The Omega Project (17 page)

I stared at the optical sensory device, my skin crawling as I marveled at my prodigy’s skewed process of evolution. GOLEM had lied. The computer had actually fabricated a story in order to alter the outcome of a situation.

If it lied about my presence on board …

“As mission commander, I should have been briefed.”

“Your role is to oversee the welfare of the crew. You are not in command of the Omega Project.”

It was a tense moment, the reason I was here. I sensed the true sociopath was revealing itself.

The crewmen huddled to talk.

Commander Read rendered their verdict a minute later. “Welcome to team Omega, Dr. Eisenbraun. Mr. Sloan, has our friend here had his full protocol of cryogenic shots?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s tuck him in.” Kevin nodded to Dr. Bruemmer—who jabbed the hypodermic needle concealed in his palm into the left side of my neck.

15

No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.

—E
DMUND
B
URKE

The lights dimmed, the room spun. Waves of panic rolled like fading jolts of electricity through my being. Voices became echoed and muffled, no longer recognizable. My legs disappeared, the numbness spreading from my limbs and into my upper torso—the thought of losing control of my breathing muscles terrifying. I was laid out, an oxygen mask strapped over my nose and mouth, the portable unit forcibly blowing air into my lungs.

Hoisted horizontally, I felt neither my body nor the hands carrying me down the corridor.

Drowning in a lake of hot anesthetic, ABE became my life preserver, the bio-chip furiously rerouting my brain’s neural pathways to find a channel of clarity.

My hearing returned as they carried me through the arboretum and down the spiral staircase to the lower level.

“… not following protocol.” Lara Saints’s voice pierced the bubble of deafness, causing my chest and rib muscles to spasm … I could breathe!

“He was nervous about being placed into stasis,” Kevin Read lied. “We decided this was the best way to handle it. Jason, has Eisenbraun’s IV been prepared?”

“Yes, sir. But we’ll need to strip him before he’s placed in the interior harness.”

“Lara, care to do the honors?”

“Fuck you, Kevin.”

My vision sharpened. Still paralyzed, I realized I was watching my reflection in the octopus tank as rough hands peeled the unzipped jumpsuit from the body I could no longer feel.

“Pod’s ready. Lower him in … Wait, hold him there while I position his arms and legs.”

My mind screamed in silence as I was tucked inside the pod’s interior harness. My stare caught Jason Sloan’s eyes as the cryogenics expert hovered over my chest, frantically attaching a series of electrocardiogram leads.

“Jesus, he’s conscious.”

“That’s impossible,” said Dr. Bruemmer. “I shot him with enough anesthetic to knock out a horse.”

“Look at his pupils. They’re responsive to light. He can see … and hear us!”

Commander Read’s face loomed into view. “It’s that damn brain chip. Sloan, hook up the IV and put him under. The rest of you can return to your stations. Lara, I’ll speak to you outside, in private.”

ABE continued to work to revive me, increasing the oxygen-carrying capacity of my red blood cells, burning off the anesthetic. My skin resurfaced from its numbness with stings from ten thousand pin pricks.

Jason knotted a rubber hose around my left biceps. Selecting a vein, he gently slid the IV needle inside the blood vessel and started the drip.

My voice returned as the elixir quenched the fire in my veins. “Don’t … please.”

Jason’s eyes widened in shock. Looking back over his shoulder, he verified we were alone, then he leaned over me, lowering his voice. “Listen closely: Read’s got it in for you. Not everyone agrees with this, but no one’s got the balls to challenge him or Monique. The IV will calm you and induce sleep. Don’t fight it, the last thing you want is to regain consciousness before the tetrodotoxin takes effect.”

My body was floating again, this time in a cool, soothing stream.

“That’s it, you’re doing fine. Once you enter Omega-wave stasis, you can use the override command to drain the tank. You remember your command?”

“Yes.”

“Only use the override if you’re really flipping out. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Time is a nonfactor in cryogenic stasis; thirty days will fly by in a catnap. Just remember our deal: I take care of you, you take care of me when we go home next month.”

My eyelids grew heavy, my body sinking fast.

Jason positioned the wafer-thin skull piece over my head and face. “Pleasant dreams.”

A second skin conformed to my flesh, sealing out all sound, save for the flow of sweet air pumping into the mask.

The gentle hum of hydraulics tweaked a ripple of anxiety as a cold weight weighed me down, as if gravity had doubled.

Fully sedated, I slipped into an ocean of darkness …

PART THREE

Awakenings

When it is impossible for anger to arise within you, you find no outside enemies anywhere. An outside enemy exists only if there is anger inside.

—L
AMA
Z
OPA
R
INPOCHE

16

The future has a way of arriving unannounced.

—G
EORGE
W
ILL,
columnist

Consciousness—teased by a singularity—a pinprick of red-hot pain that pierces a cold, forgotten heart.

A tube inflates a pair of lungs, functioning as a bellows.

“Uhhhhhhhhh—”

Inhale.

“—huuuuuuuuuuu.”

Exhale.

An erratic heartbeat threatens to cease, struggling to find its cadence.

Zzzzttt! Zzzzttt! Zzzzttt!

Charges of electricity ripple outward from seven chakra points—long-dormant neurological way stations maintained once every ninety-six hours just to respond to this moment.

“Uhhhhhhhhh—”

“—huuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”

Zzzzttt! Zzzzttt!

Fueled by the sudden injection of oxygen, sticky red blood cells energize and begin to mobilize.

“Uhhhhhhhhh … huuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”

“Uhhhhhhhhh … huuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”

“Uhhhhhhhhh … huuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”

Zzzzttt! Zzzzttt!

Alpha waves replace Omega, forcing the submerged dreamer up from the depths. The vegetative state is thawed in an erratic tidal change of forced neurological activity. Nerve endings direct gradually quickening impulses across miles of abandoned highways. Muscles twitch involuntarily—everything except the right arm.

The strain is too much for the reviving heart, effecting cardiac arrest.

Electricity shuts down the disgruntled organ. Sixty seconds pass before the needle stabs it again, the elixir of adrenaline rebooting the heart so that it can maintain a steady cadence.

“Uhhhhhhh … huuuuuuuuu.”

“Uhhhhh … huuuuuuu.”

“Uhhh … huuuuu.”

Erratic breathing becomes self-sustained.

*   *   *

The dreamer opens his eyes. Shadows dance, the mind remains disconnected.

A suffocating weight crushes his chest, cutting off his air supply. Like a trapped animal, he lashes out with his left arm, his mind stuck in a primordial gear that lacks cognizance or reason or complex thought.

With a grunt, he heaves the object off the splintered cryogenic pod, sending the corroded spiral staircase crashing to the floor.

The primordial response has left him sitting up awkwardly. His lower torso is still concealed in the pooled remains of the draining steel coffin, his mind—void of reality or memory upon which to anchor his thoughts, remains a blank canvas.

He is primordial man.

The sudden rush of blood to his brain is too much and he faints.

*   *   *

Pain beckons.

He reopens his eyes.

Buzzing sounds swirl in the predawn grayness. He stares, mindless, at a hole in the tilting sky that leads to a dark forest.

Manna has fallen from heaven, landing on his stomach. Startled, he reaches for it—his left arm brushing the two emptied hypodermic needles still protruding from the left side of his chest. He stares at them—an inquisitive Neanderthal—then brutally yanks the sharp objects from his heart and doubles over in agony.

He locates the rotted apple that had fallen from the hole in the sky and shoves it into his mouth, half chewing, half swallowing.

His blood sugar spikes.

His insides quiver.

Sitting up, he pukes the morsel of fruit across the puddle of muck.

Bees attack the vomited meal. A few sting him.

He watches in horror as the swarm grows more aggressive, forcing him to flee. He drags himself out of the fractured cryogenic pod like a wounded animal, collapsing on all fours onto a deck slanted forty degrees.

The bees organize their attack.

Crying out, he stumbles past the rusted coil of steel steps and slides out of the tilted chamber into the hallway.

The air is cold in this new environment.

The bees circle, then return to their tropical domain, preferring the warmth.

He hobbles upright along the angle where wall meets deck, all the while trying his best to distance himself from the buzzing swarm. Attracted to a blue emergency light flickering ahead in the darkness, he moves toward it, his brain progressively relearning how to engage his limbs, his right arm still dangling uselessly by his side—a piece of raw meat.

He shivers in his nakedness. The new world spins in his vision. He locates a rising row of steel bars. Using his legs, he manages to push himself up the angled ladder rungs, climbing to another level.

He sniffs the air, detecting the earthen scent of a rainforest. Self-preservation demands he find water, and so he hurries through the tilting gray darkness—tumbling through the open galley doors and down the slanted deck, crashing sideways into a barrier that had once been the computer’s automated ordering counter.

He climbs over the angled wall, past scraps of broken machinery and empty sorting bins to a strange object angled downward at forty degrees. He sniffs the cool surface, smelling food originating from within.

Gripping the handle with his functional left hand, he stands awkwardly, attempting to lift the heavy hinged aluminum door to access the walk-in refrigerator. He grunts, only he’s too weak to budge the ninety-pound barrier with only one functional arm.

A second effort causes the topsy-turvy galley to spin in his head and he passes out.

*   *   *

He awakens to a coughing seizure. He is naked and freezing and thirsty and hungry—Cro-Magnon man lost in Oz. Crying out, he stands and forcibly drags open the enormous aluminum door, lifting it just enough to wedge his knee and shoulder along the inside panel.

With a primal yell, he heaves the barrier sideways, gravity handling the rest of the job.

He peers inside the wood-paneled rectangular hole, still humming with emergency power. The scent of food hits him like a wave and he slides down the frigid floorboards into a pile of plastic pouches and beverage cartons. Locating a box filled with liquid, he tears it open with his teeth and drinks.

*   *   *

He leaves the galley twenty minutes later. He has hydrated and kept down enough food to satisfy his immediate energy needs. In the process, he has reengaged his kidneys. He observes with curiosity that his urine stream is tainted with blood.

Fuel has returned some clarity to his survivor instincts. His mind teases him with shards of memory, his thoughts colored with images that seem familiar but lack purpose. Armed with a serrated steak knife held between his teeth, his quivering body desperate for warmth, the chimpanzee walks up the angled galley decking to access the main corridor.

The doors to the crew’s private suites remain open, a function of the ship running on emergency power. He gazes up at the nearest opening. Somehow he realizes he is inside a dwelling, most likely a ship; yet he still cannot grasp what ship he’s in or how he came to be here.

He doesn’t search for answers. The priority is to shelter himself from the cold.

It takes him several exhausting leaps before he succeeds in grabbing the edge of the door frame angled eight feet above his head. Using his bare feet, he manages to crawl inside the abode marked
STATEROOM 9
.

A stack of debris covers the interior wall. Curtains dangle from the curved exterior panel, obscuring the view. A sofa and kitchen table remain anchored to the tilting deck. The room packs an overpowering stench.

Using the back of the anchored down sofa as a rail, he crosses the living room and enters the bedroom.

The bed and a chest of drawers are piled against the interior wall. He climbs over the debris and searches a closet, finding a large orange jumpsuit. Stares at the strangely familiar article of clothing, the name
YONI
stitched over the left chest.

Pulling his legs into the limbs of the warm fabric, struggling as he guides his paralyzed right arm through the sleeve, he zips the jumpsuit up to his neck. From the size of the fit he realizes its owner was a bigger man. He locates a matching pair of sneakers and slips them over his bare feet, unable to tie the laces using only his left hand. Knotting the ends as best he can, he returns to the bedroom, repositions the stripped mattress so it lies flat atop the angled pile of furniture, then wraps himself in a blanket and curls up on the bed to think.

Kernels of memory remain elusive, the effort to remember firing synapses across the surface of his brain—each electrical discharge registering as an annoying tiny jolt. He stares at the wall above his head, its strangely curved surface painted a drab olive green.

This appears to be some kind of vessel. Something terrible has happened. What was that strange device you were in? How long were you in there? Are there others onboard?

Who am I?