After questioning me, Patient brought me out of hypnosis and carried on with the session. How many times has Patient done this? How have I failed to notice the loss of time? On the other hand, what reason would I have had to suspect?
I am extremely troubled that Patient induced hypnosis without my consent, not to mention the content of the questions. I will report the incident and discontinue the sessions.
Sweet Jesus, Cal thought. A spray of colored lights . . . coming from the palm of a hand . . . a powerful hypnotist . . . Was Patient 139 the Archon?
It made him speculate once again on the identity of the Ascendants’ terrifying leader. In Cal’s mind, the most obvious choice was Lars Friedman, the scientist at Quasar Labs who had helped Dr. Corwin develop the Enneagon. His disappearance had never been explained, and he could have burned down his own lab to deflect suspicion.
Then there was Zawadi. She fit the profile—a tall martial arts expert—and was enigmatic as hell. It didn’t seem right, and Cal liked her, but you never knew. This applied to Dr. Corwin as well. Again: What if he had faked his own disappearance for some unknown reason? Maybe Lars Friedman had hidden the Enneagon from Dr. Corwin, and Andie’s mentor was using her to find it. Or the Archon could very well be someone inside the Ascendants unfamiliar to Cal or Andie.
He turned back to the folder. There were no more session records. The final entry was another memo.
I confronted Patient 139 about the unauthorized hypnosis, avoiding eye contact to deter a repeat incident. After a pause, Patient whispered in an unfamiliar language that somehow induced blindness in both of my eyes. I was terrified and began to shout. Patient ordered me to stay quiet and asked if I had reported the incident to anyone. I confessed—truthfully—that I had called my superior and left a message and had not received a call back. After interrogating me—and, I have to suspect, another round of hypnosis induced without my knowledge—Patient forced me to reveal the location of the videotape, claiming that if I reported the incident or interfered with Patient’s Ascension, then I would be blinded again, this time for good. With another whispered phrase, Patient restored my vision, told me that my mind was no longer mine alone, and left the room.
In retrospect, I believe Patient must have implanted a hypnotic trigger during one of the earlier sessions. It is the only reasonable explanation for the sudden onset—and withdrawal—of my blindness. There are confirmed reports in conversion disorder literature for similar trauma induced by psychological triggers. I have also come to believe the inconclusive tests in the earlier sessions were carefully orchestrated so that Patient could continue to probe my knowledge.
Though stunned and highly intrigued by Patient’s abilities, I have begun to doubt the true nature of what I have seen and experienced.
I am also afraid.
With goose bumps running down his arms, Cal could only guess at what had happened after that, or why Dr. Taylor had risked keeping a secret record of the sessions.
Insurance against retaliation? Using the knowledge as blackmail?
Cal had what he needed. He knew he should get the hell out of the house. At the very least, Dr. Taylor probably had someone watching it from time to time. Yet unable to help himself, he took a glance at the second, fatter folder. patient 139 was typed in bold font across the top, which caused the back of his neck to prickle. If he was reading about the Archon, and Waylan Taylor had uncovered the true identity of the masked leader of the Ascendants, then Cal could be holding a live grenade of information.
The contents resembled a missing-persons case. Inside were newspaper clippings, photographs, copies of plane tickets, and handwritten notes, most of them pertaining to a tall blond woman with short hair who looked oddly familiar. The Archon is a woman?
He flipped to the end and saw another memo stapled to the inside of the folder. The first two lines told him all he needed to know. As he read them, he clutched the folder and realized why the blond woman looked so familiar. He had seen another photo of her recently, with much longer hair.
Oh, hell no. Oh, Andie. Oh Jesus Christ, no.
He looked down at the folder again, barely able to process the awful truth.
NAME: SAMANTHA ELIZABETH ZEPHYR
SLATED FOR ASCENSION: FEBRUARY 29, 2004
EPILOGUE
PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY
1998
It was the first day of class.
Dr. Corwin always enjoyed the beginning of the school year, the gathering of hopeful young minds to acquire knowledge, the dawn of something rich and new. He especially enjoyed Quantum Mechanics I, his favorite course to teach, the introduction of the graduate students to higher-level physics. As the semester wore on, and their worldviews were spun like a top, and some of them failed to grasp the incredibly difficult concepts, the bloom would come off the rose. His relationship to his students would become more complex, both hero and villain, mentor and executioner, a chimeric possessor of the keys to the kingdom of higher learning.
But for now, he would bask in the glow of positive energy, get to know the fresh faces, and enjoy the fine summer day.
Despite his cheerful mood, a barrage of thoughts filled his mind, none of them related to academia. After years of studying Ettore’s silver sphere, increasingly convinced of the man’s genius, Dr. Corwin grew obsessed with perfecting his device. Ettore’s idea of reaching the Fold by connecting the human mind directly to the theorems that powered the core of his device was ingenious, but he had needed a far more effective conductor of energy. So far, Dr. Friedman’s lab results on the prototype casing had been quite positive.
As the Ascendants grew in power, the Society had elected to withdraw farther and farther into the shadows.
