CHAPTER 116
Immari Research Base Prism
East Antarctica
Kate looked up at the sound of the second explosion. She tried the door again. Still locked. She thought she smelled smoke. Her mind raced through Dorian’s crazed allegations and the videos of the children walking into that massive structure… with the packs strapped to their backs.
The door swung open, and Martin Grey stepped quickly into the room. He grabbed Kate by the arm and pulled her out into the hall.
“Martin,” Kate began, but he cut her off.
“Stay quiet. We have to hurry,” Martin said as he led her down the white-walled corridor. They turned a corner, and the corridor ended in what looked like an airlock on a space station. They proceeded through the airlock and a gust rushed past them as they ventured into the large room beyond — some sort of hangar or warehouse with a high, arched ceiling. Martin squeezed her arm and led her to a stack of hard plastic crates where they knelt and waited in silence. She heard voices at the end of the room and the engines of heavy equipment — forklifts maybe.
“Stay here,” Martin said.
“Martin—”
“In a minute,” Martin whispered as he got to his feet and ran to the men.
Kate heard his footfalls stop abruptly as he reached the men. His voice rang with an authority and force Kate had never heard from her adoptive father. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Unloadin—”
“Sloane’s called for all personnel at the North Entrance.”
“What? We were told—”
“The station’s been breached. If it falls, whatever you’re doing here won’t matter. He’s called for you. You can stay here if you like. It’s your funeral.”
Kate heard more footfalls, moving toward her; then they passed her and moved out another airlock. There was just one set of footfalls now — Martin. He walked deeper into the hangar and spoke again. “He’s called for everyone—”
“Who’s going to control the site—”
“Gentlemen, why do you think I’m here?”
More footfalls, running, an airlock opening and closing, and Martin was back. “Come quickly, Kate.”
Martin marched her past rows of crates and a makeshift control station of some kind, with a bank of computers and a wall of screens. They showed a long ice corridor and the opening she had seen the children walk through.
“Please Martin, tell me what’s going on.”
Martin’s eyes were soft, sympathetic. “Get into this suit. I’ll tell you all I can in the seconds we have left.” He motioned to a white, puffy space suit hanging on the wall beside a group of lockers. Kate began slipping into the suit, and Martin looked away from her as he spoke.
“I’m so sorry, Kate. I’m the one that forced you to produce results. And when you did… I kidnapped those children. I did it because we needed them—”
“The Bell—”
“Yes, to get past the Bell, to get inside the Tombs — the structure two miles below the ice here in Antarctica. Since we began studying the Bell, we’ve known some people can resist it longer than others. They all die, but a few years ago, we identified a set of genes involved in resistance — the Atlantis Gene — we call it. The gene heavily influences brain wiring. We think it’s responsible for all sorts of advanced cognitive abilities, problem solving, advanced reasoning, language, creativity. We, Homo sapiens sapiens that is, have it; none of the other subspecies of humans have it — that we’ve found. It’s how we’re different. My theory is that the Atlanteans gave it to us around 60,000 years ago — around the time of the Toba Catastrophe. It’s what enabled us to survive. But we weren’t quite ready for it. We were still very much like our great ape cousins, acting on instinct, living in the wild. The strange thing is, we think it’s activated by a sort of neural survival sub-routine, the fight-or-flight center of the brain. That mechanism activates the Atlantis Gene — focusing the mind and body. It could be why we’re a race of thrill seekers and why we’re so prone to violence. It’s so fascinating.” Martin shook his head, trying to focus. “Anyway, we’re still trying to understand how it works. Everyone has the Atlantis Gene or at least some of the genetic components for it, but activating the gene is the problem. For some minds, geniuses, activation is more frequent. We think these genius moments, these flashes of insight and clarity are literally like a light bulb flickering on and off — the Atlantis Gene activates, and for the briefest of moments, we can use the full power of our minds. These people can activate the Atlantis Gene without the fight-or-flight circuit breaker. We began focusing our research on minds that had this sort of sustained activation. We observed activation in some minds on the autism spectrum — savants. That’s why we funded your research. It’s why Dorian was… forgiven… if you will, for his transgressions — he had steered you into an area of Immari interest. And when you succeeded, when the children showed sustained Atlantis Gene activation, I took the kids before he could find out. I created other distractions, with Clocktower, to keep him busy.”
“You were the source. You sent the information to David.”
“Yes, as a backup plan, in case I failed. I had already sent a message to David revealing the Immari double-agents working as Clocktower analysts, and I was trying to tell him that Clocktower itself was the Immari intelligence agency. I had hoped the war for Clocktower would consume the Immari, giving me time to do my work. I kidnapped the children, hoping to keep you out of this, but I underestimated you. And how quickly Dorian would react. I tried to give you clues when we met in Jakarta, during my theatrical rant in the observation room. I wasn’t sure you could put it all together. Then, Dorian’s men had you and… the entire situation spun out of control. It’s all my fault.”
Kate pulled the last of the bulky suit on. “You were—”
“Trying to make contact. My goal has been to find a therapy that activated the Atlantis Gene, allowing us to enter the Tombs and greet the Atlanteans as they awaken, not as murderers, but as their children, to ask their help in managing humanity’s growing pains. To ask for their help with fixing the Atlantis Gene. We’ve found some other… interesting aspects of the gene, mysteries we still don’t understand… There isn’t time to explain, but we need their help. That’s what you have to do, Kate. You can cross into the tombs. You’ve seen what Dorian’s plan is. You must hurry. Your father gave his life for this cause, and he made so many sacrifices for you. And he tried so desperately to save your mother.”
“My mother…” Kate struggled to understand.
Martin shook his head. “Of course. I haven’t told you. The journal, it’s your father’s.”
“It can’t be…” Kate searched Martin’s face. Her mother was Helena Barton? Patrick Pierce was her father? How could it be true?
“It’s true. He was a reluctant member of the Immari. He did it to save you. He put you in the tube, inside your mother that day in the field hospital in Gibraltar. He emerged in 1978 and took the name Tom Warner. I was already a staff scientist for the Immari, but I was wavering… the methods, the cruelty. I found in him an ally, someone inside the organization who wanted to stop the madness, someone who favored dialog over genocide. But he never trusted me, not fully.” Martin stared at the floor. “I’ve tried so hard to keep you safe, to honor my promise to him, but I’ve failed so miserably—”
Behind them another explosion rocked the facility. Martin grabbed the helmet to the suit. “You have to hurry. I’ll lower you down. When you get inside, you have to find the children and lead them out first. Whatever you do, make sure they get out. Then find the Atlanteans. There isn’t much time left — less than 30 minutes until the bombs the boys are carrying go off.” He ushered her to another airlock at the end of the warehouse. “When you get outside, climb into the basket. I can operate it from here. When it reaches the bottom of the ice shaft, run through the portal, just as the children did.” He locked the suit helmet in place and pushed her out of the airlock before Kate could say another word.
When the outer airlock opened, Kate saw the iron basket hanging from the crane’s thick metal cord. It swayed slightly as the Antarctic winds blew through it, barely catching the iron mesh on the sides.
She waddled over to it with some effort. The wind almost blew her over as she reached the basket. The handle was hard to work with her fat fingers, but she managed to get inside. As soon as she closed the door, it began descending into the round hole.
The basket creaked, and above her, the round circle of light shrank with every passing second. It reminded Kate of the end of a cartoon, where the final scene is gradually covered with black as the circle shrinks to the size of a pin and finally winks out into full black. The squeaking basket was an unnerving soundtrack to the darkening descent.
After a few moments, the basket began moving faster and the last sliver of light above disappeared. The speed and disorienting darkness gave her a sick feeling in her stomach, and she braced herself against the basket. Not much longer, she told herself, but she had no idea. It was two miles deep.
Then there was light — a smattering of faint sparkles below, like stars shining on a clear night. For a moment, Kate gazed down at them, admiring their beauty, not thinking about what they actually were. Stars, she thought. Then her scientific mind slowly, subtly began rifling through the possibilities before settling on the most likely candidate: tiny LED lights that had been dropped to illuminate the bottom of the hole. They lay there in a random pattern, glowing in the blackness around them, as if guiding Kate on a cosmic journey to some unknown planet. They were almost… entrancing—
A loud sound — an explosion — echoed down through the shaft, and Kate felt the basket falling faster. And faster still. The thick cable attached at the top of the basket grew slack and gathered in waves above her. She was falling — free falling. The cable had been cut. The basket drifted over, toward the ice wall of the round shaft. When it hit the wall, the basket would flip end over end. She would die as the basket cartwheeled into the ice floor below, pile-driving her into it. If the fall didn’t kill Kate, the thousand stabs from the shattered steel basket holding her would.