Greene asked, “What is that thing? If it’s not from a game, then where did you come up with it?”
There was a long pause during which Prospero’s fingers traced the lines of ink on the gray cloth hood. When he spoke his voice was soft, distant, the way people spoke sometimes when they were quoting something that was deeply important to them. “‘A monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind.’”
“What is that quote? Is it from a book?”
Prospero shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I know you’re recording this. You can look it up later. All that matters is that it’s something someone dreamed once and wrote down. Don’t focus on the messenger, pay attention to the message.”
“And what is the message?”
Prospero burned off nearly a full minute before he answered. During that time he reached up and pulled the hood forward so that the shadows now obscured his entire face.
“People are afraid of the Devil. They think the Antichrist is going to come and go mano a mano with Jesus, blah blah blah. That’s bullshit. You’re a Jew, so I know you don’t believe it. Or, maybe you’re an atheist and really don’t buy into any of that apocalyptic bullshit.”
Greene said, “My personal beliefs are irrelevant to this conversation, Prospero. The question is what do you believe?”
Instead of answering that question directly, the boy asked, “How would you answer if I said, ‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn’?”
“I have no idea what that is or what it might mean.”
“It’s a prayer I learned in my dreams.”
“I would like to talk to you about your dreams, Prospero. You know I’ve always found them fascinating.”
Prospero leaned his face out of the shadows and the smile he wore made Dr. Greene actually recoil. It was a smile filled with strange lights and ugly promises. It was not a smile Greene had ever seen on the boy’s face before, or on any human face. It was less sane than the Joker from Batman, and less wholesome than the toothy grin of a shark. It was so sudden and so intense and so wholly unexpected that Greene flinched.
“Dr. Greene,” said the boy, “I’ll miss you when I leave this world.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The LC-130 did a pass so we could take a good look at Gateway. The scattered buildings looked like tiny cardboard boxes, the kind Christmas ornaments come in. Small and fragile. As we swept up and around for the approach to the icy landing strip, I had a panoramic view of Antarctica. I’ve been in a lot of Mother Earth’s terrains — deserts, rain forests, caverns, grassy plains, and congested cities — but nothing ever gave me the feeling of absolute desolation that I got from the landscape below. There was white and white and white, but mixed into that were a thousand shades of gray and blue. The total absence of the warmer colors made me feel cold even in the pressurized and heated cabin of the plane. I could already feel the toothy bite of that wind.
Suddenly Bug was in our ears. “Got some stuff and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“We’re in Antarctica, Bug,” I said. “Our expectations are already pretty low.”
“Yeah, even so,” he said. “There are so many darn layers to this thing. They really went out of their way to hide it. They tried to keep the whole thing totally off the public radar, but with the ice caps melting there are too many people looking at the poles. So they have a cover story for when they need it.”
“Which is?”
“Studying the Antarctic Big Bang. Before you ask, I had to look that up, too,” said Bug. “Apparently a few years ago planetary scientists found evidence of a meteor impact that was earlier and a lot bigger than the one that killed the dinosaurs. They say it caused the biggest mass extinction in Earth’s history, the Permian-Triassic. We’re talking two hundred and fifty million years ago. There’s a crater on the eastern side of the continent that’s something like three hundred miles wide. The impact was so massive that it might have caused the breakup of the supercontinent of Gondwana. They’ve taken a lot of samples from meteor debris and it looks like the meteor was actually a chunk of rock knocked out of the surface of Mars by an asteroid that smacked it during the Permian Age. And there are some scientists who say that there was an even earlier impact about a billion years ago.”
“You’re saying Gateway was set up to study Martian rock?” I asked.
“Well… on paper, yeah,” said Bug. “With a bias toward looking for microbes that might prove the existence of life on Mars. The colonists they’re planning to send need to know stuff like that. But that’s only the cover story, and it’s the same cover story the Russians and Chinese used when they set up shop. The problem is that when I go deeper what I find are files marked VBO.”
VBO means “verbal briefing only.” All pertinent information is to be relayed in person. Nothing written. Or if there are papers they’re typed old school and photocopied. Nothing in a searchable database. Nothing e-mailed. Ever since some skittish types in the DoD and Congress got wind of MindReader there are more and more VBO files popping up. It’s making me cranky.
“This is fascinating as shit, Bug,” I groused, “but it doesn’t tell me what I need to know. Find out who is writing checks for this thing and tell Mr. Church that I want interrogators making life unpleasant for them until I know why I’m about to freeze my nuts off.”
“Copy that,” he said, and disconnected.
The pilot put us down with no trouble and informed us that the twilight temperature outside was a balmy fifty-six below. He told us that, temperature-wise, we caught a break.
Let’s pause on that for a moment.
Fifty-six below.
And that is miles from what’s considered cold down here. Pretty nippy by my personal standards, however.
We bundled. Mr. Church always makes sure we have the best toys, and one of the goodies we had were Therma-skinz, a pre-market kind of long johns that had micro-fine heating elements woven into the fabric of the new generation of spider-silk Kevlar. We’d stay warm and moderately bulletproof. The ’Skinz were ultralightweight and designed for combat troops who need to move and fight.
“You ready, Farm Boy?” asked Top.
Bunny looked out the window. “Nope,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
He lay back and got comfortable. Back then comfort mattered. Back then it took a lot to get him in the mood.
No sleeping pills. He’d tried those, but that was a mistake. Sometimes the drugs blocked him; sometimes the drugs trapped him. A nightmare either way.
Comfort was the thing. A good bed with enough pillows. A recliner by the fire. The sofa in his office. Maybe later it would be easier. Cat naps. That would be good. That was a goal. A little sleep on the road, on a mission, in the field.
For now, though, he had to cater to the needs of the body in order to soothe the mind and open all those doors.
He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
Drift.
Drift.
Until he was very far away.
CHAPTER SIX