The Sound of Seas (8 page)

“The tower is quite near,” the
Standor
said. “But if you like, I can send a carrier for you.”

“I'm able to make it,” Caitlin assured her.

Caitlin had no idea what a “carrier” might be until they reached another courtyard. The open, sun-drenched area was at least three times the size of the pool yard and there were at least twenty cigar-shaped airships about the size of minivans. She focused on the objects, not the light; it was disorienting to imagine that this is the same sun, the same light, that would one day shine in her own welcoming apartment, light the breakfast table she shared with her son.

The airships were hovering an average of ten feet above the ground. Plants that resembled modern jasmine were being unloaded from nets that hung tightly between them. Indeed, the balloons themselves bore a slight resemblance to their cargo: there were leaflike fins high on the envelopes, fore and aft, presumably to control the vessel in the strong atmospheric currents as it hovered in the clouds.

Jasmine
, she thought. It had been present in some form since she had first met Maanik in the Pawars' apartment. Was she drawn to it, it to her, or was it a coincidence? Or was she simply noticing it in her time because its presence here was informing the future . . . her future?

Caitlin couldn't quite grasp that idea, the
mechanics
of that
idea, so she forced herself to stay mentally rooted in this place—observing, collecting information, seeking some way to rekindle her energies.

Beyond the courtyard, down a wide, open road to the shore, Caitlin saw dozens of surface vessels, their small nets full of fish. They were riding waves that had a different action from any she had ever seen: the sea was smooth and then, about ten yards from shore, waves
rose up and smashed down as if they were pumped from some deep coastal trough. She had no way of knowing whether it was a local or continental phenomenon. Local, most likely, since ships were coming to shore off to the sides. She wondered if it were artificial since the breakers created a breeze that blew a refreshing coolness into the courtyard and chased away the smell of fish. Heat, odor, and spoilage—as heralded by the obsessed Lasha—
would
be a problem during interminable hours of daylight.

Caitlin also saw more airships high in the sky, among the clouds. The same kinds of nets were strung between them with foliage of all kinds crowded against all four sides of each. Apparently, the clouds were a more accessible source of freshwater than whatever ice surrounded Galderkhaan. From the barrels that lined the streets she assumed that the harvest here was primarily jasmine, which must grow readily in this climate, by these means, and was light enough to be supported by the airborne nets.

It was a small but impressive spectacle of agrarian and oceanic commerce, as well as simple but effective engineering. Yet the tableau was almost unnaturally quiet, at least to her New York–accustomed ears; even Haiti and Phuket had more ambient noise than this with cars, radios, jets, helicopters, cell phones, and the other trappings of modern civilization. As far as she could see there weren't fuel- or even steam-powered apparatuses; all the work was being managed by well-oiled pulleys, by weights and counterweights, and by hand. She also did not see smokestacks or chimneys, or even a hint of pollution corrupting the blue of the sky. Given what she knew of the Source, and what Lasha had said, the dwellings in Galderkhaan were apparently warmed during winter by subterranean pools of magma and water.

It was a clean, efficient way of living—more so, it seemed, than other ancient civilizations of more modern times.

And it is about to end
,
she could not help thinking.

Caitlin felt sick in her soul, even as she reminded herself that it was a Galderkhaani who would cause the catastrophe. Though she could
not help but remember, with awful clarity, the vision of the dying as they tried to save their souls through the ritual of
cazh
, even as their bodies turned to ash, and how she had worked so hard to prevent that ascension—

“Now that we're away from the others, I would like you to tell me the truth about the bracelet,” the
Standor
said. “About where you come from.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't look like a thief. And I do not think you are a liar.”

“It's true, I am neither,” Caitlin assured her. “At least, I don't
think
I am a thief. I truly do not know. What prompted you to ask?”

“Your jewelry is not made of Falkhaan silver.” She regarded Caitlin. “I have friends who are miners here. I know the local minerals and their impurities. The name on the bracelet is someone not from around here, or she would be known. You yourself say that you are from elsewhere. That you have a son elsewhere. Yet you also have some connection with this boy, who has never left this village. I saw it in the way you touched him.”

“That is true.”

“And being true, there must be an explanation.”

“I wish I had one,” Caitlin said, and meant it. “I felt as if I know him.
Standor
, maybe you can help me. You must have traveled the continent. Have you ever met anyone who has lost their memory?”

“Once, when I was still a novice,” Qala said. “I met a Priest. He was experimenting with a ritual and emerged from it saying strange things about other lands . . . nothing anyone could understand. And he couldn't remember who
he
was, even when others told him.”

“Is this Priest still alive?”

“I don't know,” the
Standor
replied. “The last I heard of him, his body was alive but he neither spoke nor responded to any kind of stimulus.” Qala regarded Caitlin across Vilu's back. “Do you think you participated in an experiment of some kind?”

“Again, I don't know,” Caitlin replied.

“And . . . north,” the
Standor
said. She looked out across the sea. “I
have flown a considerable direction to the north. There is nothing. Nothing except floating mountains of ice, great sea beasts, and no birds. If there were land, there would be birds. Yet you say you come from there.”

“I—I may have been confused,” she said.

“I believe you have made yourself a crossed net line,” Qala said.

“I'm sorry?”

“When an airship turns suddenly, without notifying its companion, the net between them gets tangled,” the
Standor
told her. “I suspect you just told a lie to protect a truth.”

Qala didn't press Caitlin, for which the psychiatrist was grateful. It was the mark of a wise and seasoned commander. Reading about the Vikings to try and understand Galderkhaan, Caitlin had learned that hands were axed for theft. But shipboard, one-handed sailors were of little use, so captains learned to accept small lies told from a crew that dipped, without permission, into the stores of grog or cheese. Qala had just done that for her.

They rounded the end of the street and turned to a road along the coast. The waves were indeed tame beyond the natural horseshoe-shaped harbor, but the sudden expanse of blue-white ocean was not what caught her eye. Caitlin and the
Standor
were making their way toward a column that was roughly three hundred feet high. It was a smaller, slimmer version of the tower of the
motu-varkas
, in which she had confronted Pao and Rensat. Her pace slowed as she took in the spectacle of the great airship moored to the top, like some tamed, dark storm cloud, its envelope being replenished by tubes that ran from the nose into the depths of the tower. The airship was, in effect, a highly elongated hot-air balloon, elegant in its simplicity.

“Majestic,” she said.

“The sight of it always stirs me—and others,” Qala agreed.

Caitlin didn't understand her meaning until she followed the woman's eyes to Vilu.

“Now we know that the boy is well asleep,” Qala said.

Caitlin leaned toward the boy as they walked. His breathing was
normal, the inhalation of sleep, not unconsciousness. She touched his hair.

“We are going to the airship, sweet one,” she said softly. “If you open your eyes, you will see it.”

The boy stirred slightly—

Because of what
I
said, or because it was
my
voice
,
my
touch?
she wondered. She took his fingers in hers.
Please, Jacob, if you are in there let me know.

The straight line of the boy's mouth curved into a small, sweet smile. Caitlin kissed him as they continued to walk.

The path to the tower stretched about a quarter mile ahead, along a rocky, heavily eroded section of beach. At least two dozen wharves had been erected there, beyond the horseshoe harbor, each extending about a hundred feet from the shore. On this side of the tower was a sliver of beach: black sand where Galderkhaani presumably enjoyed recreation, though not this early in the morning. Perhaps it was reserved for the crews who had limited downtime.

There was no longer compacted sand underfoot but large square slabs of stone about a yard on each side. They appeared, like the tower, to be carved from basalt. There were designs cut in many of them—the names of Galderkhaani. Though Caitlin could read them, she had no idea who any of them were. As they crossed over one, she noticed Qala shift her grip on Vilu so that he was nestled in the crook of her elbow, leaving her hands somewhat free. She touched her forehead lightly with her left thumb while holding her other hand flat toward the ground.

To you who sleep
.

Caitlin initially thought they were the equivalent of commemorative steles honoring the dead. Perhaps the one they had passed was someone Qala had known. But that idea changed as she peered ahead, into the morning mist that still clung to sections of the shore. The road of stones stretched into the distance as far as she could see along the coast. These weren't just road stones, she realized: they were most
likely graves. Considering their size, either the people within had been cremated or they were interred vertically. Or perhaps the sea claimed the remains from below, through liquefaction.

“Where are you truly from?” Qala asked suddenly.

The question was asked with greater insistence than before. “As I said, I can't seem to—”

“You do not honor the ascended,” Qala remarked. “You cannot have forgotten something so basic—not when you know how to speak, to read, to minister to a child. If you are not lying, then you are certainly withholding information.”

Caitlin quickly replayed Qala's words and gestures in her mind, realized with a jolt that she had missed it: the “ascended” Qala had used in her gesture was plural, not directed at a specific individual but at all of them. It was a custom, no doubt, to pay homage when one set foot on the road. Caitlin should have been present enough, at least, to mimic the salute, even crudely.

She did not consider saying that her mental state had caused her to forget. Qala was not a fool. And it occurred to Caitlin, then, that she might need an ally for whatever was coming, especially one with an airship. She hoped it was possible to explain some things without revealing them all.

Caitlin stroked Vilu's hair once again, then turned toward the strong gaze of the
Standor
and fixed those gold eyes with her own.

“You probably will not believe what I am about to tell you,
Standor
Qala,” she answered as they continued along the path, “but I
am
from the north. Only not from this place . . . or time.”

The
Standor
made a face. “Is this more wordplay?” she asked. “Another ‘time'?”

“Yes,” Caitlin said, gesturing carefully, seeking superlatives that could help her state precisely what she meant. “I am from the distant future, not by design but by accident. I am here because a pair of transcended souls forced me to come.”

CHAPTER 6

M
ikel slept heavily, as though he'd been drugged.

After setting his phone to wake him, he collapsed, sprawled across a bench in the library of the module that served as a social and recreational area of the base. He did not dream, did not get to think of “things” before he drifted away. Casey Skett had relieved him of having to make any decisions. All that Mikel had now was an assignment and he had to be clear-headed to make it happen.

The ibuprofen Mikel had swallowed before sleep kept the pain of his broken wrist from being much of a distraction. The screeching winds were now the equivalent of white noise. Mikel stayed put until the alarm sounded.

Waking with the beep, Mikel found the room still and quiet with only distant sounds as the team of scientists and engineers went about securing their relocated base and undoubtedly researching the phenomenon they'd witnessed—the pillar of fire, biblical in dimension, that inexplicably erupted from the ice. Mikel knew they would not come close to understanding it without his help. Now he had to go down there and convince them of that.

Rest kept his eyes from drooping, but it provided neither clarity
nor focus. He was still bombarded with random thoughts, things that sleep had allowed to bubble to the surface. He went back to his log to make a few final additions.

Several things occur to me now that I've had a bit of rest
, he typed.
They are puzzles that must be solved. I do not know whether the ascended soul of Enzo remained trapped in the magma of
the Source, burning for millennia, or whether her soul somehow leaped immediately from her death ages ago to exist in the present. I am sure the answer could be found somewhere in the
olivine tiles, but if I encounter them again I have—and will continue to have—too much respect for them to do more than skim the surface. When triggered slightly, just the single artifact that was appropriated from the geological survey vessel in the Falklands liquefied a human brain. I am not prepared to play Galderkhaani roulette.

What I know for certain is that the dead are somehow able to interact with the living, but, curiously, not with each other unless they
cazhed
. Other­wise, Pao and Rensat would have been able to communicate with Enzo. And I would not be alive to write this journal. I suspect the impediment was something the Priests suspected: that transcended souls are quite literally in a different time, realm, or dimension
from ascended souls. Yet all can interact with the living—Pao and Rensat with me, Enzo with Jina Park. What is it about living matter that is a conduit, a conductor?

Clearly, Casey Skett wanted answers to those and similar questions. And while Mikel would welcome an ally, the risk was not just seeking to obtain knowledge; it was what Skett might do with it.

Now that his head was a little clearer and he had a chance to process his conversation with those in New York, there was the startling revelation about the Group. Mikel had been recruited straight from Harvard by Chairwoman Flora Davies. A Pamplona-born archaeologist, Mikel had indeed believed they were originally underwritten by a wealthy merchant who discovered Galderkhaani relics on a journey to Bengal in 1648. Mikel had seen those artifacts—shards of pottery with strange writing and pieces of an unknown skin that Mikel now knew were parts of the
hortatur
mask he had donned to help him breathe.
The idea that the story was a lie, or at the very least incomplete, was disturbing. Especially when Mikel thought of the power the Group, or Skett, was on the verge of possessing. They still had two tiles in New York: by themselves, they were devilishly powerful.

Which one of
the groups do you help?
he asked himself.

Walking away was not an option. This had been his professional life's work and there were profound questions he and only he could still answer. That was why there was no question about going out there, by bulldozer or Ski-Doo, or even on foot if it came to that.

So
, he thought.
Time to try and convince either base commander Eric Trout or chief scientist Dr. Albert Bundy to let me have one or the other.

Trout was the least likely. The burly, mustachioed former Royal Marine commando engineer was a hard-nosed manager, in charge of everything that wasn't science. Mikel had nearly wrecked a key module of the base: Trout would not give the man access to anything with wheels or treads. The Oxford man was the better target. Bundy had previously given Mikel what he wanted thanks to Flora's connection with the RAF—though that was before the base suffered its series of setbacks. Bundy would be less receptive now. Moreover, if the ice shelf had been compromised—and there was as yet no indication that the new location was secure—then it might be necessary to move again. Every means of transportation would be required.

The key may be assuring him that you can answer
his
questions as well by going back to where it all began
, Mikel told himself.

Feeling cautiously optimistic, Mikel slipped from the bench. He walked past the rock-climbing wall that was used for exercise then headed down the spiral staircase to the cafeteria. Several of the staff had gathered there, hungry after the long hours of relocation and data crunching. Dr. Bundy was among them, sitting with several of his top scientists. The six-foot-seven-inch frame of Siem der Graaf was alone at a separate table, which was how and where Mikel had first met him. The maintenance worker was visibly stiff from having shared some of Mikel's adventures.

“How's everything going?” Mikel asked, pausing beside the table.

The young man looked up from a bowl of pea soup. His disinterested expression brightened slightly.

“I'm okay, my crazy friend. How's the wrist? And, how are you even standing after the fall from the truck? I feel like a sack of corn.”

“I've learned to ignore superficial bumps and bangs,” Mikel answered. “A hazard of the trade. Also, I'm sort of built like a cat. I bend.”

“You under six-footers have an advantage there,” the big man said. “I move like a log. A hungry log,” Siem added as he returned to his soup. But his eyes remained on Mikel. “Speaking of which, you have a rather hungry look. Not for food, I think.”

“What kind of a mood is Bundy in?” Mikel asked, his eyes on the scientists' table.

“Not bad. He seems to
like
having a crisis to manage,” Siem replied. “I don't mean moving the base, that was mostly Trout. No, I've been hearing things like, ‘What bloody caused this instability?' and ‘There isn't a bloody computer model that predicted or can explain this!' ” Siem said, mimicking Bundy's stentorian British accent. “Oh, and he doesn't believe it has anything to do with global warming.”

“The greenhouse effect wouldn't quite explain a column of flame.”

“Apparently, none of the satellite images or data suggests any cause, which is why they started spitballing,” Siem said. “A new Russian superweapon. Shifting interaction between the Van Allen radiation belts and the plasmasphere. Dragons.”

“Dragons?”

“Yes. That was Dr. Cummins's suggestion. She meant it in jest, I think. I hope. We don't have armor-piercing weapons at the base.”

“Good God, Siem, why would you kill a mythical creature come to life?”

Siem snickered. “That's a very good question, you know? Too many movies, I guess. And I never was much of a conservationist. I'm a big fan of the Industrial Revolution.”

Mikel smiled as he continued to watch the group. They either didn't know he was there or were ignoring him. “Is Bundy planning to go out there?”

“Not yet, as far as I know,” Siem replied. “They want follow-up satellite imagery and more data from the remote automated systems before making any decisions.”

“Whatever happened to eyes-on scientific reconnaissance?”

“Gone with the insurance documents we all signed to be here,” Siem said. “They want to make sure it's not going to go off again.”

“It isn't,” Mikel replied quietly.

Siem looked up again. “How can you be sure? It's happened three times already. Nerves are a little unsteady.”

He was referring to the initial appearance of the flame, the one that killed scientist Jina Park, and to the flare they had all seen while preparing to move the base.

“Because I know what caused that last flare-up, and I know it's burned-out,” Mikel said. “The trick will be convincing them.”

“Just on your say so?”

“In addition to being a lousy spelunker, I am a first-class PhD,” Mikel pointed out.

Siem snickered again as he picked up the bowl and drank down the remainder. “Friend Mikel, I like you. And I might very well believe you. But even I wouldn't risk a research party on your say-so.”

“We don't need a party,” Mikel said.

“Just you?” Siem said knowingly.

“Just me.”

“Good luck,” Siem said in earnest, then wiped his mouth. “But if you wouldn't mind—what
did
cause the explosion?”

“It was an ancient power source, fueled by deep-flowing magma that's still under the ice,” he said.

“What kind of power source?”

“A mineral,” Mikel said. “One that is extremely powerful and apparently unique to the region.”

Mikel didn't bother adding that the blast was actually the result of an ascended soul releasing its hold on a portion of that energy. Ascribing the incident to lava was cleaner.

“A new mineral?” Siem said dubiously.

“That's what brought me down here in the first place,” Mikel said. “A sample I found, from the waters off the Falklands.”

“You have it?”

Mikel shook his head.

“Too bad. But the other part of your theory is a problem too,” Siem went on. “Lava would be difficult to overlook, and I don't believe anyone has found geologically active pockets out there. It would be talked about. I would have heard about it.”

“The minerals may be screwing with their instruments,” Mikel said.

“Ah.”

Mikel also did not want to explain that the magma was not active
now
but in another epoch. He looked over at the scientists. “I should probably talk to Bundy about this.”

“Probably,” Siem said. “And I wish you luck. I do.” His eyes held Mikel's. “You were pretty wild down there, Mikel. Are you convinced that you didn't strike your head when you broke your wrist? Or perhaps the air was toxic?”

“I don't blame you for being cautious, Siem—”

“It isn't caution,” the maintenance engineer replied. “Frankly, it's doubt. I'm a mechanical engineer.” He rapped the table. “Reality, not speculation. Also, I have some concern.”

“For?”

“Whatever you do out here will follow you when you go home,” Siem said. “I studied Antarctica, its history, before agreeing to accept this appointment. For centuries—going back to the seventh century, if you believe some accounts—people have come to the South Pole and left with crazy ideas. I've read about those ideas and their adherents. Holes to the center of the earth, spaceships of ancient aliens, living
dinosaurs, dinosaurs from space living inside the earth. Trust me, Mikel. Careers have been ruined.”

“But imagine the contribution to science of the first researcher to find a prehistoric beast down here—even a frozen one.”

“And, with it, an ancient bacterium for which there is no known cure,” Siem added.

“The price of science,” Mikel replied. “How do you know there aren't
any
of those vessels or creatures out here? You yourself, the others—you all saw a burning face.”

“We
think
we did, which is my point exactly,” Siem said. “The air, the cold, the magnetic pole, the movement of vast oceans around us and under us—the
isolation
. I've listened to the scientists as I work on the gear. It all affects the mind. That's why we rely on impartial equipment, on data, to tell us what is real and what is not. And there is nothing that confirms a jot of this right now.”

“As I said, there won't be,” Mikel replied. He was still looking over at the scientists. Two had left, leaving Bundy and glaciologist Dr. Victoria Cummins alone with their laptops. Mikel clapped his good hand appreciatively on Siem's shoulder.

“Thank you for your advice, my friend,” Mikel said.

“You are welcome,” Siem replied. “Good luck getting out of this with your life,” he added as the archaeologist walked away.

Mikel didn't know whether the engineer was referring to the impromptu meeting with a hostile scientist or the mission he proposed to undertake.

Probably both
, Mikel thought. Siem was not wrong. But Casey Skett had left him no other opitions.

Dr. Bundy was facing Mikel as he approached. The geologist looked drawn but his brown eyes were as lively as ever. His natural frown deepened as Mikel neared.

“Speak of the bloody bête noire,” the middle-aged scientist said.

Dr. Cummins turned. Her gray eyes were pale against skin that was still bronze from a long, very recent research trip down the Amazon
River. A glaciologist, she had spent four months studying the drop of sea levels in the region during the last ice age. Dr. Cummins was in her midforties, her dull red hair streaked with gray and pulled into a single tight braid. She said she had used it in Brazil to swat flies, like a horse.

“Doctors,” Mikel said in the conciliatory tone he used when he needed something.

The woman nodded and flashed a thin smile. Bundy looked back at his colleague as though they hadn't been interrupted.

“Exhausting all preliminary, standard explanations for a jet of flame in the South Pole,” Bundy said, recapping, “and categorizing, for now, as a form of mass hysteria the shape that
appeared
to be a face of fire we all saw before
that
, we also happened to be talking—Dr. Jasso—about the way you hijacked my truck just
before
the explosion, as if you knew the bloody thing were about to happen.”