna was preoccupied with a Captain Barrows on the phone, switching her gaze between him and her palm watch. Motion sickness had set in as the vehicle pitched back and forth, up and down. At times, the ride felt more like a runaway rollercoaster that had fallen off its tracks. Without a visually-fixed point to establish his balance, he might as well have been floating in mid-air. Luckily, he wasn’t quite claustrophobic enough to panic, although the stale, ventilated air had taken on a most pungent smell. Preston had little choice but to close his eyes.

* * *

Preston jerked his head up. He widened his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to wake up and feel sensation. The van sat quiet inside a covered lot, with its doors flung wide open. The musk in the cabin had cleared, indicating that they had been there for quite some time. He sat up from his deep slouch and noted the curious silence.

Their armed escorts were gone from their posts, nowhere in sight. Jayna sat across from him, arms folded across her lap and sporting the widest grin he had ever seen.

“I must’ve blacked out,” he said. “I swear I don’t remember a thing.” He gently pinched his eyes towards the bridge of his nose, producing a small tear.

“No dreams?”

“I was floating somewhere, like in the ocean. I saw a lot of blurs…then I woke up here.”

“You’re lucky,” said Jayna with empathy. “I never remember me dreams. It’s as if I die when I go to sleep, then live when I wake up.”

“How long was I out?”

“If I were to count the rings around your eyes, I’d say about two hours. Give or take an eyelash or two.”

Preston stood up and forcefully pushed his hips forward, stretching his back in a muffled crack. Jayna exited the van and walked a few feet forward, inspecting the parking lot with a sweeping glance. Preston followed suit, continuing to methodically stretch his limbs as if getting ready for a track meet.

The parking area was generic and unassuming, stained cement floors buttressed by numbered pillars and partitions. The garish yellow lighting gave it the appearance of a deep basement, antique in ambience and in scent.

“Where did the guards go? Are they off shooting more reporters outside the building?”

“They’re around, probably out just getting some coffee.” Jayna inspected the van cabin one more time, before slamming its doors shut with a blood-curdling kiai.

“Well, prince,” she said with a coy smile, “you’re nearly to the Grail. If you’ll follow me through these doors, I’ll lead you to your answers.”

“After you, m’lady,” Preston said with a bow.

“You shan’t be disappointed.” Her British accent gave her the demeanor of a true-to-life princess, at least in his eyes. He would never get tired of her voice.

Jayna led Preston through a series of ascending maintenance stairwells, deep with shadows and layered with dust. The rank of rust-filled water flushing through the vents was unmistakable, and each step taken was quickly followed by the ping of a hollow metal echo.

“You’ll forgive the surroundings,” she said, “but we had to keep your arrival mum, even from some of our own people. The least attraction, the better.”

“God, what is it with me and tunnels?” Preston shook his head at the irony.

The murk was finally broken with the turning of a key. What looked like a dusty door from one side opened to a grand hallway on its opposite. There were no shadows in this hallway, only small crystal chandeliers that ran the length of the floor. Fancifully-framed art, ranging from the size of a postcard, to that of several adults, hung majestically on the walls. Burgundy oak doors lined the walls in a staggered, alternating pattern, the only motif darker than the Islamic rug carpeting sprawling the floor. The lighting came from sconces that bounced the light off the ceiling in a soft pastel shade.