Текст книги "The Last Oracle (2008)"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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And besides, Kowalski called over from the driver's side of the car. I'll keep an eye on her.

A shadow of a smile dimmed the raw edge of her emotion. That's not a good thing, is it? she mouthed to Gray.

Not by a long shot.

He waved her into the car. He didn't argue too firmly against her coming. He suspected they would need her expertise before this was all over. Her father had specifically gone to her temporary office at the Museum of Natural History. He had gotten her that position at the Greek museum. Somehow all this tied back to

Delphi but how?

Luca had joined them by now. He had heard the last part of the conversation. I am coming, too.

Gray nodded. Painter had already made that arrangement, to buy Luca's cooperation with the girl's escape. Which was fine with Gray. He still had a slew of questions for the man, mostly concerning his relationship with Dr. Polk.

The Gypsy leader also seemed dead determined about something. Gray saw it in the shadows behind his dark eyes.

With the matter settled, Gray slid into the front passenger seat. Luca and

Elizabeth piled into the back.

Hang tight! Kowalski called to them as he hauled the car into reverse, pounded the gas, and sent them squealing out of the driveway and into the street.

Overhead, the thump-thump of the helicopters receded into the night.

Gray's thoughts drifted to questions about the girl.

Who is she? Where did she come from?

Monk followed the three children. They were trailed by another who joined them at the lower hatch.

But she was not a child.

Monk felt those dark eyes on his back.

As a group, they climbed a spiral staircase drilled through raw limestone. The rock walls dripped with water, making the steps slippery. The stairway was narrow, utilitarian, plainly a service stair. It had proved to be a long climb.

Monk half carried Pyotr now.

Earlier, while the siren blared, the kids had led Monk down a path that skirted the cavern and ended up at a small hatchway. The door opened into the stairway they were now climbing. Down below, Monk had been introduced to the last and strangest member of their party.

Her name was Marta.

Here! Konstantin called from ahead, bearing their only flashlight. He had reached the top of the stairs. Monk gathered the other two children and joined him. The older boy folded his lanky form and crouched beside a pile of packed gear. Ahead, a short tunnel ended at another hatch.

Konstantin pushed a pack into Monk's arms. Monk carried it toward the hatch and placed his palm on the door. It felt warm.

He turned as the last member of their party climbed into the tunnel from the stairs. Weighing eighty pounds and stooped to the height of three feet, she knuckled on one arm. Her body was covered in soft dark fur, except for her exposed face, hands, and feet. The fur around her face had gone a silvery gray.

Konstantin claimed the female chimpanzee was over sixty years old.

The reunion between the children and the ape at the lower hatchway had been a warm one. Despite the siren's blare and the wincing sensitivity of the children, the chimpanzee had taken each child under her arm and given them a reassuring squeeze, motherly, maternal.

Monk had to admit that her presence had helped calm the kids.

Even now, she shuffled among them, leaning, subvocalizing quietly.

The youngest, Pyotr, was the one who got the most attention. The pair seemed to have a strange way of communicating. It wasn't sign language, more like body language: gentle touches, posturing, long stares into each other's eyes. The young boy, exhausted by the climb, seemed to gain strength from the elderly ape.

Konstantin crossed to the hatch. He held out a small plastic badge toward Monk and showed him how to attach it to his coverall.

What is it? Monk asked.

Konstantin nodded toward the sealed doorway. Monitoring badge for radiation levels.

Monk stared over to the door. Radiation? What lay beyond that door? He remembered the heat he'd felt when he'd laid his palm on the hatch. In his head, he painted a blasted landscape, a terrain turned to ruin and slag.

With everyone ready, Konstantin crossed to the hatch and yanked hard on the lever that secured it. The door cracked and opened.

A blinding blaze of light flooded in, like staring into a fiery blast furnace.

Monk shielded his eyes with his forearm. It took him another two breaths to realize he was merely facing a rising sun. He stumbled outside with the children.

The landscape had not been blasted to slag, as he had feared.

If anything, the opposite was true.

The hatch opened out onto a ledge of a heavily wooded slope, thick with birches and alders. Many of the trees had gone fiery with the change of seasons. To one side, a creek tumbled over mossy green rocks. Low mountains stretched off into the distance, dotted by tiny alpine lakes that shone like droplets of silver.

They had climbed out of hell into paradise.

But hell wasn't done with them yet.

From the tunnel behind them, a strange yowling cry echoed out to them. Monk remembered hearing the same howl coming from the walled complex that neighbored the hospital.

The Menagerie.

A second and third cry answered the first.

He didn't need Konstantin's urging to keep moving.

Monk recognized what he was hearing not from memory, but from that buried part of his brain where instinct of predator and prey were still written.

Another howl echoed.

Louder and closer.

They were being hunted.

7

September 6, 4:55 A. M.

Washington, D. C.

She remained a mystery in a very small package.

Painter studied the girl through the window. She had finally fallen asleep. Kat

Bryant kept vigil at her bedside, a copy of Dr. Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham open in her lap. She had read to the girl until the sedatives had relaxed the child enough to sleep.

The child hadn't said a word since they'd arrived at midnight. Her eyes would track things, plainly registering what was going on around her. But there was little other response. She spent most of her time rocking back and forth, stiffening when touched. They had managed to get her to drink from a juice box and eat two chocolate-chip cookies. They'd also run some initial tests: blood chemistries, a full physical, even an MRI of her entire body. She still ran a low-grade fever, but it wasn't as elevated as earlier.

During the physical exam, they'd also found the microtransmitter embedded deep in the girl's upper arm. The chip would require surgery to remove, so they decided to leave it in place. Besides, the signal was insulated here, blocked.

There would be no tracking it.

Kat stirred and stood up. The woman was dressed casually, her auburn hair accented against a white cotton broadcloth shirt that was worn loose over tan slacks. She had been called to central command from home to oversee field operations, but with Gray's team still in the air, she found herself more useful here. Having a young daughter herself, Kat had brought in the copy of Dr. Seuss.

Though the child remained unresponsive, she warmed up to Kat. Her rocking slowed.

Painter was happy to see Kat Bryant back at work. After the loss of her husband,

Monk, she'd been adrift for many weeks. Yet now she seemed to be recovering, moving forward again.

Stepping out of the room, Kat closed the door softly and joined Painter in the neighboring observation room. High-backed chairs surrounded a conference table.

She's asleep. Kat sank into one of the chairs with a sigh.

Maybe you should, too. It will be a few more hours until Gray's plane lands in

India.

She nodded. I'll check with the sitter who's watching Penelope, then crash for a couple of hours.

The door to the outer hall opened. They both turned to see Lisa Cummings and the center's pathologist, Malcolm Jennings, enter the room. The two, dressed in matching white laboratory smocks and blue scrubs, were in an animated but whispered conversation. Lisa had her hands shoved in the pockets of her smock, pulling the coat tight to her shoulders, a sign of deep concentration. She had put her long blond hair up into a French braid. The pair had spent the last hour in the MRI suite, going over results.

From their heated, excited chatter full of medical jargon beyond Painter's comprehension they had come to some conclusions, though not necessarily a consensus.

Neuromodulation of that scale without glial cell support? Lisa said with a shake of her head. The stimulation of the nucleus basalis, of course, makes sense.

Does it? Painter asked, drawing their attention.

Lisa seemed to finally see Painter and Kat. Her shoulders relaxed, and her hands left her pockets. A whispery smile feathered her features as her gaze met his.

One of her hands trailed across Painter's shoulders as she passed and took one of the seats.

Malcolm took the last remaining seat. How's the child doing?

Asleep for the moment, Kat said.

So what have we learned? Painter asked.

That we're moving through a landscape both new and old, Malcolm answered cryptically. He slipped on a pair of glasses, tinged slightly blue for reading computer screens with less eyestrain. He settled them in place and opened a laptop he'd carried under one arm. We've compiled the MRI scans of the child and my analysis of the skull. Both devices are the same, though the child's is more sophisticated.

What are they? Kat asked.

For the most part, they're TMS generators, Malcolm answered.

Transcranial magnetic stimulators, Lisa elaborated, though that didn't help much.

Painter shared a confused expression with Kat. Why don't you start at the beginning? he asked. And use small words.

Malcolm tapped the side of his head with a pen. Then we'll start here. The human brain. Composed of thirty billion neurons. Each neuron communicates to its neighbors via multiple synapses. Creating roughly one million billion synaptic connections. These connections, in turn, create a very large number of neural circuits. And by large, I mean in the order of ten followed by a million zeros.

A million zeros? Painter said.

Malcolm looked over the edge of his glasses at Painter. To give you some scale.

The total number of atoms in the entire universe is only ten followed by eighty

zeros.

At Painter's shocked reaction, Malcolm nodded. So there's a vast amount of computing power locked in our skulls that we're only beginning to comprehend.

We've just been scratching the surface. He pointed toward the window. Someone out there has been delving much deeper.

What do you mean? Kat asked, her expression showing worry for the girl.

With our current technology, we've been making tentative strides into this new frontier. Like sending probes into space, we've been slipping electrodes into brains. All input into the brain is via electrical impulses. We don't see with our eyes. We see with our brains. It's why cochlear implants work to return hearing to the deaf. The implant turns sounds into electrical impulses, which are passed to the brain via a microelectrode inserted into the auditory nerve.

Over time, the cortex learns to reinterpret this new signal, and like learning a new language, the deaf begin to hear.

Malcolm waved to his laptop. The human brain being electrical, being malleable to new signals has an innate ability to connect to machines. In some regards, that makes us perfect natural-born cyborgs.

Painter frowned. Where are you going with all this?

Lisa placed a hand atop his. We're already there. The division between man and machine is already blurred. We now have microelectrodes so small that they can be inserted into individual neurons. At Brown University in 2006, they inserted a microchip into a paralyzed man's brain, linked by a hundred of these microelectrodes. Within four days of practicing, the man through his thoughts alone could move a computer cursor on a screen, open e-mail, control a television, and move a robotic arm. That's how far we've breeched the frontier.

Painter glanced to the window. And someone's gone farther than that?

Both Lisa and Malcolm nodded.

The device? Painter asked.

A step above anything we've seen. It has nanofilament electrodes so tiny that it's hard to say where the device ends and the child's brain begins. But the basic function is well known. From studies done at Harvard University on rats, we know that TMS devices promote the growth of neurons though, oddly, only in areas involved with learning and memory. We still don't understand why. But what we do know is that magnetic stimulation can also turn on and off these neurons like a switch. Children are especially pliable in this manner.

So if I understand this all correctly, someone has wired such a device to the child, stimulated nerve growth in a specific area, and now controls its functioning like a switch.

Generally speaking, yes, Malcolm said. They've tapped deep into that vast neural network I described. Only with the magnetic-stimulation of new neurons, they've expanded that network even farther. And if I'm right, I'd say they've focused that expansion in a very narrow area.

What makes you say that?

There's a law in neurology. Hebb's law. That basically states nerves that fire together, wire together. By stimulating one site in the brain, they are reinforcing it harder and harder.

But to what end? Painter asked.

Malcolm shared a worried glance with Lisa. He wanted her to explain.

She sighed. I spoke to the psychologist, Zach Larson, who examined the girl when she was first brought in. From her nonresponsiveness, repetitive behavior, and sensitivity to stimulation, Zach is certain the girl is autistic. And from the behavior you described at the safe house, probably an autistic savant.

Painter had read Larson's report, too. It had been put together quickly, but it had been thorough. He had run a small battery of psychological tests, including a genetic study for some of the typical markers for autism. The last was still pending.

He'd also included fact sheets on the subject of autistic savants, those rare individuals who though compromised by their disorder have amazing islands of talent. A skill that is deep and narrow. Painter remembered the character played by Dustin Hoffman in the movie Rain Man. His ability was to do lightning calculations. But this was only one of the savant talents on Larson's list.

Others included calendar calculations, memorization skills, musical talent, mechanical and spatial skills, exquisite discrimination of smell, taste, or hearing, and also art.

Painter pictured the drawing of the Taj Mahal. It had been sketched in minutes, handsomely drawn to scale, with perfectly balanced perspective. The girl was certainly talented.

But was it more than that?

The last on Larson's list of savant talents was a rare and controversial report of some autistic savants who displayed extrasensory skills.

Painter could not dismiss that the girl's drawings had led the Gypsies unerringly to their safe house. He recalled the earlier discussion with

Elizabeth, about her father's work on intuition and instinct, about his connection with a deep-black government project involved in remote viewing.

Lisa continued, We think the device is meant to stimulate that area of the brain where the savant talent lies. It's known that most savant talent arises from the right side of the brain, the same side where the device is attached on both the skull and the girl. Even using today's technology, it would not take much effort to localize the region regulating this talent. And once found, the magnetic stimulation could both amplify that area and control it.

Painter stood with dawning horror. If Lisa and Malcolm were correct, someone was harnessing this child's abilities. He crossed toward the window.

Who did this to the girl?

Kat had joined Painter and pointed through the window. She's awake.

And she was drawing again.

The girl had found a notepad and black felt pen on the bedside table. She scratched across it, not quite as frantically as before, but she was still bent with concentration over the page.

Kat headed to the door. Painter followed.

The girl did not acknowledge them, but as they stepped through, both pad and pen dropped to her bedsheet. She went back to rocking.

Kat stared down at the artwork, then fell back a step with a small gasp. Painter understood her reaction. There was no mistaking what was drawn in ink and paper, a portrait.

It was her husband, Monk.

11:04 A. M.

Southern Ural Mountains Russian Federation

Monk helped Pyotr along a fallen log that forded a deep stream, churning over jumbled rocks. Moss grew heavy on the log, along with a few fat white mushrooms.

The entire place smelled damp.

Kiska was already on the other side, standing with Marta, holding the old chimpanzee's paw. Monk wanted to be across the next rise and into the neighboring valley. Hopping off the log, he stared behind him. They were crossing a dense birch forest, whose white-barked trunks looked like dried bone.

The green foliage was already flamed in patches.

Monk picked one of the red leaves, rubbing it between his fingers. Still soft, not dried out. Early fall. But the changing leaves promised a cold night among the low mountains here. But at least there should be no snow. He dropped the crushed leaf.

How did he know all this?

He shook his head. Such answers would have to wait. Still, he found it disturbing how quickly he was growing accustomed to the disconnect between his lack of memory and his knowledge of the world. Then again, they were being hunted. They had to move quietly, sound carried far in the mountains. Through whispers and hand signals, they communicated.

Monk searched the far side of the stream. They had been on the run for the past three hours. He had set a hard pace, trying to put as much distance between them and where they'd exited the subterranean world. He didn't know how long it would take for the hunters to realize the escapees had abandoned the cavern and to pick up their trail out here.

Monk waited at the stream's edge.

Where was Konstantin?

As if beckoned by his thought, the taller boy came dancing down the far slope, as lithe and firm footed as a young buck. His face, though, was a mask of fear as he ambled, arms out, across the slippery log.

I did it! he said. Wheezing heavily, he jumped and landed next to Monk. I took your hospital nightshirt and dragged it to the stream in the other valley.

And you threw it in the water?

Past that beaver dam. Like you said.

Monk nodded. His hospital nightshirt had been soiled with blood and sweat. One of the kids had stolen it from his room after he'd changed. It was smart thinking. If they'd left the shirt, his captors would have known he'd changed.

It also came in handy in laying a false trail. He had further soiled the shirt by wiping sweat from his brow and underarms. He had done the same with the kids and the chimpanzee, too. The riper garment should leave a stronger trail, a false trail. Hopefully the scent would send the hunters searching in the wrong direction.

Help me with this, Monk said to Konstantin and leaned down to the log they'd used to cross.

Together, the two got the log rocking, but they still couldn't dislodge it. Monk then felt a huff at his cheek. He turned to see Marta shouldering into the log.

With a single heave, the chimpanzee rolled the fallen log into the stream. She was strong. The log fell with a heavy splash, then bobbed and teetered down the waterway. Monk watched it float away. The more ways they could break their trail, all the better.

Satisfied, Monk headed out.

Konstantin kept up, but Kiska and Pyotr struggled. The way was steep. Monk and

Marta both helped the smaller children, hauling them up the harder patches.

Finally, they reached the top of the rise. Ahead, more hills spread in all directions, mostly wooded with a few open meadows. Off to the left, not too far away, a wide patch of silver marked a large lake.

Monk stepped in that direction. With a lake like that, there should be people, someone who could help them.

Konstantin grabbed his elbow. We can't go that way. Only death lies that way.

His other hand squeezed the badge affixed to his belt, a radiation monitor.

In such verdant surroundings, Monk had forgotten about that danger. He flipped his badge up. Its surface was white, but as the radiation levels rose, it would begin to turn pink, then red, then dark crimson, then black. Sort of like a drugstore pregnancy test

Photo-flashes of memory cracked across his vision.

a laughing blue eye, tiny fingernails

Then nothing again.

His head throbbed. He fingered the tender suture line through his wool cap.

Konstantin looked at him with narrow, concerned eyes.

Kiska, who Monk had learned was Konstantin's sister, hugged her arms around her belly. I'm hungry, she whispered, as if fearful of both being heard and of showing weakness.

Konstantin frowned in his sister's direction, but Monk knew they all should eat to keep their strength up. After their panicked flight, they needed a moment to regroup, to plan some strategy beyond running. Monk stared toward the lake while fingering his badge.

Only death lies that way.

He needed to better understand their situation.

We'll find a place to shelter and eat quickly, Monk said.

He crossed down into the next valley. A series of small ponds cascaded through a set of terraced ledges. The place sparkled with a dozen waterfalls and cataracts. The air smelled loamy and damp. Halfway down, a fern-strewn cliff side had been eroded into a pocket with an overhang. He led the children to it.

They hunkered down and opened packs. Protein bars and bottled water were passed around.

Monk searched his pack. No weapons, but he did find a topographic map. He unfolded it on the ground. The header was in Cyrillic. Konstantin joined him, chewing on a peanut-butter-flavored bar. Monk noted the mountainous landscape was marked with scores of tiny Xs.

Mines, Konstantin said. Uranium mines. He ran a finger along the Cyrillic header, then waved an arm to encompass the area. The Southern Ural Mountains.

Chelyabinsk district. Center of old weapons factories. Very dangerous.

The boy tapped all around the map where radiological hazard symbols dotted the terrain. Many open mines, old radiochemical and plutonium plants. Nuclear waste facilities. All shut down, except for one or two. He waved to indicate a far distance away.

Monk mumbled with a shake of his head, staring down at all the hazard symbols.

And all I wanted to know was where we were.

Very dangerous, da, Konstantin warned. He pointed an arm in the direction of the large lake, now out of sight. Lake Karachay. Liquid waste dumping ground for old Mayak atomic complex. You stand one hour by the lake and you will be dead a week later. We must go around.

Konstantin leaned closer to the map and tapped in the center of a cluster of mines and radiation plants. We come from here. The Warren. An old underground city Chelyabinsk 88 where thousands of prisoners were housed who worked the mines. One of many such places.

Monk pictured the industrial-looking buildings he had seen in the cavern.

Obviously someone else had found a new use for the abandoned place.

Konstantin continued, We must go around Lake Karachay but not too near. He glanced up to Monk to make sure he understood. Which means we must cross the

Asanov swamp to reach here.

The boy held his finger over another mine opening on the far side of the lake.

Monk didn't understand. Weren't they seeking to escape, to get to someone who could help them?

What's there? Monk asked, nodding to the mine marker.

We must stop them. Konstantin glanced to Pyotr, who cradled with Marta on a bed of moss.

Stop who? Monk remembered the young boy's words to him.

Save us.

Konstantin turned back to Monk. It is why we brought you here.

11:30 A. M.

General-Major Savina Martov glowered at the assembled children. They were in the school's main auditorium. A photograph of the American glowed from a large LCD screen behind her.

Has anyone seen this man lurking around early this morning? He may have been wearing a hospital gown.

The children stared blankly at her from banks of wooden seats. They'd all been rousted early from their dormitories. More than sixty children sat in tiers, designated by the color of their shirts. The white-shirted sat at the back, those who carried the genetic markers but showed little talent. The grays sat in the middle, mildly talented, but not remarkable.

Unlike the ten who shared the front seats.

These last wore uniforms with black shirts. Omega class. Those rare few who displayed astounding talents. The dozen best, selected to serve Savina's son,

Nicolas, in the hard times to come, to be his inner council with Savina as its head.

Nicolas was a sore point for Savina, a disappointment. He'd been born a white shirt. A loss of the genetic dice. Savina had impregnated herself via artificial insemination from one of the first generation. She'd been rash and paid dearly for it. She'd acted before they fully understood the genetics. There had been complications during the birth. She could have no other children. But she had developed a new purpose for Nicolas, one that would bring about true and lasting change. It became her life's work after Nicolas was born.

And they were so close.

She stared at the row of black shirts.

And the two empty seats in the Omega-class section.

One child had vanished last night.

Pyotr.

His sister had vanished at the same time from a zoo in America. Savina still had heard no update on the girl's status from Yuri. The man had gone strangely silent, not even responding to a transmitted emergency code.

Something was happening.

She needed answers. Her voice grew sharper. And no one saw Konstantin, Kiska, or Pyotr leaving their dorm rooms? No one!

Again the blank stares.

Motion at the back of the room drew her eye. A toadish-looking man stepped into the room and nodded to her. Lieutenant Borsakov, her second in command. He was dressed in his usual gray uniform, including a stiff black-brimmed cap. He'd found something.

At last.

She turned to the trio of teachers standing to the side. Confine them to their dormitories. Under close guard. Until the matter is settled.

She climbed the stairs and exited the auditorium, drawing Borsakov in her wake.

Pock-faced and scarred, he stood only as high as her shoulders, which she preferred. She liked men shorter than herself. But he was bulky with muscle, and sometimes she caught him staring at her with a flicker of hunger. She preferred that, too.

He trailed a step behind her as they crossed through the school to the exit.

Once outside, she found two of his men. One had a chained Russian wolf at his side. It growled and rumbled, curling back lips to expose sharp teeth. The guard yanked on the lead, scolding it.

Savina gave the creature a wide berth. A mix of Russian wolfhound and Siberian wolf, its muscular form stood almost to Borsakov's chest. The beast came from their animal research facility nicknamed the Menagerie. It was where they experimented with new augments and tested various applications, using all manner of higher mammals: dogs, cats, pigs, sheep, chimps. It also served as a macabre petting zoo for the village. They'd found over the years that the children bonded with the animals and the relationship helped stabilize them psychologically. And maybe the bond wasn't entirely human-animal, but also augment to augment, a shared commonality.

Even the wolf bore a surgical steel device.

The augment capped the base of the dog's skull, attached via titanium screws and wired in place. With the touch of a button on the radio-transmitter, they could feed pain or pleasure, enhance aggression or docility, dull senses or stimulate arousal.

What have you found, Lieutenant? she asked.

The children are not in the cavern, he said.

She stopped and turned.

We searched the entire village, even the deserted apartment complex, but when we circled wider, we discovered a scent trail along a back wall, behind the animal facility. It led to one of the service hatches to the surface.

They went outside?

We believe with the American from the hospital. The children's trail came from the hospital.

So that at least answered one question. The American hadn't escaped, then kidnapped the children. It seemed it was the other way around. The children must have helped him escape.

But why?

What was so important about the man?

It was a question that had nagged Savina since the man had first arrived. Two months ago, Russian intelligence had been alerted about a plague ship that had been pirated in the Indonesian seas. Intelligence services around the world were looking for it. She had been tasked to see if her subjects could find it. A test. One she had passed. Primed, the twelve Omegas had pinpointed the island where the ship was being held. A Russian submersible was sent to investigate and came upon the lagoon just as the ship was sinking.

It was victory enough until Sasha had begun scribbling with a fervor that almost burnt her augment out. A dozen pictures, from a dozen views, of a drowning man, being dragged down by a net. Believing this was significant and being curious herself Savina had alerted the Russian submariners. They already had divers in the water.

They found such a man, barely conscious, tangled in a net. They rushed up in diving sleds, forced a respirator into his mouth, and rescued him back to their submersible.

Savina had ordered the man brought here, believing he must be significant. But once at Chelyabinsk 88, he claimed to be just one of the cruise ship's electricians. During their interrogation, the man had not seemed especially bright to her, just a scarred and shaven brute of a man with a coarse vocabulary and missing one hand. Likewise, Sasha had showed no interest in him. Neither did any of her fellow Omega-class subjects.

It made no sense, and the man proved to be a nuisance, caught one day tapping into a surface broadcast trunk, wired to his prosthetic cuff. They did not know what he was doing nor what type of signal he had sent out, but in the end, it had no repercussions. For security's sake, they had the cuff surgically removed.