Zhivov returns when he said he would and I follow him out of the building, navigating the bustle of TMA cubicles. We get in his car and he pulls out while I’m still shutting the door. Exiting the parking lot, he takes a turn but in the wrong direction–away from the site gate. We drive for half an hour across the arid landscape that slopes down to the Columbia River, the morning sun flooding the land with pink and making the river glitter. There’s a structure ahead of us shimmering in the sunlight. If it’s there in 2021, I’ve never visited it. It’s smaller than the TMA building, but otherwise made from the same trailer materials. We park and enter. Zhivov shows his credential to one of several guards sitting inside the entrance and we pass through a turnstile facing an open elevator. We go down. The elevator control panel acknowledges only two floors but the journey seems more like a skyscraper’s worth. We must be getting as deep as the detection array. The door opens to an large, open space maybe a hundred yards square. The floor is a concrete pad and the ceiling is a hundred feet above us, crisscrossed by I-beams and cranes. In the center of the room is a large, cylindrical metal structure, maybe half the height of the room and fifty feet across. The room is lined with doors and Zhivov leads me to one of them.
The large, round conference table in the room is sparsely populated–Prasad, Bruce, three people I don’t recognize, and Gallie. She and I exchange a glance. She looks luminescent, robust and well. I don’t know how that’s possible when I’m a gray, loosely bound bag of foul guts and pain.
“Given events, Dr. Bevan, time is of the essence,” Prasad says. Is that a joke I wonder? No, this doesn’t seem like the place for a joke. “It’s only a matter of time before one of these attempts on your life is successful, so we should act. That’s our thinking.” He points to a chair and I sit. “This is Dr. Abioye,” he says, nodding toward a woman maybe in her fifties with tight gray hair, dark skin and an expensive gray suit. “And Morales and Byrne, security.” I nod and they stare. “Dr. Abioye has given us the go-head for a reconnaissance mission.” Prasad doesn’t explain who she is, but she looks like someone who’s generally in charge, probably from D.C.
“Reconnaissance only,” she says in a metered, soft voice, practiced to demand attention. “Not a rescue mission.”
“Yes,” Prasad agrees. “Right now we just need to understand the lay of the land. Find out where your colleagues are. What condition they’re in. If they’re captive. We’re giving you four hours in the field to find out what you can. Maybe you won’t find out enough to answer all those questions, or even any of them, but what we’re going to do is send you to the coordinates your colleagues were sent to. That’s no guarantee you’ll find them of course, and if that’s the case, so be it. This is a preliminary mission.” I glance at Gallie whose looking down, arms folded.
“Mission team of four,” Zhivov says. “Galois is team lead. What she says, you do.” I nod. “Bevan, you’ll help identify anyone from your TMA team. Byrne and Morales are security.”
“Do we know they’re not dead?” I ask.
“No,” Zhivov replies coldly.
“But I’d think it’s easier to kill someone than accelerate them,” Prasad says. “So let’s be optimistic.”
“They could be miles from wherever they touched down.”
“Yes,” says Zhivov.
“There are a lot of ways this mission could be useless, or worse, but it’s where we start,” Gallie says.
“Or worse?”
“Sure, “ Zhivov says. “If whoever abducted your team is expecting us–if they detected the tachyon bow wave - they could have a nasty surprise in store.
“And we can’t mask the arrival tachyon burst.”
“No. We can shroud the departing acceleration blast, but not the arrival bow wave unless we happen to be arriving right in the middle of shielding facility,” Zhivov answers. I nod toward the door.
“Is that what the thing out there is?” I ask. Zhivov nods.
“Can we communicate after we arrive?”
“With us? No.”
“So, the first question is,” Prasad says, “are you onboard with this?” My nausea has subsided, likely making way for the fear.
“Yes, I’m onboard,” I reply. This took little thought. It’s why I’m here, plus given how I feel, death will have no sting. Prasad nods at Zhivov who then slides matte charcoal gray boxes about six inches cubed along the table, saloon style, to each of the mission team. The top lid hinges open and I know what I’m seeing is an accelerator. It very sleek compared to the jerry-built collection of components that had flung me here. A strap indicates it’s intended to be worn like a watch so I put it on. A screen and touch pad curve around my wrist with what I assume to be the chemical and reaction chambers forming arm bracers like hoplite armor.
“You’re a natural, Toad. Here’s all you need to know about it,” Zhivov says, pointing at my arm. “You won’t be using it to accelerate out. We’ll be using the main acceleration unit for that. What you need to know is that it’s preset to accelerate you back here. Press the ‘activate’ key and you’ll surf home on a wave of tachyons. Got it?” I nod. “If you’re in doubt whether or not you need to use it, then you need to use it. And after you’ve been on the ground for four hours, it’ll automatically activate and you’re home.”
“We got it,” Gallie says, speaking for me. “We won’t take risks.” We won’t take risks? That’ll be a trick. I nod gravely.
TWENTY-THREE
So the fuse has been lit. I’m sitting on my hands for weeks,
