The Traveler

38

Most of the glass-enclosed gallery that ran around the interior of the Tomb was used by the technical staff, but the north side of the building could be entered only through a guarded door. This private viewing area was carpeted and filled with a sectional couch and stainless-steel floor lamps. Small black tables and straight-backed suede chairs were set beside the tinted windows.

Kennard Nash sat alone at one of the tables while his bodyguard, an ex-Peruvian policeman named Ramón Vega, poured Chardonnay into a wineglass. Ramón had once murdered five copper miners foolish enough to organize a strike, but Nash valued the man for his skill as a valet and a waiter.

“What’s for dinner, Ramón?”

“Salmon. Garlic mashed potatoes. Green beans and almonds. They’ll bring it over from the administrative center.”

“Excellent. Make sure the food doesn’t get cold.”

Ramón went back to the anteroom near the security door and Nash sipped his wine. One of the lessons Nash had learned from twenty-two years in the army was the necessity for officers to remain separate from enlisted men. You were their leader, not their friend. When he worked in the White House, the staff followed the same procedure. Every few weeks, the President would be brought out of seclusion to throw a baseball or light the national Christmas tree, but for the most part he was protected from the dangerous randomness of unscripted events. Although Nash was a military man, he had particularly warned the President against attending any soldier’s funeral. An emotionally unstable wife might weep and scream. A mother could throw herself on the coffin while a father demanded a reason for his son’s death. The philosophy of the Panopticon taught the Brethren that true power was based on control and predictability.

Because the Crossover Project had an unpredictable outcome, Nash hadn’t informed the Brethren that the experiment was actually going on. There were simply too many variables to guarantee success. Everything was dependent on Michael Corrigan, the young man whose body now lay on the table in the middle of the Tomb. Many of the young men and women who took 3B3 had ended up in mental hospitals. Dr. Richardson complained that he couldn’t gauge the correct dosage of the drug or predict its effect on a possible Traveler.

If this had been a military operation, Nash would have given full responsibility to a junior officer and stayed away from the battle. It was easier to avoid blame if you weren’t in the same area. Nash knew that basic rule-had followed it throughout his career-but he found it impossible to stay away from the research center. The design of the quantum computer, the construction of the Tomb, and the attempt to create a Traveler were all his decisions. If the Crossover Project was successful, he would change the direction of history.

Already the Virtual Panopticon was taking control of the workplace. Sipping his wine, Kennard Nash allowed himself the pleasure of a grand vision. In Madrid a computer was counting the keystrokes of a tired young woman inputing credit card information. The computer program that monitored her work created an hourly chart that showed if she had achieved her quota. Messages would automatically tell her Good work, Maria or I’m concerned, Miss Sanchez. You’re falling behind. And the young woman would bend forward and type faster, even faster, so that she wouldn’t lose her job.

Somewhere in London a surveillance camera was focusing on the faces in a crowd, transforming a human being into a string of numbers that could be matched with a digitized file. In Mexico City and Jakarta electronic ears were overhearing phone calls and the constant chatter of the Internet was being monitored. Government computers knew that a certain book was bought in Denver while another book was being checked out of a library in Brussels. Who bought one book? Who read the other? Track the names. Crossreference. Track again. Day by day, the Virtual Panopticon was watching its prisoners, becoming part of their world.

Ramón Vega slipped back into the room and bowed slightly. Nash assumed that something had gone wrong with dinner.

“Mr. Boone is at the door, General. He said you wanted to see him.”

“Yes, of course. Send him in right away.”

Kennard Nash knew that if he had been sitting in the Truth Room, the left side of his cortex would have glowed a deceitful red color. He disliked Nathan Boone and felt nervous when the man was around. Boone had been hired by Nash’s predecessor, and he knew a great deal about the inner workings of the Brethren. During the last few years, Boone had established his own separate relationships with the other members of the executive board. Most of the Brethren thought Mr. Boone was brave and resourceful: the perfect head of security. It bothered Nash that he wasn’t in complete control of Boone’s activities. He recently discovered that the head of security had disobeyed a direct order.

Ramón escorted Boone into the gallery, and then left the two men alone. “You wanted to see me?” Boone asked. He stood with his legs spread slightly, his hands behind his back.

Nash was supposed to be the leader, the man in charge, yet both men knew that Boone could walk across the room and break the general’s neck in a few seconds. “Sit down, Mr. Boone. Have a glass of Chardonnay.”

“Not right now.” Boone strolled over to the window and gazed down at the surgical table. The anesthesiologist was adjusting a heart sensor on Michael’s chest. “How’s it going?”

“Michael is in a trance state. Weak pulse. Limited breathing. I’m hoping that he’s become a Traveler.”

“Or maybe he’s half dead. The 3B3 could have fried his brain.”

“Neural energy has left his body. Our computers seem to be tracking the movement fairly well.”

Both men were silent for moment, staring out the window. “Let’s assume that he really is a Traveler,” Boone said. “Can he die at this moment?”

“The person lying on the examination table can cease to be biologically alive.”

“But what would happen to his Light?”

“I don’t know,” Nash said. “But it couldn’t return to his body.”

“Can he die in another realm?”

“Yes. We believe that if you’re killed in another realm, you’re trapped there forever.”

Boone turned away from the window. “I hope this works.”

“We need to anticipate all possibilities. That’s why it’s crucial that we find Gabriel Corrigan. If Michael dies, we’ll need an immediate substitute.”

“I understand.”

General Nash lowered his wineglass. “According to my sources, you pulled back our field agents in California. This was the team looking for Gabriel.”

Boone didn’t seem disturbed by the accusation. “Electronic surveillance continues. I also have a team searching for the Harlequin mercenary who placed a false clue in Michael Corrigan’s apartment. I think it’s a martial arts instructor who used to be affiliated with the Church of Isaac Jones.”

“But no one is actually looking for Gabriel,” Nash said. “You’ve disobeyed a direct command.”

“It is my responsibility to protect our organization and help us achieve our goals.”

“At this point, the Crossover Project is our primary goal, Mr. Boone. There’s nothing more important.”

Boone stepped closer to the table like a police officer about to confront a suspect. “Perhaps this issue should be discussed by the executive board.”

General Nash looked down at the table and considered his options. He had avoided giving Boone all the facts about the quantum computer, but it had become impossible to keep the secret.

“As you know, we now have a working quantum computer. This isn’t the time to discuss the technological aspects of this device, but it involves suspending subatomic particles in an energy field. For an extremely brief period of time these particles disappear from the force field and then they return. And where do they go, Mr. Boone? Our scientists tell me that they travel to another dimension-another realm.”

Boone looked amused. “They travel with the Travelers.”

“These particles have returned to our computer with messages from an advanced civilization. At first, we received simple binary codes and then information of increasing complexity. This civilization has given our scientists new discoveries in physics and computers. They’ve shown us how to make genetic modifications in animals and create the splicers. If we can learn more of this advanced technology, we’ll be able to establish the Panopticon in our lifetime. The Brethren will finally have the power to watch and control an immense group of people.”

“And what does this civilization want in exchange?” Boone asked. “No one gives anything for free.”

“They want to come into our world and meet us. And that’s what we need Travelers for-to show them the way. The quantum computer is tracking Michael Corrigan as he moves between the different realms. Do you understand, Mr. Boone? Is it all quite clear?”

For once, Boone looked impressed. Nash allowed himself to enjoy the moment as he refilled his glass. “That’s why I asked you to find Gabriel Corrigan. And I’m not happy about your refusal to follow orders.”

“I pulled back the field agents for one reason,” Boone said. “I think there’s a traitor in this organization.”

Nash’s hand trembled slightly as he put down the wineglass. “Are you sure about this?”

“Thorn’s daughter, Maya, is in the United States. But I haven’t been able to capture her. The Harlequins have anticipated all of our actions.”

“And you think that a field agent has betrayed us?”

“It is the philosophy of the Panopticon that everyone should be watched and evaluated-even those in charge of the system.”

“Are you saying that I have something to do with this?”

“Not at all,” Boone said, but he stared at the general as if he had considered the possibility. “Right now I’m using the Internet team to track everyone who has a connection to this project.”

“And who will examine your own activities?”

“I’ve never had any secrets from the Brethren.”

Don’t look at him, Nash thought. Don’t let him see your eyes. He peered out the window at Michael’s body.

Dr. Richardson paced nervously beside his motionless patient. Somehow, a white moth had slipped into the climate-controlled environment of the Tomb. The doctor looked startled as it emerged from the shadows and fluttered in and out of the light.