Journey Through the Mirrors (17 page)

“They say it’s better than the one at the Akasha Vault,” Chetan said, then added more skeptically, “but I am not sure I believe that . . . yet.”

“How was your trip from Nepal?” Valerie asked him.

“Fine, very fine,” he said. “I’m staying in the WCF lodgings at the moment. I’ll start looking for a permanent place this weekend.”

After Chetan’s help at the Akasha Vault with the Freedom Day plot, Valerie didn’t have to pull many strings to secure a position for him on her team. He was their new forensic specialist.

“How did the meeting go with the new director?” Sylvia asked.

“Peachy,” Valerie answered. “Just peachy.”

Sylvia and Chetan both laughed.

“This is for the two of you. It just arrived from the Commonwealth.” Valerie set the box that Agent Duna had given her on a lab table. “It contains samples of a foreign residue found in the remains of the gas well that imploded and the other three wells, too.”

“We’ve been waiting for these,” Sylvia said, opening the box to find eight glass vials, each of which had been dipped in a semiclear green liquid sealant. A handwritten label was affixed to each one. “It looks like they sent us two samples from each of the three wells.”

Chetan came over and picked up a vial, holding it to the light and shaking it gently. “Looks like fine powder of some kind.”

“The agents told me that whatever this is, it was found in the pump chamber,” Valerie said. “They’re estimating that there are two tons of it in the well that imploded.”

“That’s considerable,” Chetan said.

“That’s what I said.” Valerie grinned.

“How did it get down there?” Sylvia asked.

“That’s what we need to find out.” Valerie looked around. “By the way, where’s Goshi? We’re going to need his bio expertise here.”

“He’s dealing with an issue over at forensic entomology,” Chetan answered, typing a message into his PCD. “A few of their culture incubation chambers are malfunctioning. I’ll let him know we need him.”

“While we wait, I can show you what we have so far.” Sylvia returned to her desk and brought up an aerial image of the North African gas processing plant on the HoloPad. Valerie watched from the seat across from her. “This is what the location looked like before the explosion. The site sits nine hundred fifty miles due east of Marrakesh. Smack dab in the middle of the Algerian desert.” Four towers, standing more than two hundred fifty meters in height, were positioned in a straight line. Large silver pipes connected the towers and ran along the ground toward the main processing plant half a kilometer to the north. To the east of the processing plant was a large area filled with saucer-shaped devices. “This is the site just after the explosion. As you can see, tower two is now a heap of rubble.” Sylvia zoomed in on the new image and what remained of the second well. “At last count, more than three hundred people are confirmed dead and fifty still missing.”

“More than one hundred civilians,” Chetan said, shaking his head. “These are four of the largest gas wells in the world. All built in the last ten years after large deposits of natural gas were discovered under the bedrock of the Commonwealth.”

“Chetan and I have combed through the operation logs,” Sylvia said. “Approximately ten minutes before the explosion, tower two reported a problem with its pressure induction columns. A sensor started reporting an unknown substance in its polymeric-membrane chambers.”

“Probably the stuff in the vials,” Valerie said.

“Two minutes later, the well platform collapsed,” Chetan said. “At the same moment, the other three wells also began to report traces of a foreign substance. The operation centers at each of those wells shut their systems down immediately.”

“One of the strange things in the logs is that they reported a drop in pressure coming from subterranean fissures,” Sylvia said. “That lasted for another twenty-one seconds before stabilizing.”

“Stop.” Valerie held her palm up in the air. “Induction columns, poly-something or other, fissures—I don’t get any of that. What I really want to know is whether this substance is naturally occurring. Is it the side effect of something they’re doing? Or did someone put it there?”

“I have my doubts about its occurring naturally. Here’s how this whole thing works.” Sylvia cleared the picture of the natural-gas plant from the display and brought up another image. It was a cross section of the earth’s crust. “About eight thousand feet underground, natural gas is trapped in the shale and the rock. It was created, over thousands of years, by the decomposition of organic matter such as plants and animals. Before the Great Disruption, a process known as fracturing was used. It involved drilling down into the rock and setting off small explosions that caused the surrounding rock to break, crack, and fracture. After you create large enough cracks in the rocks, you inject chemically treated water into the cracks. That water displaces the gas and forces it to come to the surface. Some believed it led to an increase in seismic activity and had an adverse effect on the water tables. But nothing was ever proved definitively.”

“The Commonwealth is using a similar concept,” Chetan added. “However, sound waves instead of explosives are used to cause cracks in the surrounding rock. Once the gas has been extracted, they pump an additive into the treated water that creates a solid formation, resealing the fractures. This way, theoretically, the ground will not be susceptible to seismic movement.”

“That theory might be up for some debate now,” Valerie said. “Could this new procedure be causing the earthquakes we’ve been having?”

“That’s a good question,” Sylvia said. “There are other major gas plants around the world using the same method. But I’m not sure how to connect those dots. Once the gas is extracted, it goes through the
polymeric-membrane chambers to filter out any acidic and toxic gases. If everything goes well, the gas then gets further refined into elemental sulfur, ethane, butane, propane, and pentanes.”

“I take it that’s where things broke down?” Valerie said.

“Yep,” Sylvia said. “Whatever this foreign substance is, the polymeric membrane couldn’t handle it.”

“So a membrane of some kind has a problem, and an entire well tower implodes?” Valerie leaned back in her chair. “How does something like this suddenly happen? These wells have been in operation for years. Alex is going to the Commonwealth to interview the workers and managers and find out if there has been any recent suspicious activity or security breaches at the facilities.”

Suddenly, a loud alarm came from the north end of the Cube, where the rotating globe was located. Valerie jumped to her feet as agents scrambled to their monitoring stations. Red spots appeared on the surface of the large 3-D map of the world.

“More earthquakes.” Sylvia groaned. “As you know, it’s been a very seismic few days.”

When the alarms stopped, Valerie returned to the vials. “What’s the next step here? This is a political time bomb that is counting down quickly. If we don’t come up with some answers, the energy markets are going to be in chaos. The higher-ups want to know what we are dealing with.”

“It’s going to take Goshi some time to quarantine these vials,” Chetan said, referring to the third member of their team.

“How long?” Valerie asked.

“At least thirty-six hours to do a full light-spectrum analysis before we know it’s safe to crack the seal and take a look under the microscope. After that, I don’t know—we have no idea what we’re dealing with.”

“Do what you have to do,” Valerie said. “If this
is
sabotage, then we need to understand who benefits from it.” She was interrupted by the arrival of a message on her PCD. The grave expression on her face as she read the alert did not go unnoticed.

“What’s wrong?” Chetan asked.

“It’s an alert from Switzerland,” she said. “Château Dugan was broken into last night. Two agents are dead.”

“Wasn’t that Simon Hitchlords’s home?” Sylvia asked.

Valerie remained silent.

17

You are already an immortal being.

The problem is acting as if you are not.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

NEW CHICAGO, 7:34 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

Logan and Mr. Perrot were listening to the memory chip dislodged from Cassandra’s Golden Acorn mosaic. It was dated July 21, 2033, at 9:15
A.M.

Today is the big day. Camden and I are getting married. Our friends are calling it the wedding of the Magician and the Scholar. I understand why they’d refer to Camden as a magician, but I’m not so sure why I’m the scholar, although that’s what the Forgotten Ones started calling me after we first encountered Camden and he was shocked that I could read. I still haven’t let him forget about that.

Logan and Mr. Perrot heard Cassandra giggle.

The wedding is going to take place early, at ten in the morning, because we don’t want to detract in any way from the first annual Freedom Day rally. Deya came up with a great idea to add a Liberty Moment to the Freedom Day celebration. At 6:00 p.m., everyone will light a candle and focus on love, compassion, freedom, and joy—the four fundamental precepts of the
Chronicles
. We had two thousand T-shirts made, with one of the four fundamental symbols on the front and the symbol of Satraya on the back. People can choose which symbol they want to wear when they come to the rally in the park. We’ve received word that people in London, Deya’s hometown of Banaras, and Madu’s home city of Cairo will be holding their own celebrations! We hope that this Freedom Day rally will catch on and become an annual worldwide celebration. It’s going to be beautiful seeing so many people in unity.

There was a slight pause in the recording, and Logan and Mr. Perrot could hear the rustling of paper in the background before Cassandra continued.

I received a letter from RJ today, declining my invitation to the wedding. He congratulated me, but I don’t think he was sincere about it. He left so abruptly after we arrived in Washington. I wish he would have made an effort to get to know Camden, but then I think Camden may have been right. RJ was more infatuated with me than I realized. I’ve read his letter a couple of times and honestly, it strikes me more as a good-bye than a note of congratulations. I can’t help him anymore. He is a good soul beneath all his emotional difficulties and rough edges. I wish him all the best.

A doorbell chimed on the recording.

I have to go. Deya is here. Time to get ready!

The recording ended. “Who is RJ?” Logan asked.

Mr. Perrot shook his head. “As I said, no one knew much about him. He was a Forgotten One and didn’t stay in Washington long.”

“My mother seemed to know him well,” Logan said. “Even to care about him. They exchanged letters after he left, she said. I wonder if she kept any.”

“Your parents’ wedding was very enjoyable,” Mr. Perrot said, changing
the topic. “As I was rummaging through those old storage boxes, I came across one of the T-shirts your mother spoke about.”

“I remember seeing them in some of the photos you showed me,” Logan said. “But I don’t recall which one you chose.”

Mr. Perrot smiled. “The one with the symbol of Love on the front.”

Logan looked at the recorder. “This next message is from 11:34
A.M.
the next day.” He pressed the Play button.

The wedding was incredible. Everything was perfect. It took place at the north end of the park under the magnificent oak, one of the few centuries-old trees in Washington that survived the Great Disruption. The provisional government has designated it as the new national Christmas tree. Camden received permission to set up large screens similar to those used as theatrical backdrops so that we didn’t have to look at the crumbled remains of the old White House in the background. In front of the dais, we set up fifty or so chairs, figuring that would be enough. But many more people showed up and had to stand during the ceremony. Most of them we didn’t know. I think they arrived early for the Freedom Day celebration and decided to watch. We didn’t mind. Hank walked around playing his fiddle, entertaining the guests as they arrived. Camden and I stood in front of the minister, with Robert next to Camden and Deya next to me.

There was a pause, before Cassandra continued.

Something strange happened then. As we listened to the minister read passages from the
Chronicles
, I swore I saw the face of a young man peer out from behind him. I blinked my eyes a few times, and the face suddenly disappeared. I looked at Camden, who didn’t seem to notice anything. I’m not sure who or what I saw, but there was something familiar about his face. I guess I’ll just have to take it as a good omen that angels are watching over us.

Logan pressed the Pause button and stared at Mr. Perrot, astonished. “Do you remember when I told you last July about my candle vision and finding myself at my parents’ wedding, standing behind a minister?”

Mr. Perrot nodded, a look of amazement on his face, too.

“I wonder,” Logan mused, resuming the recording.

After the minister spoke, both Deya and Robert said a few words. I think Robert was a little nervous about having to follow Deya, who recited from memory a wonderful passage from the
Chronicles
, but he was just as moving. Then Camden and I made our vows, which we wrote ourselves, I’m proud to say. It was one of the few times I saw Camden nervous. But I have to admit that I was a little nervous, too. And then, in unison, we said, “I do.”

Mr. Perrot pressed pause. “It’s true,” he said. “I was so humbled by Deya’s recital. She spoke those words as if she lived them. I was so inspired by her that I began to study the
Chronicles
much more earnestly.”

“I recall seeing a man do the same thing the day we revealed our true identities to the Council of Satraya nine months ago,” Logan said with a wink. “When you spoke, you had the same effect on everyone in the room that Deya had on you.” He pressed the Play button.