The Traveler (23 page)

"No," he said. "Please, God. No." And with one swing of the bat, she took him out. As he fell facedown, he ripped the knife out of the wall.

Maya dropped the bat, leaned over, and pulled out the stiletto. It was stained with blood, so she wiped it off on Fat Boy's shirt. When she straightened up, the extreme clarity of combat began to fade away. Five bodies lay on the floor. She had defended Gabriel, but no one was dead.

Kathy stared at Maya as if she were a ghost. "You go away," she said. "Just go away.
Because I'm calling the sheriff in one minute.
Don't worry. If you go south, I'll say you went north. I'll change your car and everything."

Gabriel went out the door first and Maya followed him. As she passed the coyote, she undid the latch and opened the door of the cage. At first the animal didn't move, as if he had lost his memory of freedom. Maya kept walking and glanced over her shoulder. He was still in his prison. "Go ahead!" she shouted. "It's your only chance!"

As she started up the van, the coyote walked cautiously out of the cage and surveyed the dirt parking lot. The loud roar of Gabriel's motorcycle startled the animal. He jumped to one side, recovered his nonchalant attitude, and trotted past the diner.

Gabriel didn't look at Maya as he turned back onto the road. There were no more smiles and waves, no graceful S curves across the broken white line. She had protected Gabriel—saved him—but somehow her actions seemed to push them farther apart. At that moment she knew with absolute certainty that no one would ever love her or heal her pain. Like her father, she would die surrounded by enemies. Die alone.

Wearing a surgical mask and gown, Lawrence Takawa stood in one corner of the operating room. The new building at the center of the research quadrangle still wasn't equipped for a medical procedure. A temporary installation had been set up in the basement of the library.

He watched as Michael Corrigan lay down on the surgical table. Miss Yang, the nurse, came over with a heated blanket and folded it around his legs. Earlier that day, she had shaved all the hair off Michael's head. He looked like an army recruit who had just started basic training.

Dr. Richardson and Dr. Lau, the anesthesiologist brought in from Taiwan, finished preparing for the operation. A needle was inserted into Michael's arm, and the plastic IV tube was attached to a sterile solution. They had already taken X-ray and MRI images of Michael's brain at a private clinic in WestchesterCounty that was controlled by the Brethren. Miss Yang clipped the film to light boxes at one end of the room.

Richardson looked down at his patient. "How are you feeling, Michael?"

"Is this going to be painful?"

"Not really. We're using anesthesia for safety reasons. During the procedure, your head needs to be completely immobile."

"What if something goes wrong and this injures my brain?"

"It's just a minor procedure, Michael. There's no reason for concern," Lawrence said.

Richardson nodded to Dr. Lau and the IV tube was attached to a plastic syringe.
"All right.
Here we go. Start counting backward from a hundred,"

In ten seconds, Michael was unconscious and breathing evenly. With the nurse's help, Richardson attached a steel clamp to Michael's skull and tightened the padded screws. Even if Michael's body went into convulsions, his head wouldn't move.

"Map time," Richardson told the nurse. Miss Yang handed him a flexible steel ruler and a black felt-tip pen, and the neurologist spent the next twenty minutes drawing a grid on the top of Michael's head. He checked his work twice,
then
marked eight separate spots for an incision.

For several years neurologists had been placing permanent electrodes into the brains of patients suffering from depression. This deep-brain stimulation allowed doctors to turn a knob, inject a small amount of electricity into the tissue, and instantly change a person's mood. One of Richardson's patients—a young baker named Elaine—preferred setting two on the electronic meter when she was home watching television, but liked to turn her brain up to setting five if she was working hard to create a wedding cake. The same technology that helped scientists stimulate the brain would be used to track Michael's neural energy.

"Did I tell him the truth?" Lawrence asked.

Dr. Richardson glanced across the room. "What do you mean?" "Can the procedure damage his brain?"

"If you want to monitor someone's neurological activity with a computer, then you have to insert sensors into the brain. Electrodes attached to the outside of the skull wouldn't be as effective. In fact, they might give you conflicting data."

"But won't the wires destroy his brain cells?"

"We all have millions of brain cells, Mr. Takawa. Perhaps the patient will forget how to pronounce the word Constantinople or he might lose the name of the girl who sat next to him in a high-school math class. It's not important."

When he was satisfied with the incision points, Dr. Richardson sat on a stool beside the operating table and studied the top of Michael's head. "More light," he said, and Miss Yang adjusted the surgical lamp. Dr. Lau stood a few feet away, watching a monitor screen and tracking Michael's vital signs.

"Everything okay?"

Dr. Lau checked Michael's heartbeat and respiration. "You can proceed."

Richardson lowered a bone drill attached to an adjustable arm and carefully cut a small hole in Michael's skull. There was a high-pitched grinding noise; it sounded like the machinery in a dentist's office.

He pulled the drill away. A tiny dot of blood appeared on the skin and began to grow larger, but Miss Yang wiped it away with a cotton swab. A neuropathic injector device was mounted on a second arm that hung from the ceiling. Richardson placed it over the tiny hole, squeezed the trigger, and a Teflon-coated copper wire the width of a human hair was pushed directly into Michael's brain.

The wire was attached to a cable that fed data to the quantum computer. Lawrence was wearing a radio headset with a direct link to the computer center. "Begin the test," he told one of the technicians. "The first sensor is in his brain."

Five seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Then a technician confirmed that they were picking up neural activity.

"The first sensor is working," Lawrence said. "You may proceed."

Dr. Richardson slid a small electrode plate down the length of the wire, glued it to the skin, and trimmed off the excess wire. Ninety minutes later, all the sensors had been inserted into Michael's brain and attached to the plates. From a distance, it looked like eight silver coins were glued to his skull.

***

MICHAEL WAS STILL unconscious, so the nurse remained beside him while Lawrence followed the two doctors into the next room. Everyone pulled off their surgical gowns and tossed them into a bin.

"When will he wake up?" Lawrence asked.

In about an hour."

"Will he have any pain?"

"Minimal."

"Excellent. I'll ask the computer center when we can start the experiment."

Dr. Richardson looked nervous. "Perhaps you and I should talk."

The two men left the library and walked across the quadrangle to the administrative center. It had rained the night before and the sky was still gray. The roses were cut back and the irises were dry stalks. The Bermuda grass that bordered the walkway was dying. Everything looked vulnerable to the passage of time except for the windowless white building at the center of the courtyard. The official name for the building was the Neurological Cybernetics Research Facility, but the younger members of the staff called it "the Tomb."

"I've been reading more data concerning the Travelers," Richardson said. "Right now, I can anticipate some problems. We have a young man who may—or may not—be able to cross over to another realm."

"That's correct," Lawrence said. "We won't know until he tries."

"The research materials indicate that Travelers can learn how to cross over on their own. It can occur because of long-term stress or a sudden shock. But most people have some kind of teacher to instruct them."

"They're called Pathfinders," Lawrence said. "We've been looking for someone to perform that function, but we haven't been successful."

They paused at the entrance to the administrative center. Lawrence noticed that Dr. Richardson disliked looking at the Tomb. The neurologist stared at the sky and then at a concrete planter filled with English ivy—anything but the white building.

"What happens if you can't find a Pathfinder?" Richardson asked. "How is Michael going to know what to do?"

"There's another approach. The support staff is investigating different drugs that could act as a neurological catalyst."

"This is my field and I can tell you that no such drug has been developed. Nothing you take into your body is going to cause a rapid intensification of neural energy"

"The Evergreen Foundation has a great many contacts and sources. We're doing everything we can."

"It's clear that I'm not being told everything," Richardson said. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Takawa. That attitude is not conducive to a successful experiment."

"And what else do you need to know, Doctor?"

"It's not just the Travelers, is it? They're only part of a much larger objective—something that involves the quantum computer. So what are we really looking for? Can you tell me?"

"We've hired you to get a Traveler into another realm," Lawrence said. "And all you need to understand is that General Nash does not accept failure."

***

BACK I N HIS office, Lawrence had to deal with a dozen urgent phone messages and more than forty e-mails. He talked to General Nash about the surgical operation and confirmed that the computer center had picked up neural activity from every section of Michael's brain. During the next two hours, he wrote a carefully worded message that was e-mailed to the scientists who had received grants from the Evergreen Foundation. Although he couldn't mention the Travelers, he asked for explicit information about psychotropic drugs that gave people visions of alternative worlds.

At six o'clock in the evening the Protective Link device tracked Lawrence as he left the research center and drove back to his town house. Locking the front door, he stripped off his work clothes, pulled on a black cotton robe, and entered his secret room.

He wanted to give Linden an update on the Crossover Project, but the moment he got on the Internet a small blue box began flashing on the top left-hand corner of his screen. Two years ago, after Lawrence was given a new access code to the Brethren's computer system, he designed a special program to search for data about his father. Once the program was released, it scurried through the Internet like a ferret hunting for rats in an old house. Today it had found information about his father in the evidence files of the Osaka Police Department.

Two swords were displayed in Sparrow's photograph: one with a gold handle and another with jade fittings. Back in Paris, Linden explained that Lawrence's mother had given the jade sword to a Harlequin named Thorn who passed it on to the Corrigan family. Lawrence guessed that Gabriel Corrigan was still carrying the weapon when Boone and his mercenaries attacked the clothing factory.

A jade sword.
A gold sword.
Perhaps there were others. Lawrence had learned that the most famous sword maker in Japanese history was a priest named Masamune. He had forged his blades during the thirteenth century; when the Mongols attempted to invade Japan. The ruling emperor had ordered a series of prayer rituals at Buddhist temples, and many famous swords were created as religious offerings. Masamune himself had forged a perfect sword with a diamond in its handle to inspire his ten students, the Jittetsu. As they learned how to hammer steel, each of the students had created one special weapon to present to their master.

Lawrence's computer program had found the Web site of a Buddhist priest living in Kyoto. The site gave the names of the ten Jittetsu and their special swords.

SMITH / SWORD

I.
Hasabe Kinishige / Silver

II.
Kanemitsu / Gold

III.
Go Yoshihiro / Wood

IV.
Naotsuna / Pearl

V.
Sa
/ Bone

VI.
Rai Kunitsugu / Ivory

VII.
Kinju / Jade

VIII.
Shizu Kaneuji / Iron

IX.
Chogi / Bronze

X.
Saeki Norishige / Coral

A jade sword.
A gold sword.
The other Jittetsu swords had disappeared—probably lost in earthquakes or wars—but the doomed line of Japanese Harlequins had protected two of these sacred weapons. Now Gabriel Corrigan was carrying one of these treasures and the other was used to kill Yakuza in a blood-splattered banquet hall.

The search program moved through the lists of police evidence and translated the Japanese characters into English.
Antique tachi (long sword).
Gold handle.
Criminal investigation 15433.
Evidence missing.

Not missing, he thought.
Stolen.
The Brethren must have taken the gold sword from the Osaka police. It could be in Japan or America. Maybe it was stored at the research center, just a few feet away from his desk.

Lawrence Takawa was ready to jump up and drive back to the center. He controlled his emotions and switched off his computer. When Kennard Nash first told him about the Virtual Panopticon, it was just a philosophical theory, but now he actually lived inside the invisible prison. After one or two generations, every citizen in the industrial world would have to make the same assumption: that they were being tracked and monitored by the Vast Machine.

I'm alone, Lawrence thought. Yes.
Completely alone.
But he assumed a new mask that made him look alert, diligent, and ready to obey.

Sometimes Dr. Richardson felt like his old life had completely disappeared. He dreamed of his return to New Haven like a ghost from Dickens's A
Christmas Carol,
standing on the street in the cold darkness while his former friends and colleagues were inside his own house laughing and drinking wine.

It was clear that he never should have agreed to live at the research compound in WestchesterCounty. He thought it would take weeks to arrange his departure from Yale, but the Evergreen Foundation appeared to wield extraordinary power at the university. The dean of the YaleMedicalSchool had personally agreed to Richardson's sabbatical at full salary, and then asked if the foundation might be interested in funding the new genetic research lab. Lawrence Takawa hired a ColumbiaUniversity neurologist who agreed to drive up every Tuesday and Thursday to finish teaching Richardson's classes. Five days after his interview with General Nash, two security men showed up at Richardson's house, helped him pack, and drove him to the compound.

His new world was comfortable, but very restricted. Lawrence Takawa had given Dr. Richardson a clip-on Protective Link ID, and this determined his access to the different parts of the facility. Richardson could enter the library and the administrative center, but he was denied access to the computer area, the genetic research center, and the windowless building called the Tomb.

During his first week at the facility, he worked in the library basement practicing his surgical skills on the brains of dogs and chimpanzees as well as a fat cadaver with a white beard that the staff called Kris Kringle. Now that the Teflon-coated wires had been successfully inserted in Michael Corrigan's brain, Richardson spent most of his time in his small apartment at the administrative center or in a cubicle at the library.

The Green Book gave a summary of the extensive neurological research performed on Travelers. None of the reports had been published, and thick black lines disguised the names of the various research teams. The Chinese scientists had apparently used torture on Tibetan Travelers; the footnotes described chemical and electric-shock treatments. If a Traveler died during a torture session a discreet asterisk would be placed beside the case number of the subject.

Dr. Richardson felt like he understood the key aspects of a Traveler's brain activity. The nervous system produced a mild electric charge. When the Traveler was going into a trance state, the charge became stronger and showed a distinctive pulsing pattern. Suddenly everything seemed to switch off in the cerebrum. Respiration and cardiovascular activity was minimal. Except for a low-level response in the medulla oblongata, the patient was technically brain-dead. During this time, the Traveler's neurological energy was in another realm.

Most Travelers showed a genetic link to a parent or relative who had the power, but this wasn't always true. A Traveler could appear in the middle of rural China, born to a peasant family that had never traveled to another realm. A research team at the University of Utah was currently preparing a secret genealogy database involving all known Travelers and their ancestors.

Dr. Richardson wasn't sure what information was restricted and what could be shared with the rest of the staff. His anesthesiologist, Dr. Lau, and the surgical nurse, Miss Yang, had been flown in from Taiwan for the experiment. When the three of them ate together at the cafeteria, they talked about practical matters or Miss Yang's passion for old-fashioned American musicals.

Richardson didn't want to discuss
The Sound of Music
or
Oklahoma
.
He was worried about the possible failure of the experiment. There was no Pathfinder to guide Michael, and his team hadn't received any special drugs that would force the Traveler's Light out of his body. The neurologist sent a general e-mail asking for help from other research teams working at the facility. Twelve hours later, he received a lab report from the genetic research building.

The report described an experiment involving cell regeneration. Richardson had studied the concept many years ago in his undergraduate biology class. He and his lab partner had cut a flatworm into twelve different pieces. A few weeks later, there were twelve identical versions of the original creature. Certain amphibians, such as salamanders, could lose a leg and grow a new one. The Research Project Agency of the United States Defense Department had spent millions of dollars on regeneration experiments with mammals. The Defense Department said it wanted to grow new fingers and arms for injured veterans, but there were rumors of more ambitious attempts at regeneration. One government scientist told a congressional panel that the future American soldier would be able to sustain a major bullet wound, heal
himself
, and continue fighting.

Apparently the Evergreen Foundation had gone far beyond that initial research in regeneration. The lab report described how a hybrid animal called a "splicer" could stop bleeding from a serious wound in one to two minutes and could regenerate a severed spinal nerve in less than a week. How these scientists had achieved these results was never described. Richardson was reading the report a second time when Lawrence Takawa appeared in the library.

"I just found out that you received some unauthorized information from our genetic research team."

"I'm glad it happened," Richardson said. "This data is very promising. Who's in charge of the program?"

Instead of responding, Lawrence took out his cell phone and dialed a number. "Could you send someone over to the library" he said. "Thank you."

"What's going on?"

"The Evergreen Foundation isn't ready to publish its discoveries. If you mention the report to anyone, Mr. Boone will see it as a security violation."

A security guard entered the library and Richardson felt sick to his stomach. Lawrence stood beside the cubicle with a bland expression on his face.

"Dr. Richardson needs to replace his computer," Lawrence announced as if there had been some kind of equipment failure. The guard immediately disconnected the computer, picked it up, and carried the machine out of the library. Lawrence glanced at his watch. "It's almost one o'clock, Doctor. Why don't you go have
lunch.
"

Richardson ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of barley soup, but he was too tense to finish the meal. When he returned to the library, a new computer had been placed in his cubicle. The lab report wasn't on the new hard disk, but the foundation's computer staff had downloaded a sophisticated chess simulator. The neurologist tried not to think of negative consequences, but it was difficult to control his thoughts. He nervously played endgames for the rest of the day.

***

ONE NIGHT AFTER dinner Richardson remained in the employee cafeteria. He tried to read a
New York Times
article about something called the New Spirituality, while a group of young computer programmers sat at a nearby table and made loud jokes about a pornographic video game.

Someone touched his shoulder and he turned around to find Lawrence Takawa and Nathan Boone. Richardson hadn't seen the security man for several weeks and had decided that his previous fear was an irrational reaction. Now that Boone was staring at him, the fear returned. There was something about the man that was very intimidating.

"I have some wonderful news," Lawrence said. "One of our contacts just called about a drug we've been investigating called 3B3. We think it might help Michael Corrigan cross over."

"Who developed the drug?"

Lawrence shrugged his shoulders as if this wasn't important. "We don't know."

"Can I read the lab reports?"

"There aren't any."

"When can I get a supply of this drug?"

"You're coming with me," Boone said. "We're going to look for it together. If we find a source, you need to make a quick evaluation."

***

THE TWO MEN left immediately, driving down to Manhattan in Boone's SUV. Boone wore a telephone headset and he answered a series of calls—never saying anything specific or mentioning anybody's name. Listening to scattered comments, Richardson concluded that Boone's men were searching for someone in California who had a dangerous female bodyguard.

"If you find her, watch her hands and don't let her get near you," Boone told someone. "I would say eight feet is the approximate safety zone.

There was a long pause and Boone received some more information.

"I don't think the Irish woman is in America," he said. "My European sources tell me she's completely dropped out of sight. If you see her, respond in an extreme manner. She has no restraint whatsoever.
Highly dangerous.
Do you know what happened in Sicily? Yes? Well, don't forget."

Boone switched off his phone and concentrated on the road. Light from the car's instrument panel was reflected off the lenses of his eyeglasses. "Dr. Richardson, I've heard reports that you gained access to unauthorized information from the genetic research team."

"It was just an accident, Mr. Boone. I wasn't trying to—"

"But you didn't see anything."

"Unfortunately I did, but ..."

Boone glared at Richardson as if the neurologist were a stubborn child. "You didn't see anything," he repeated.

"No. I guess I didn't."

"Good." Boone glided into the right lane and took the turn for New York City. "Then there isn't a problem."

***

IT WAS ABOUT ten o'clock in the evening when they reached Manhattan. Richardson stared out the window at a homeless man searching through a trash can and a group of young women laughing as they left a restaurant. After the quiet environment of the re-search center, New York seemed noisy and uncontrolled. Had he really visited this city with his ex-wife, gone to plays and restaurants? Boone drove over to the east side and parked on

. They got out and walked toward the dark towers of BellevueHospital.

"What are we doing here?" Richardson asked.

"We're going to meet a friend of the Evergreen Foundation." Boone gave Richardson a quick, appraising look. "Tonight you'll discover how many new friends you have in this world."

Boone handed a business card to the bored woman at the reception desk and she allowed them to take the elevator up to the psychiatric ward. On the sixth floor, a uniformed hospital guard sat be-hind a Plexiglas barrier. The guard didn't look surprised when Boone pulled an automatic pistol out of his shoulder holster and placed the gun in a little gray locker. They entered the ward. A short Hispanic man wearing a white lab coat was waiting for them. He smiled and extended both hands as if they had just arrived for a birthday party.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Which one of you is Dr. Richardson?"

"That's me."

"A pleasure to meet you.
I'm Dr. Raymond Flores. The Evergreen Foundation said you'd be dropping by tonight."

Dr. Flores escorted them down the hallway. Even though it was late, a few male patients wearing green cotton pajamas and bathrobes wandered around. All of them were drugged and they moved slowly. Their eyes were dead and their slippers made little hissing sounds as they touched the tile floor.

"So you work for the foundation?" Flores asked.

"Yes. I'm in charge of a special project," Richardson said.

Dr. Flores passed several patient rooms,
then
stopped at a locked door. "Someone from the foundation named Takawa asked me to look for admits picked up under the influence of this new street drug, 3B3. No one's made a chemical analysis yet, but it seems to be a very potent hallucinogen. The people taking it think they've been given a vision of different worlds."

Flores unlocked the door and they entered a detention cell that smelled of urine and vomit. The only light came from a single bulb protected by a mesh screen. A young man wrapped in a canvas straitjacket lay on the green tile floor. His head was shaved, but a faint haze of blond hair was beginning to appear on his skull.

The patient opened his eyes and smiled at the three men standing over him.
"Hello, everyone.
Why don't you take out your brains and make yourselves comfortable?"

Dr. Flores smoothed the lapels of his lab coat and smiled pleasantly. "Terry, these gentlemen want to learn about 3B3."

Terry blinked twice and Richardson wondered if he was going to say anything at all. Suddenly he began pushing with his legs, wiggling across the floor to a wall,
then
forcing himself up to a sitting position. "It's not really a drug. It's a revelation."

"Do you shoot it, snort it, inhale it, or swallow it?" Boone's voice was calm and deliberately neutral.

"It's a liquid, light blue, like a summer sky." Terry closed his eyes for a few seconds,
then
opened them again. "I swallowed it at the club and then I was cracking out of this body and flying, passing through water and fire to a beautiful forest. But I couldn't stay for more than a few seconds." He looked disappointed. "The jaguar had green eyes."

Dr. Flores glanced at Richardson. "He's told this story many times, and he always ends up with the jaguar."

"So where can I find 3B3?" Richardson asked.

Terry closed his eyes again and smiled serenely. "Do you know what he charges for one dose?
Three hundred and thirty-three dollars.
He says it's a magic number."

"And who's making that kind of money?" Boone asked. "Pius Romero. He's always at the Chan Chan Room."

"It's a midtown dance club," Dr. Flores explained. "We've had several patients who have overdosed there."

"This world is too small," Terry whispered. "Do you realize that? It's a child's marble dropped into a pool of water."

They followed Flores back out into the corridor. Boone walked away from the two doctors and immediately called someone with his cell phone.

"Have you examined other patients who have used this drug?" Richardson asked.

"This is the fourth admit in the last two months. We put them on a combination of Fontex and Valdov for a few days until they're catatonic, then we lower the dosage and bring them back to reality. After a while, the jaguar disappears."