The Tesla Objective

1

As the last remnants of the flames died out and the embers turned to ash and scattered into the wind, the camera view panned east and revealed the rows and rows of homes, the thousands of lives and property miraculously spared from the wrath of one of the worst wildfires in California history.

The scene abruptly shifted, transitioning to a moving camera point-of-view atop someone’s head — an agent following six more blue-clad officers rushing into a suburban home.

“Here we go,” said the man in front of the huge projection screen at the head of the auditorium, his back turned to the class. Looking like he was trying too hard to fit the professor dress code, he wore a grey suit without a tie, a slightly wrinkled cotton button-down shirt, and discolored jeans. His hair was graying on the sides, matching the peppered shades in his groomed beard.

“First, you witnessed on a massive scale the result our skills, saving an entire city from the ravages of an unpredictable fire — a natural disaster we nonetheless predicted weeks in advance. Now,” he said in a lower, more cautious tone, “we have a special treat where we are going to be joining a live mission of a much more personal nature. Another team has been working with the FBI since last week, trying to pinpoint the location of an eight-year-old girl abducted four days ago from her school. Our efforts presented the authorities with a plausible alternate scenario, but still…as you all have been told repeatedly in your introductory classes, this is anything but an exact science.”

As the team of agents burst into the home, the new recruits gathered here in the auditorium held their collective breath, and Caleb Crowe — leader of the Stargate Program, long-time reluctant psychic and remote-viewer, fought back his own doubts. Not so much as to the outcome of the current mission on-screen. For that, he had the utmost confidence in his teammates who had had their visions backed up by multiple double-blind objectives as well as those of several other members’, including Orlando Natch and Caleb’s own son, Alexander. The little girl was most definitely in this house, hopefully still alive; but Caleb’s doubts ran more along the course of whether or not, despite two years at the helm of this program, despite dozens of just such successes — triumphing in the impossible and providing life-saving results and proving his team’s worth over and over — he was the person best suited for this role.

Just two years ago he had been entrusted with this noble-but necessarily secret operation, ostensibly a program shut down in 1995, but continued under the radar by a man who had used promising test subjects (Caleb’s family notable among them) for his own grand purpose as a self-styled savior of humanity; George Waxman had attempted to preserve the world by destroying exactly these such capabilities in anyone else, and blocking access to visions and psychic experiences that he felt could be used for evil. Caleb had then attempted to continue the fight after Stargate’s cleansing and (supposed elimination), this time with a smaller group of trusted psychics: his sister Phoebe and her now-husband Orlando Natch among them. They had tried to safeguard the treasure they had discovered under the ruins of the Pharos Lighthouse — not a treasure of gold and jewels as many had hoped, given Alexander the Great’s legacy — but instead a treasure trove of wisdom—scrolls, books on science of metaphysics, much of it wildly ahead of not only its time but even this time, passed down from ancients. During those years, operating with a small team of psychics called the Morpheus Initiative, he had learned of an ongoing feud between ancient philosophies, and possibly more ancient races, over the fate humanity; and Caleb once again found himself in a pivotal role. And once again, he chose to protect the greater good and destroy the Emerald Tablet, the one artifact that promised so much for man’s evolution, rather than have it be used for dark purposes. In the aftermath of such a costly victory, he had been entrusted with the Keys to the Kingdom, so to speak.

Stargate.

It was his. His to mold, to shape and to direct into a future. With the almost unlimited resources of a black budget, he had still been careful, proceeding while carrying the ghosts of suspicion — and a bit of paranoia. He had been burned before by those he thought friends, by those who had promised their trust and a shared vision, but in the end had been anything but truthful.

And nowhere could he be more careful than with new recruits. He constantly analyzed the prospective members, gauging their pasts, their motives, even spending valuable time devoting several psychics just to such a task, delving into their backgrounds just as if they had to weed out prospective jury members for a life-or-death trial.

Like those here with him today. They represented the future of Stargate and the Morpheus Initiative, and there was never a greater chance to make an impression than the present.

Caleb returned his attention to the screen, to the tense movement inside the house as the occupants — a middle-aged perfect suburban couple — screamed in shock at the intrusion, and professed innocence over the shouts and thumping of boots. This doesn’t look good, Caleb thought, trying to make sense of the jumbled images, the shadows and flurry of bodies.

Multiple shouts of “Clear!” sounded, and then the lead agent looked into the camera, shaking his head. “Nothing, she’s not here.”

“Aren’t those the parents?” someone asked behind Caleb, but he just held up a hand.

“Wait.” He looked closer at something over the lead’s shoulder. “Agent McKinney?”

“Yeah? Make it quick. If you have something, better tell us now or I’m saying we’re in trouble. They’re calling their lawyer.”

Caleb scanned the area on the screen. “Behind you. That orange thing on the fireplace.”

He turned around and the cameraman followed, zeroing in on the target — a fist-sized clay art sculpture of a clown fish. “Nemo?” Caleb whispered.

“Put that down,” someone in the house insisted, and the agent set it down, after holding it up to the camera for a moment first.

Caleb blinked, thinking hard, then remembering. He spun around and leaned over the table near the podium, a surface littered with pages and pages. Drawings all done in different hands, sketched by fledgling as well as more seasoned members of the Stargate team.

He found what he was looking for and held it up, then slapped it down on a projector, sending the visual to a side screen. And for a moment only, it was as if he stood in front of his students at Columbia, his first position out of grad school, teaching Archaeology and Alignments 102. A lifetime ago, before Alexandria and before the Keepers. “Class, look at this… One of our field agents, asked to focus on the objective of finding little Tina Albertson, drew what’s clearly that same object. It’s without color so I didn’t make the connection at first. But it’s clearly Nemo, the fish, and what’s more, these arrows…”

A series of harsh, hardened lines and points all converged downward in arcs away from the fish, at first giving the impression that the creature was swimming as natural as can be, but determined and fast, downward.

Amid some murmuring, Caleb turned back around and adjusted the volume on his microphone. “Agent McKinney?”

The cameraman had lost sight of the lead agent, and instead was heading toward the front door, following the others who had packed up and were making for the exit.

“Yes?”

“Don’t leave. She’s there.”

“What?”

“The fireplace.” Caleb swallowed hard. He knew how this was going to end, and he knew, just as certainly as he knew that whoever had drawn this image certainly had the gift and had just made the next level as far as he was concerned. Tina’s parents had spun a tale of tragedy and loss, of kidnapping to cover up abuse, neglect and possibly much worse. The only question remained: was she still alive?

“Move it,” Caleb instructed. “There should be…”

But Agent McKinney was already on it. Maybe he had seen the crack in the floor, and as soon as Caleb directed his attention there he was in motion, pushing then pulling one side of the fireplace, which sure enough proved to be a façade. Nothing in there but decorative logs anyway, now it slid aside in a grinding noise that revealed a trap door below.

A woman screamed out, and a blur rushed in front of the camera, only to be subdued and pulled aside by other dark blurs as McKinney yanked hard on the latch and lifted the door. After securing it upright, he descended.

A tense minute followed, punctuated by a woman’s cursing and man yelling at her to keep quiet… and then McKinney rose, unsteadily into the camera’s vision.

He was holding a little girl. Malnourished, drugged for sure. Bruises and scrapes, burns and marks on her arms, it looked like she hadn’t seen the outside of a prison cell — or cage — in weeks.

Caleb saw it in a flash of a sudden unbidden vision: a grimy metal dog cage and a bowl of water, another bowl for waste, a single candle down there… He shuddered, and then the girl took in a breath and McKinney’s face — relieved, surprised, and resolute with anger toward the two parents — filled the screen.

Caleb let out his own breath, then turned off the visual and faced the students again — faced them as they all rose, clapping as if he had just completed a tour-de-force performance.

He held up his hands. “No, no, listen. This…this is what you can do. This…if you follow your talents and what teachings we can help you with here, this is what we are here for. Even if you’re not allowed to tell anyone about it. There’s no credit. There’s no glory, and if you try to go public with this you’ll be treated as crazy…at best.”

He tried to smile. “Now, I believe it’s lunch time.”

He scanned the room, noting all the faces, the eager eyes, the doubt on many expressions, mixed with hope. Hope he needed to nurture. “After lunch, you will be given sealed objectives, and we will get right into it, seeing if you have what it takes to not only join us here, but to do something that will truly change the world.”

He lowered his head, then started to clean up the table. It was the best he could do, trying to sound convincing, like he still believed in hope and optimism, like he still believed that they weren’t all, despite the secrecy and protection of the US Government, in the most desperate of situations, playing in extra innings on borrowed time.

Because he knew the truth, and he had seen the Others.

People like Caleb, his sister and Orlando, like Nina and Montross, like his son Alexander and his friend Aria… they were all in danger. Lightning rods for those who would either use them, or worse…see them dead.

And these Others…they were like nothing he could contend with. Ancient, deadly, inscrutable. Custodians, some called them; Operators by another name, although he still couldn’t be sure what they were, or if they stood for good or evil. One had helped Phoebe in Afghanistan while she had been lost in ancient tunnels; he had given her hope and a message about the future, but only after delivering a warning about his brethren.

Which was why, with the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, Caleb some days barely found the strength to open his eyes and start another day, frightened beyond words of what might happen should those Custodians come calling, should they not like where Caleb and his friends went looking. Should his team pry in wrong locations, or peek too far into the future or the past…

In that regard, he remembered he had to check on Diana Montgomery, the liaison for NASA, who had been here assisting them on a joint project since last week. It was just such a project that had him at the edge of terror, jumping at shadows and expecting the worst. He had an entire team of psychics probing the near future, asking them pointed questions about the security and safety of the Morpheus…make that the Stargate…team. Old names died hard though, and to Caleb, his core members were always from Morpheus. And Stargate? Well he never could never really buy in to serving at the place that was responsible for his father’s death.

He closed his eyes and felt the rumblings of a vision, felt it stirring in his heart, rising up his spinal column and stimulating his neural cortex…but then, a sheet of blue slammed across his vision, shimmering and unfolding like a curtain over something the audience wasn’t meant to see.

“Big brother?”

Caleb snapped back to the present. Opened his eyes and saw Phoebe there. Hair cut shorter, but curlier now than he remembered, but still she was his sister and he couldn’t imagine a more wonderful sight, short of finding a young abducted girl still alive.

“Hey, thanks for that.”

“What, saving you from a daydream? You’ve got to get some sleep!” She was chewing gum, popping it as she scanned the table. She absently shuffled through the drawings. “I should know, the twins have been a double-dose of croup-induced insomnia lately, and the diaper changes are relentless.”

She looked exhausted but still radiant. Maybe it was the post-pregnancy hormones, Caleb thought, but it was like Phoebe flew on a potent mix of caffeine and joy 24-7 lately, and it was almost too much.

“And how’s baby daddy?” he asked.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Still has time to play whatever latest online multiplayer crap is out there, and — I must admit — he does a great job with the babies and lets me get a few Zs in there at least while he’s up anyway.” She nodded to the screen. “So, they got the girl?”

“We got her,” Caleb said.

“And saved the day out in California!” Phoebe gave a little hand clap. “Every day I wonder, you know.”

“Wonder what?” Caleb knew Phoebe had been through a lot, had seen things he hadn’t, things down in a subterranean world under the desert, where what might have been a vision or a vivid dream spelled out her value in the future years and spoke of the revival of an ancient war she would partake in, with free will a vital aspect in determining the outcome for all of humanity.

“If this…whatever miracle we just pulled off to save some city from ruin or rescue someone who would have been dead or worse without us — I wonder if that’s what the Custodian meant. If this latest objective might be the one I was meant for, what I was supposed to do that’s so crucial in my life.”

With a softening look, Caleb reached out to her. “I don’t know. Nothing’s ever what it seems around that group, or the Keepers, or anyone we’ve dealt with, really. All I can say is, do what you feel is right, live each day and what’s meant to be can go…I don’t know…”

“F’ itself?”

Caleb smiled. “Yeah, you said it. All right, I’ve got a satellite to check on. You coming?”

“No, give me an update later. That’s your thing, and Diana’s. I’ve got enough to focus on, like making sure my kids are eating and their pants aren’t full.”

“Yikes, let’s not switch then.”

“Oh, and big brother?”

He paused, noting something about her voice and not sure he wanted to hear the question.

“Heard from…?”

“No.” He knew who she meant, but Caleb didn’t want to say Nina’s name.

“But, what about Jacob? I know you must be wondering.”

Lowering his head, Caleb sighed. “Who says I haven’t checked in on him?”

Phoebe smiled. “I knew you would. You’re a good dad. You’ll see him soon, I’m sure.”

“If she lets me.”

“Wherever she is,” Phoebe said, her tone lightening, as if to add, you know, you just want to give them space.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, get to that satellite thing and find the next great mystery for us to unravel. I’m sure it’ll be a doozy.”

2

Of all areas and the chambers in the Stargate facility, this one was undoubtedly Caleb’s favorite, holding a special, almost magical place in his soul. It spoke to him of childhood visits to the planetarium with his father, of the wonder of a perfect starlit sky, of the symmetry of the universe, of the belief that reality might actually be something other than random. That there was a purpose to existence, a structure. A plan.

Shaped like a dome, the Star Foyer couldn’t help but evoke in Caleb memories of the vault below the Pharos Lighthouse, the prize at the end of his first major quest, a vault that provided all the treasure he could have wanted and more. Knowledge, not just of the ancients and what they knew, but of his own father’s legacy and trust…and love.

It was dim in here now, but not dark yet. Used currently for a projection theater capable of supporting multiple screens, four smaller monitors currently displayed graphical and statistical information around a larger screen — a cockpit-like view of space, and an approaching silvery rock, irregular in shape and definitely not a moon.

“How’s the comet looking?” Caleb asked as the door eased shut behind him.

“Cessara-X1 is closing in on it,” Diana Montgomery said. She was hunched over the projection-desk/control center, operating multiple consoles and coordinating the visuals with the practiced ease of a mountain climber. “Touchdown on schedule in five minutes, twelve seconds.”

Her hair was looking more and more rusty lately, like the shade of her lover’s, Xavier Montross’…before his current switch to a less desirable host body. It came out of a pony tail that may have been fastened days ago, and there were hard lines and dark circles under her eyes.

“How long have you been down here?” Caleb asked, noting the garbage can at her feet, full of Red Bull cans, candy wrappers and McDonald’s bags.

“Uh, what day is it?”

“Thursday?”

“Is that a question?” she asked, laughing. “Or don’t you know either?”

“A bit of both. I think we’ve all been a little overworked.”

“Yeah, well…” She picked up an empty can, took a disappointed sip, then shook it at the screen. “This is kind of a big deal.”

Caleb pulled up a chair and turned his attention upwards to graphical model, scanning the trajectory graph, the line and the arrow inching closer to the immense rock, more than half in shade, with the sun several hundred million miles away. “That’s why I’m here. Wouldn’t miss this for anything short of, well, some of the other stuff we’ve had to deal with the past few years.”

“Ancient world-destroying tablets, indestructible spears, magic soccer balls?”

“Blame your boyfriend for that one. He stole it—”

“From the Smithsonian, my former employer. Yeah, don’t remind me, I’m still not even allowed in the museum gift shop.” She took a deep breath and adjusted something on the controls, zooming in the main view. “Looking good, everything’s okay so far.”

Caleb nodded, but held his breath. His shoulders were tense, heart in his throat. He didn’t want to say it, but she spoke for him.

“Still hoping there’s nothing like Phobos — what happened on the Mars mission when we got too close back in the seventies.”

That was exactly the fear Caleb had, that some defense mechanism might rear up at the last moment, a streak of light or a blur — and then the satellite feed would go dark and all communications would be lost, with no explanation ever to be received.

The map left for Phoebe and Caleb under the old Stargate facility at Mt. Shasta indicated that something artificial had been left on this thus-far uncharted rock in the Taurid stream, something perhaps safeguarded there as an ultimate refuge, a redundant storage repository of knowledge. Smaller than the five-km comet Encke, which led the pack of objects in the Taurids, kicking off dust and stirring up a trail that crossed the Earth’s orbit twice a year, resulting in beautiful meteor showers, this new element had been dubbed Icarus for want of a better name.

One-point-five km in diameter, mostly dormant, Icarus wasn’t easy to locate, outshined by Encke which took all the glory. The viewpoint from the NASA satellite expanded in stark black and white, focusing and refocusing as the image blurred. There wasn’t yet much to see.

“Coming in fast,” Diana said. “Hang on to your hat.”

“Where’s touchdown point?”

“Close as we could get,” she said. And by ‘we’ Caleb knew who she meant. Montross. The man with the deep pockets, the senator — or at least his body. To all others, he was still Mason Calderon. However, a select few, those here in the Stargate Program, knew the truth — that Calderon had tried to use an ancient power to disrupt all life on the planet, to extract himself and his followers off-world in fulfillment of an ancient prophecy, a conflict that had yet to find its end. But Caleb and his half-brother Xavier, with the help of Nina, Phoebe, Orlando and others, denied Calderon’s gambit. In the process however, Xavier Montross found himself able to switch consciousness into Calderon’s body after the senator had killed his own. Calderon’s astral essence was stranded, then destroyed as Caleb wielded the Spear of Destiny — the one weapon able to interact with both realms.

Montross, now with access to unlimited funding and significantly more political clout, had given Diana the mission she needed. Working with Caleb, she planned a touchdown on the closest and most accessible of the locations highlighted by the Custodians on their map under the Mount Shasta facility — before it had been destroyed.

Comet Icarus. It just so happened NASA had a satellite ready to go two years ago, one that was repurposed for a little side trek before its journey out to Neptune. A pit stop first to the Taurid stream after Encke passed, dragging everything — including Icarus — in its wake. Now the satellite, armed with a new mission, was set to release its cargo at the designated location.

Diana and Caleb were beyond excited. “Is this what it was like?” Diana asked, as if reading his mind.

“What?”

“When you finally got past all those traps, deciphered the codes and made it into the Pharos Chamber? When you knew you were about to access the prize hidden for so long?”

Caleb licked his lips, watching the asteroid’s rugged surface come into view, pockmarked with craters and littered with spires and icy rock formations. “Almost like that. Except this…it’s so incredible. Another world, and to think someone else has been there already!”

“Not just been there, but built something, left us something…”

“They went all Arthur C. Clarke on us.”

“Or maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “Arthur was one of you.”

“Meaning what?”

“You know what it means. That he saw the things he wrote about. Maybe mixed them up, adjusted things a bit, but the 2001 monolith? That’s too spot-on.”

“Maybe,” Caleb replied, eying the alien formations, rocky promenades shaped out of some drug-induced ice-sculptor’s twisted nightmares. “So what’s next? The payload touches down, releases the rover and the camera, and then we just hope it can see something?”

“Unfortunately, yes that’s about it. A 360-degree view is all we’ll get, and it’s not likely on that surface it can travel too far, so we’ve got to hope we chose the landing site wisely. Based on all the information we had on Icarus, its topographical layout and geological makeup, this seemed to be the only set of coordinates that might lead to a flat enough surface…the bottom of a shallow crater — something that might support an artificial structure.”

“In other words, if we were going to build a nice retirement home there, that’s the spot we’d choose?”

“Yep. Location is everything.”

“Hang on, going in now.”

“Let’s hope—”

Caleb blinked and almost missed it. Something thin and tall and completely out of place, and then it was gone, lost in a blur of icy dust and shards and gas as the payload made its not-so-gentle touchdown.

“Was that—?”

Diana was already on it, furiously replaying footage, pulling data and trying to clear the images until just one settled, one right before the image feed went dark.

“Oh, Montross is so going to owe me for this, after he bet we wouldn’t find anything.”

Caleb leaned in, until their faces were side by side, staring in awe at the scene she had frozen. The blurry action shot…

“You picked the right location,” he said, barely hearing his own words over the thudding of his heart. The shape loomed large in the view screen. With its sharp angles and flat edges, it couldn’t be anything other than what Caleb knew it to be.

A pyramid.

3

The card’s trio of wavy black lines multiplied in his vision as his eyelids began to flutter and droop.

“Triangle,” said the candidate — the fifteenth of the day? Or was it the sixteenth? Orlando Natch stopped counting an hour and two Red Bulls’ ago. To say this wasn’t going well would be monumental understatement, like complaining that a trek into Mordor to destroy the One True Ring would be ‘a pain’. Each prospective remote viewer or want-to-be psychic was worse than the last, no one showing any glimmer of power.

Where were these rejects coming from? Oh wait, he thought, don’t answer that, we know who’s sending these people. The same a-holes who actually made Stargate account for every dollar spent.

This was all the worse, because he had been sure he had sensed something from this one, picking her out of the remaining six in the waiting area. Thin and wiry in an athletic way, with long dreadlocks, looking a bit like he imagined a young Madame Marie Laveux would appear back in the Voodoo New Orleans era, she alone among the bunch exuded confidence. She seemed certain in her abilities and a little impatient to prove herself. He recognized all those qualities as ones he himself had shared in the weeks before he signed up for the Initiative.

This candidate — Victoria Bederus — had been sitting next to another youngish man who gave off that grunge look, a guy who was part angry Kylo Ren and part sorry-for-himself Luke Skywalker. A compelling combination in some circles perhaps, but Orlando didn’t like it. Maybe the kid…well, not really a kid…perhaps in his early thirties, maybe this guy had some talent as well, but he seemed a bit too calm for the situation. He’d been waiting all day, since 7 AM with the others, who were all fidgeting, anxious and some just ready to bail. That was all part of the process, Orlando knew. He needed to see who could hack it, because this business wasn’t all adventure and Indiana Jones (or Caleb Crowe) excitement; not all spelunking, scuba diving and dodging enemy gunfire while hunting ancient treasures and magical artifacts.

Nope. Orlando knew all too well the hours put in with pencil and paper, or in his case, graphics tablet and stencil, but it was the same: ninety-percent waiting around. It was all about patience, perseverance and above all, trust in yourself.

Maybe that’s what was bothering him now. That guy outside…Boris something? He had that trust, that confidence. Despite the dark vibe, that guy had something, and he was patiently waiting his turn. This woman, well she was impatient as hell, but still — Orlando had been sure she would be advancing. Her early screening had been superb. She had excelled at the Morpheus questionnaire, a personal survey designed with questions that had only one revealing answer each, one that indicated if the candidate had a vision or blast of insight to answer the question. Victoria crushed that survey and answered 80 percent of the questions accurately — more than anyone else in years.

So why was she crapping out here?

Twenty cards in, and she had missed every single one. Not even close. Once even, she answered with a sign that wasn’t even one in the deck. How was that possible? It was like she was drunk, or failing on purpose. Simple chance would let even the non-talented applicant get one of these right. Worse, she seemed so confident in her answers, responding right away, closing her eyes for a moment after Orlando flipped each card, then nodding and giving another wrong choice.

Finally he drew the last card — a triangle.

“Circle,” she said, smiling and exhaling a great sigh. Her eyes were shining, her teeth flashing. Her muscles relaxed and her shoulders loosened as if a great weight had been removed. It was over, and Orlando imagined she felt like he did after he had scored 1600 on his early placement SATs as a freshman so many years ago.

He set down the cards, forced a smile and led her back to the waiting room.

“You can go for now.”

“When will I hear?” she asked, her voice cracking. Her eyes met his — and if he hadn’t just seen concrete evidence of her lack of talent, he would have sworn she glimpsed into the future and saw her absence at this facility. She knew, but that was probably because Orlando was a terrible poker player.

“Soon,” he said and motioned to the door. Then he sighed as she left with her head down, and he looked to the last candidate left. The others had apparently given up for the day.

The young man raised his chin and his dark, unsettled eyes swam into view as he pushed back locks of jet black hair. He smiled, then looked around the empty room. “Guess you saved the best for last?”

“Let’s hope,” Orlando said. “Boris…Zeller, is it?”

Boris stood. “It sure is. Glad you had time to get me in today. So looking forward to this.” He smoothed his button-down shirt that fit a little too large for his frame, and was untucked over beige cargo pants, left his hooded USC sweatshirt on the chair and followed Orlando in.

“You know,” he said, “I really enjoyed that home questionnaire thing, but nothing beats a good sit down, a face to face interview. The good old days, right?”

“I honestly wouldn’t know. I got all my jobs through Skype. Could’ve been wearing just my underwear.” Orlando hoped maybe that would put this guy off his game, but it didn’t work.

Boris just laughed and took a seat. “Hey that last girl…she didn’t look so good when she left. I hope you’re not too rough in here, although if it’s just a card game, I can’t imagine I’ll lose.” That smile again and those damn inscrutable eyes. “I’m really good at games.”

“Okay Boris, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Orlando took a seat. Shuffled the cards. Met this last candidate’s eyes and almost dismissed him right away. Even if he had talent, you also had to have another intangible: the ability to meld with the team, and already Orlando had him at strike two.

He finished shuffling, and began.

From the Stargate central control room, which had been a security center designed to provide observational capability to the entire facility, with camera feeds from almost every room, hallway and exterior access point, Phoebe watched the last interview her husband performed on Victoria. Watched and listened, adding audio access.

After talking to Caleb, Phoebe needed a little downtime, and she really needed a cup of their surprisingly excellent espresso from the gold-plated machine she had ordered last year. She liked to sit here sometimes. She felt like she could catch up on days’ worth of activities, even while her time was now so limited, being a mother to two demanding six-month old twins. They were just down the hall, watched by a sitter, but even now she felt their absence like two lost front teeth, and ached to have them back in her arms. But first…just an espresso and a few minutes to watch her man at work.

Observing, hearing the woman’s clearly confident responses…she had never seen anyone so sure. No candidate, however talented, ever saw things that quickly. This test wasn’t a gut-instinct visual exercise; it required focus and direction and more. Phoebe herself was hardly any good at it, needing quiet and real thought toward her objective. Some remote viewers were like that, and only a few got more than a third of the cards right in this test. This applicant seemed to think she was going to ace this one.

After Orlando took her out and started in with the last candidate — one Phoebe didn’t care to stick around for, not liking his looks or his all-too friendly attitude having just met Orlando — she finished her espresso in a one-shot gulp, and then made her way quickly out of the facility. Rushed past the security at the main doors, then out into the lobby. To the glass doors, she looked out into the traffic, to the light rain falling from a late-day clouded sky. Shafts of slanting sunlight filtered through and gave off an otherworldly atmosphere, as mist rose from the hot streets and multi-colored umbrellas dotted the sidewalks in a subdued pageant of motion and light.

There. The woman was huddled under an awning beside a sign for the bus. Probably just missed it, Phoebe thought, seeing it was ten after six and they were promptly on the hour at that stop.

She approached, wrapping herself in her windbreaker, not bothering with the hood. The rain was light and refreshing, and something about that last candidate, his eyes… Phoebe was just fine letting the rain wash her face clean.

“Victoria?”

The woman didn’t turn. Her eyes were wet, but more from tears, Phoebe suddenly realized.

“I understand now.” Victoria spoke without taking her eyes off some distant vantage point. “I see it. I see everything.”

Frowning, Phoebe stood just outside the shelter of the awning, getting progressively more soaked as she moved slowly into the woman’s path. “What do you see?”

“I know.”

Her eyes were near white. Lids trembling, her fingers came to her lips. “He can’t…he thinks it was a game, just shutting me out so he can take my place.”

“Orlando? Ma’am, my husband was in no way…”

“Not him, the other.”

“What?” Phoebe took a step back after initially thinking she should reach out to her, touch her shoulder, reassure her. But she knew that look. Victoria was either a great faker, or was seeing something.

Before she could take another instinctual step back, Victoria’s hand shot out and grasped Phoebe’s wrist. The eyes rolled back and met hers.

“Ask the right questions!”

Phoebe tried to pull away.

“Ask!”

“What questions?”

“Why did I see so clearly? Every card, every single goddamned card. I saw them all — and I’m never wrong!”

“But you were wrong,” Phoebe said. “I was watching and listening. Every single card, you were wrong. I even staggered your responses to see if possibly you were seeing the future draws, which believe me, has happened with some gifted that way, but no. Sometimes, hell, you even said images that weren’t in the deck.”

“Then ask yourself why!”

Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t have time for that. I just…”

“Wanted to see if I was ok?”

“Well…”

“Or did you sense something yourself? You know I didn’t fail.”

“But…”

Her eyes pleaded. “I didn’t. Someone else beat me, made me see the wrong things.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Ask!” She gripped Phoebe’s wrist now with both hands. “Because this is more than just me not making your little team.”

“Little? Have you been watching the news? Have you—”

Then it hit her. Maybe the espresso, which had a habit of allowing her to multi-task and focus on many things at once, kicked in, but she finally did ask the question. Deep down inside, way down into her center, her focus.

Asked.

And answered.

The card lifts…and Victoria’s vision sweeps around like a hawk on a gentle circular flight pattern, and sees it perfectly. “A goat,” she says, and that’s the visual on the card.

Only, it flickers and as her sight goes round, it returns to the wavy lines.

Again she swoops around for a look at the next card, which one moment is a circle, the next a triangle.

Victoria answers right…which is wrong.

WHY?

Comes Phoebe’s voice, and the vision shifts.

Out in the waiting room. The last candidate, head down, muttering to himself so quiet, almost inaudible. “Goat…triangle…sphere…”

And the words, their echoes form psychic vibrations visible in this state, fluttering in the air out towards the room, towards Victoria.

A flash and she’s back.

“Oh my god…”

“You see?” Victoria asked. “I didn’t, not until now, until I got out and questioned it all. I saw those cards, saw them so clear, with no doubt in my mind. The same as I’ve seen hundreds of true visions in my life, from back on the bayou when I first glimpsed a gator under the boat a mile away… the same instant it reared up and took off my father’s arm, dragged him under and ate the rest at its leisure.”

Phoebe swallowed hard, and again tried to pull away.

“But that ain’t all. Ask more.”

“What else is there?” Phoebe tried to sound calm but supportive. “If this is real, then he’s a threat, and I’ve got to get back there.”

“Not yet. You’ve got to see the rest. What I just saw.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to ask. I don’t understand, can’t process all this yet.”

Victoria squeezed again and prevented Phoebe from slipping away.

“It concerns…your twins.”

Phoebe froze. The rain belted down on her now, and she couldn’t be certain she heard that right. Forget about how this person knew she had children, but the twins?

And then it struck again, like an invisible tsunami to her cerebral cortex.

A city in flames, wreckage of skyscrapers sliding apart. The sky crimson with devilish fingers of smoke ascending through great crevasses in the pavement. Flashes of mobs, armies fighting without weapons, facing off and flaying each other’s skin and muscle with but a look. Images of robed men looking on from ice-capped peaks as the world shudders. One of them raises a child high — an infant — as another, wearing a black robe comes forth holding the baby’s twin.

And a knife, already scarlet and dripping.

Electricity sparkles across the sky, shooting from all directions, like a spider-web net, electrifying the atmosphere and conducting…spreading…

Absolute devastation throughout the world.

The black-hooded one pauses as his eyes reflect dancing lightning.

Familiar eyes, cold and calculating, yet tinged with a sense of celebration as if he has just won the ultimate game.

“Boris!”

Phoebe bursts back to the present.

“Oh my god!”

“You see, you see?” Victoria at last let her go.

And Phoebe grabbed her in turn. “We have to get back there, have to warn Orlando, have to…”

She stopped short, staring at Victoria. “No, wait, we can’t…Oh god I don’t know what to do. If that’s a real future, what if it’s a warning? If…if by going back there he’ll sense us and start all this madness?”

Victoria looked at her with helpless eyes, and Phoebe had a moment of sadness for her. Up until today she was likely just hoping for a new job, a place to use talents that had so far only brought her pain and misery, and now she was about to be thrust into some version of Hell, and might have a bigger role to play than she ever imagined.

“We can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

“Not yet,” Phoebe said. “Shit, he may already be scrying us, but hopefully not. Either way, it’s too dangerous. Can’t do it, not without a Shield.”

“A what?”

Phoebe shook off the question, single-mindedly looking off to the east. “We need Aria.”

4

In the rain that managed to fall sideways now in a driving push to reach under his large golf umbrella, Alexander Crowe moved closer to Aria, as close as he could manage without seeming too fresh. They’d been closer before, but things had cooled since the new semester started, since some new objectives required their cooperation with the Stargate team, and all in all, they had both been burning their respective candles at all ends, leaving little time for each other.

Maybe she’ll grow fonder, Alexander thought, fighting back a shiver. They were both early admission freshmen, juggling too many classes, activities and of course, their other responsibilities. His father tried to keep those at a minimum, unless Aria’s special talent was needed, which was rare. She could shield their activities, their very whereabouts from other psychics, blocking them from remote sight. Previously, their enemies had used her to shield their camp and their plans until almost too late. Her father and mother had valiantly died protecting her, and now she was part of a new family. Alexander’s family, which made for various concerns and guilt. If their relationship progressed as he hoped it would, then it was a perfect situation. But if not, he knew things could get awkward fast.

At least she wouldn’t have to worry he’d ever snoop on her when they weren’t together, he joked a couple times. You couldn’t if you tried, she laughed back, and on that time, one of the last, they had kissed. Deeply, tenderly during a storm not too different from this one.

Thunder rumbled a ways off as it cleared past their area and headed east.

“So are we going to stand in the rain all day trying not to get wet, or are we going to get back to it?” She snuggled a little closer, looked into his eyes, and for an instant as the rain slashed at their legs and the wind threatened to rip the umbrella away, there was that connection again.

“Studying for Trisdeli’s Stats final, or…the other thing?”

“The other thing,” Aria said over the rain. “I’d like to help.”

“Before you can come into our office though, you know the rules.”

“Yeah I know. But I can focus it now, I can shut off the shield.”

Usually it was only off during the time she was asleep. The terrorists who had her captive in Afghanistan used drugs and other methods to keep her awake, things Alexander preferred not to think about, and memories Aria preferred stayed far in the past. Aria had let them know in advance of her visits, in case the psychic teams were working on objectives around the facility. Her presence could effectively wipe out all those efforts.

Right now they were working on something big.

“Uncle Xavier’s thing?” Aria prodded.

Alexander smiled. ‘Uncle Xavier’ wasn’t so much as he remembered him any longer. His father’s half-brother — a man with incredible clairvoyant powers himself, a man who had sacrificed himself for them, for the very world, and found his consciousness transplanted into the body of Senator Mason Calderon — once their worst enemy, was at this moment rallying the United Nations, along with NATO and other agencies, on a very particular quest.

A matter of international importance that held huge implications for the Stargate agency, for psychics in general, and possibly, for the safety of the world.

Alexander didn’t want to miss being a part of that. “Yeah, apologies to Professor Trisdeli, but I do…I really do want to get back there and help out.”

“Knew you did. I can tell. You fidget so damn much.”

“Well, maybe I’m just nervous around you.”

“Ha.” She snuggled a little closer, and her arm circled his waist.

“This…this is nice,” he said, looking out over the campus, the busses the raincoats and the array of umbrellas, everyone rushing from one place to another.

Alexander felt the moment of shared tenderness closing in and closing down, anticipation rising and about to collapse, as if a door was about to shut on a path of countless futures, limiting their choices now to just one. Helpless to stop it, he felt outside of himself, and suddenly her touch opened up a blind spot. Right there to his left, in a blurry shadow behind the corner of Starbucks. People hustled by in their raincoats, umbrellas bobbing and dripping, but in the gaps of vision, a figure stood there, one that hadn’t been there before.

“Mom,” he whispered, and felt Aria tense.

“Where?” her voice came back from an impossibly distant corridor of his mind.

The umbrellas and the people, the cars and buses, all transformed into unrealistic phantoms, sideshow illusions compared to the woman in the glowing verdant dress and the large-brimmed summer hat. It was an image from one of Alexander’s favorite pictures of her. Upstate New York, skipping stones at Sodus Beach on a late July Sunday after a double-chocolate twist ice cream cone.

“Alexander,” came her voice, carried with the echoes of fading raindrops.

He tried to call out, tried to move, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He hadn’t seen her vision appearing to him like this in so many years, not since that fateful day below the modern library at Alexandria, after the earthquake, in the midst of so much destruction and death and loss.

Here she was again, looking no different, except maybe more lovely and perfect.

“Go…”

He strained and listened, trying to catch what sounded like a bubbling voice in a pool.

“…to Namodal.”

Where? Mom, I hear you, he tried to convey. And Mom…please, I miss…

The rain returned, a torrential downpour, washing away her image, melting the greens of her dress and the red ribbon in her hat like wet pastels running down a canvas soon blurred further by the bustle of crowds. Aria’s grip pulled him back.

“What did you see? Your mom, did she—?”

He could only shake his head, and hope the rain splashing now against his face would disguise his tears.

“I have to go.”

Aria nodded. “I sensed something too. Not what you did, but…something else.”

Alexander blinked, cleared his eyes and met her look. “What do you mean?”

“I can tell when someone is trying to find us. It’s involuntary, reactionary, but the shield…it’s been up for an hour now.”

“Someone’s looking for us? For you?”

“Both of us, likely.”

“And not just our Stargate people? Or Dad? You know how snoopy he can be.”

Aria smiled and then shook her head.

“This was different. Something…icky, I would have said years ago when I was in Afghanistan and feeling the same thing.” Her expression darkened. “I feel it’s that all over again, except a much stronger force. Darker and intrusive, angry. A confident mind looking for us, looking hard.”

“Keep the shield up,” Alexander said. “And let’s skip class.”

She forced a smile. “Normally I’d be excited to hear you being such a bad boy, but I’m guessing this isn’t going to be fun.”

“Maybe not, but I have a name, somewhere I’m supposed to go. It sounds familiar, but I need to talk to my dad first, and…we need to get back there.”

Alexander stepped out into the rain.

“To Stargate.”

5

After the test concluded, Boris Zeller shook Orlando’s hand and gave him a wry smile. “Hope I did ok. Although I think I wasn’t really feeling it today.”

Orlando shrugged, took his hand and tried to shake it and get done quickly, as if afraid of germs. “We’ll let you know, but we’ve also got a few more exercises we’d like to run through with you tomorrow. This was just one of many indicators of psychic talent. Some do well on it, some…well they have other talents.

Boris held the grip a little longer, then let go and wriggled into his sweatshirt. He flipped up his hood, keeping the smile the whole time. “Great, looking forward to coming back, just let me know.”

He glanced around the room, then back out into the hall and up at the cameras, continuing his smile. My work here is done.

“See you soon, Mr. Natch.” See all of you soon…

He closed the door behind him. Head down, hands in his pockets, he nonchalantly sauntered out into the hall, past the security guard and his holstered weapon, down the long corridor and the past the War Room and the recreation center and relaxation chamber, all the places he’d seen without visiting. Just as he had seen Caleb Crowe and the NASA woman in the far section of the facility, down two levels.

He hadn’t come in time to affect their efforts, but that hadn’t been his mission. He had seen enough. Touched enough. The Louisiana bitch was just the icing on the cake. Just a little harmless fun. Sure, he strayed from his cover, veered from the mission, but why not? The rest was so easy.

They weren’t prepared for him, for what he could do. Hadn’t a clue, not with all their powers and predictive abilities. He was something different, the purest wild card, a bull about to rage through their little China shop operation.

Boris held back his joy at the ease of his success, at penetrating the very lair of the enemy with such ease. He had planted a virtual bomb back there, nothing so crude as a physical concoction of fertilizer and electronics, but something far more deadly.

Smirking under his hood, he gave a two finger salute to the two armed guards at the main glass doors after strolling over the marble tiled lobby, past the flanking Egyptian falcon-armed goddesses. Under their watchful but impotent gazes, Boris took his leave. There was nothing they could do, nothing any of them could do.

The only one he worried about was the senator. Calderon — or actually the one who wore the face of his former associate. However, Xavier Montross was far too busy at the moment, believing it to be his moment in the spotlight; his greatest victory at hand, he had no time to go poking into something that was going to blindside his friends and this rogue institution that had long outlived its welcome.

Goodbye Stargate, he thought, pausing at the door and then exiting into the rain and heading quickly for the large black limo waiting around the corner.

He slipped inside as the door opened with his approach. Slid into the back seat and took the offered glass of champagne from the other sole occupant. A man in a perfectly starched black suit, shirt and tie, and a wide-brimmed black hat pulled low over his forehead. A cigarette hung from his lips, unlit as if it was just a prop.

He was man of indeterminate age, with eyes of slate-blue, inscrutable and almost perpetually glazed as if seeing hues, wavelengths and sights no one else could perceive. Boris pulled back his hood and accepted the glass.

“Well done,” said the man as the limo drove off into the rain.

“You observed.”

“Of course.”

“So, no problems. You saw it all went perfectly.”

“You took a needless chance.”

Boris paused, the glass at his lips. He met the man’s eyes and was again, as always, unnerved by them. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” He removed the cigarette, held it in his fingers and gave it his full attention, as if surprised by its presence. “The woman has alerted Caleb’s sister. We need to move up the time frame.”

Boris’s hand shook, and the other reached out and gently took the glass back, opened the window and poured the champagne out into the rain. “Celebration can wait.”

Boris felt like curling up into the corner, into the shadows away from the passing streetlights and the rain whipping in through the window before it closed.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“The fault is mine, for trusting in one so young and impatient.”

“I won’t stray again. I…”

“No, you won’t.” The man returned the cigarette to his lips, then folded his arms. “We are patient, but this operation is too critical to fail, and it won’t. Fortunately we are close enough to begin, and your skills…while raw, have been more than up to the task.”

Boris swallowed hard, straightening up his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” said the man whose eyes retreated now into the folded darkness as the limo left the main roads and raced into the darker suburbs. “You still have a great role to play.”

6

Xavier Montross, still thought of himself as himself, despite knowing that the face looking back at him from the mirror — or on the news or in the papers — was in no way his, and in fact had for so long been the face of his once-enemy.

Still, he had to remind himself of the most important thing. Deposing this body’s former host, scattering Mason Calderon to the astral winds, was the victory of victories. Something maybe no one had ever done in the history of the world. So, looking upon the face of his foe was another sort of daily triumph he could savor. Also, with that victory came major spoils: immediate ascension into the upper ranks of power and prestige. He had sudden access to top-secret information, to backroom power deals and acceptance into circles only occupied by the upper elite decision makers and world-changers.

Such was the case with this room. He had arrived in Geneva last night, and had yet to see anything of its beautiful scenery, historic museums or quaint streets. Rushed immediately into a car and taken to this three-story brownstone and then down into a bunker three levels below the street, he had been in meetings ever since, with just one break for a meal.

Now they were ready to begin.

Montross rose and addressed the room. This public speaking gig, it wasn’t his thing, but he had made it a priority and was a quick study. After the initial body stealing, he had some work to do. Basically he went into seclusion for a couple weeks, and spent that time studying the late Mr. Calderon — his life, his mannerisms, his friends and his family. Fortunately the man was a widower, his kids grown and largely distant. Politics (and back room secret meetings and power struggles) was his life, but despite all the secrecy, there were still enough examples on YouTube and old CSPAN tapes, not to mention his early career running for office, that Montross could mimic the man well enough to fool most.

Those he was most worried about however, were the ones in this room, and the other agents and international counterparts who expected secrets to be held and deals to be honored. Fortunately, Calderon was a paranoid little bastard. He kept files on his fingerprint locked laptop, blackmail fodder perhaps, but the files were chock full of pictures and personal details, massive amounts of data on everyone he would ever come in contact within the months to follow.

If that wasn’t enough, Montross could always rely on his personal edge and remote view what he needed. It hadn’t been perfect, this disguise, but it worked, and he was here. Ready to move into the next phase.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to unveil the future of espionage.” He looked around the room, at the faces impatient and curious, and at the screen behind him, with the symbol of Stargate hovering in the blackness like a beacon. “The future, and the end of chaos.”

Montross prepared for the speech, and for the start of the operation. On the screen behind him, a cross section alignment came into focus, one view highlighting a dry plateau area against a backdrop of epic Biblical mountain ranges, zooming in until a walled compound became clear. On the right, schematics and numbers were flashing, coordinates of an incoming strike team, mirrored on radar on another section below.

“Operation Two-Point-Conversion set to begin in three minutes.”

He looked up at the eager faces. General Asiro Bensari on his left, uncharacteristically out of uniform and in a black suit instead, as if decked out for an award ceremony. Montross wondered if he had just finally had enough of the attention, and wanted to one-up the presenter. Montross himself had finally gotten used to wearing these damn three piece costumes that Calderon loved. Even if each piece had cost more than the average American mortgage, the vest especially was damn annoying, but it wasn’t yet time to make a fashion change. He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than was already warranted by any slip ups in memory or attitude.

Asiro, the current head of the International Defense Initiative, was a man steeped in tradition. Under other circumstances Montross imagined him decked out in Samurai garb, ready to settle village disputes at the point of a katana. He was a man of few words, but he had certainly felt slighted with Montross taking the lead role in this, what should been a military operation.

“It’s time,” Montross continued, “to close down Ibr-Al Hansi’s terrorist operation. He tried earlier this year to strike at the very heart of a global event, the Super Bowl in San Francisco, and it was only through the combined efforts of various organizations and the talented members of my own team, that we prevented an attack that could have destroyed thousands of lives and shattered the world’s psyche.”

“We know,” Asiro chimed in, “and as we’ve asked before, it’s past time to reveal your sources. This ‘team’ you keep mentioning that seems to have unerring knowledge of threats before they occur.” The general’s hands had tightened into fists, and more of the disdain crept into his voice.

“I will reveal them, General. And you are right. It is time.”

Others in the room perked up, their attention vying between the speaker and the screen, both holding great interest now.

Montross sighed. “But for that, I need more than three minutes. After this operation’s success, after another grave threat to the world is taken off the game board, then I agree it is time, and you will understand the true nature of the weapon we have in our arsenal.” He looked at all their faces. “You will understand what potential it has — for both good and ill. It is the latter I’ve been working to contain, for this…weapon, this tool has been misused before by my own government and others, and it is my aim that together with those of you in this room we can manage this information. We can reveal only what we must, and at the same time we can effectively use this tool — this weapon as I’ve called it — to stop future threats and deflect or limit tragedies. Both of the man-made and natural type.”

“That,” said the delegate from Brussels, “I would like to see.” He was stocky and bald, and Montross found his taste in turtlenecks (and the very fact that he wore them under a suit coat) as distasteful as his nasally voice.

How did Calderon ever get mixed up with this group? Other than the general, the rest of the dozen people in here seemed confident enough, but all were alpha types who understandably put the needs of their home countries first. They tried to work in back deals for themselves or their interest groups. All of them superficially acted as one, but never strayed far from their true native loyalties. There was one however, that worried him, simply because of the fact that he couldn’t read her.

Miriam Agreson, from Berlin. She gave Montross the impression of a hastily-carved statue out of the Expressionist period: confusing and distinctly unnatural, yet somehow still pleasing to the eye. Tall, extremely long (and unsymmetrical?) arms, an elfin-like face with a too-narrow chin and eyes far too distant from each other, with a color he could never quite place. And that hair? On certain days he was sure it was a wig. Just too perfect, straight and never changing. Others might not notice, but he noticed everything. And what he couldn’t see, he tried to see.

He had probed her past, her present, and had tried on numerous occasions to go deeper, but with Miriam it wasn’t a shield. No blue screen blocking him. It was almost as if she had something else in place to show would-be-scryers who came looking: a little highlight reel of nonsensical images.

A burned out building, decimated in war. Tanks rolling in the distance as columns of smoke rose up from the rubble. Bodies strewn about. Nazi uniforms and a Swastika flag in flames. A rush into a tunnel shaking with subterranean detonations far off…then what looked like a camp, decimated prisoners reaching through barbed wire fences…

WWII? But certainly this woman, appearing in her late forties at most, hadn’t been around for any of that, so what the hell was he seeing?

No, Miriam was a wild card, and most attempts to get her to speak outside of these sessions had failed. She was always on the phone to parties unknown, or in her room and not responding. There was nothing on her in Calderon’s files. Montross didn’t like what he couldn’t understand, what he couldn’t know completely. She was a mystery, one he’d have to solve soon. Something would turn up, but for now…

“Two minutes,” General Bensari said, watching now with rapt attention. “Two minutes and we will see if your magic weapon can have another success, if we can root out the source of this threat.”

“And if so,” said the Brussels’ turtleneck, “we really must know how you’re doing all this.”

“The Super Bowl,” said another. “That Tokyo speed train back in November…”

“The attempted assassination of Frederico Montoya in Chile…”

“Don’t forget the Paris flooding in March.”

“No meteorological warning, nothing…except from your team.” Asiro said it in a calm voice as he watched the Apache choppers carrying his military force — a joint group of Marines and NATO forces — approaching the mountain-top compound.

“The Morocco seven-point-five earthquake?” said turtleneck. “With two days warning. No seismic indicators?”

Montross just smiled.

“One minute.”

He turned sideways so he could watch as well, even though there was little doubt. He had already seen the outcome. Clear as day. So had Orlando Natch, Phoebe Crowe and three other gifted psychics from the team back in Stargate over the last twenty-four hours. The visions were all concise, with better hits than most of their objectives recently. Credit also had to be given to the more mundane but just as exceptional fieldwork by numerous agencies that had worked to narrow down the location — and the name of the individual responsible for the near-destruction of American’s national pastime and a multi-billion-dollar industry.

The questions asked of the remote viewers were detailed and direct, and the results were all similar enough to be validated: the drawings consistent: this very plateau, the mountain range readily identifiable from image search technology. A little more legwork and satellite surveillance and they were sure they had the right spot. Something of high ranking interest was in those mountains. Authorization was provided soon enough by the Chinese government (in exchange for certain later-to-be-named favors). And the strike was on.

“Thirty seconds,” said Asiro.

The mission was not one of capture. Couldn’t risk Al-Hansi escaping or being used as a later bargaining chip. Already Montross had worried that the terrorist leader might have had his own psychic in his employ, the way he had almost supernaturally evaded both internal enemies and allied attacks for the past few years, seemingly one step away at all times. With this mission only planned in detail in the past six hours however, the likelihood of his warning system picking it up was remote.

There was that, plus the fact that the team back home had done a follow-up and seen the success of this mission, seen Al-Hansi’s body pulled out of the wreckage, along with those of several top lieutenants. This was going to be a huge win, an undeniable resume builder. Hell, if all these people here — even Miriam — didn’t line up to kiss his ass afterwards, then Montross would be shocked.

“Ten seconds.”

He held his breath, collectively with the others, and watched the screen. For just an instant, he let his mind take a short jaunt forward, just a few minutes. Just a little preview before the others.

He had tried this a few times before, and either just got a fuzzy glimpse of wreckage, or saw the successful visions from before. Afraid to over-use, and to waste time. Nothing had changed, this future path was unavoidable for Al-Hansi. They were going to win, and…

Wait.

Something was different.

As the room vibrated with excitement, as the others cheered the resulting explosion and the silence of voyeuristically watching a precision assassination, Montross instead witnessed something else.

It was as if a gossamer veil had lifted and the initial transparency it had provided turned to be a complete falsity. He staggered and gripped the table, knocking over several glasses. Aware all eyes were on him. Murmurs and confusion coming from all except one.

Miriam.

She stood unmoved, expressionless except for a slight smile as if this, finally, she had been expecting.

And then he saw it, saw what the following recon force, advisory team and ultimately the Press and the Red Cross would soon discover:

The mountain retreat… demolished, in smoking blacked ruin. Bodies pulled from the wreckage in pieces. Limbs and torsos, heads… gruesome bits and gore-splattered walls.

A small stuffed alligator, still burning. Still with the child’s hand gripping it tightly in blissful ignorance.

No terrorists.

No leaders, no men actually of any kind over the age of twelve. This had been a secretive base to be sure, but had been occupied only recently by fleeing Christians. Nuns who had saved over two dozen children from a fate worse than death, making the difficult trek to this mountain hideaway to wait for rescue that came in a much different form.

Montross struggled for a breath. “Impossible, impossible…”

The others had no idea, couldn’t fathom why he was collapsing in the midst of this apparent victory.

All he could do was weakly raise his head, blink away the vision — the one he knew now to be true, the valid future that had been somehow suppressed behind a false vision.

He lifted his eyes, and couldn’t see a thing in a red haze, besides Miriam watching him with grim satisfaction.

7

The man in the tattered army jacket and wool hat retreated deeper into a narrow alley behind 7th Avenue. Still in the shadow of the spires of St. Jude’s Church of the Cross, its steeple’s shadow pointing the way to safety as the sun inched across the sky, the man — homeless, filthy and by first impression quite drunk still — clenched his eyes shut and prayed, as he did so often, to avoid what the Lord decided to keep showing him. Surrounded by ever-present pigeons, fluttering overhead, landing on and near him, he cringed and hugged his shoulders tight.

He may not have been particularly religious, or at all, in his past life, but nothing mattered now. He bore such little resemblance to that former person, it was inconsequential.

People walked by, faster and faster it seemed. He could hear them, he could see them even with his eyes closed: the businessmen in their trench coats, on their cell phones; the women with their scarves and sunglasses, the tourists, couriers, and sightseers all with such limited vision. All so focused on the path ahead, not seeing the reality of what was around them. Seeing but not seeing, he thought. They didn’t know how lucky they were.

He knew they all saw him, huddling, curling into a ball. Somewhere deep in the recesses of their thoughts they either spared a momentary speck of sympathy, a ‘but for some bad luck, that would be me’ notion, or they glanced in his direction with scorn and ridicule.

If only they knew… If only they could see.

He cringed and again looked up desperately to the steeple, and his eyes pleaded with the sun — or the cross — until they wept.

Please.

Make it stop.

Did he hear laughter in return? Possibly from the teeming crowds, from any number of the hundreds shuffling by in such orderly but intense speed. Possibly from the entrance to the Metro, echoing from the subterranean depths that reminded him of…somewhere else. A distant, distant world and an existence that had been his long before he had ventured back out into the world.

That underground world was no Eden, by any description. Bleak, sunless and mercilessly lonely. The weight of responsibility that came with the exile, and the visions — sights and sounds that would never cease — it was no better than this.

Eyes clenched again, hands in fists, he reached deeper into his coat and found the bottle. Nearly empty. He would have to go again and appeal to the world, to the generosity of strangers who if they only knew what was coming… Wouldn’t they do the same, and drink until nothing mattered? Obliterate all thought and consciousness.

Why can’t I escape?

The bottle felt like a hundred-pound block of ice in his grip. And the drops inside…frozen and useless.

Impotent now to stop what was coming: another flood of unwanted — oh so unwanted — visions.

“I’ve seen it all before!” he shouted, and damn any who looked at him, who even bothered to do anything other than to nod and think to themselves ‘yes, that’s a crazy drunk bastard’.

But he was wrong.

He hadn’t seen this before.

Not another glimpse of a bombing in some bright café overseas where smoking pieces of bodies and gore were revealed in highest definition in the theater of his mind. Not another glimpse of that tsunami destined to obliterate half of Jamaica in a week; not the rape and murder about to occur in an apartment basement six streets over. Or the countless sights from so many different times and places and…

No, this…this was so much worse. Something had changed, and the future had been rewritten. That could only happen if…

He moaned and clutched his head. It was truly too late.

The man let out a cry of pure despair, but no one gave him a second thought. He crumpled into a tighter ball, finally whimpering, begging to the air, to the pigeons, to anyone, to the sky, for help. Not for a drink, a drug, a needle. None of that would help him. Maybe though, at this point, a gun to end it all might work…but not likely.

Once, he had thought there was a chance. A few of those humans out there with their blinders off, and with the courage and hope to do something about what was to come.

He had tried to help one of them once, in a tunnel so long ago, and yet it might have been yesterday.

The guilt now, too much. He had thought he couldn’t survive out here, and he had very nearly proved that belief correct. If this was called surviving. Still, he hung on, hoping it wasn’t over, not yet.

Maybe…maybe she could still help. Maybe even…

Stop what was to come…

8

Caleb had long ago lost track of time.

The date, the month, anything resembling the passage of time in the terrestrial world, it was all a blur as he spent every breathless second studying the images sent back from the Cessara satellite. The resolution, although grainy, was surprisingly clear, and Diana was quite proficient at magnifying, cropping and adjusting the resolution and lighting to bring out symbols hidden in the shadows and multiple levels of grooves.

Diana had been busy isolating the images, compartmentalizing them and securing all sorts of data in encrypted sites, siphoning off and duplicating the files simultaneously with NASA’s receiving the same data.

“No way they’re going to hide this forever,” she said early on.

“Or bury it with the other UFO evidence.”

“So paranoid,” Diana quipped, giving him a quick smile. “However in all seriousness, this information will have to come out at just the right time and after a lot of analysis.”

Caleb barely heard her, focusing on something else as he learned to navigate the image resolution process and control the views.

“…study the impact to global religions, psychology and…”

“Oh my God.” Caleb leaned closer. “I’ve seen this before. This configuration on this panel here…”

The image resolved into a clearer picture of something distinctly reminiscent of an early Egyptian dynastic period. Several pillar like structures, with ringed circular edges along their centers, connected by what looked like wires and held up, shouldered by godlike jackal-headed figures. Gods that were surely giants, standing over a row of smaller subjects, prostrate below the pylon-like objects.

“Egyptian?” Diana said. “Or wow…maybe this somehow influenced the Egyptians?”

“I know what you’re going to say. Maybe early Egyptian priests had our sight, remote viewers who could see things like this, millions of miles away.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. Not right away, but yeah, it makes sense.” She frowned, looking closer. “This reminds me of something else though.”

“Me too.”

“I’ve seen those pillars before.”

“Yes, but in a different setting, more recent.”

“I can’t recall…”

“Hang on.” Caleb called up a new window, and his fingers raced across the keyboard, searching the web, calling up…

“Here it is.”

Diana leaned forward, peering at the screen. “Not quite the same, but that is so familiar. It’s from…”

“The World’s Fair, 1930—”

She read the caption under the illustration of a man’s face — with wild hair electrically charged it seemed — amidst a backdrop of a pair of giant Egyptian-like pylons transmitting electricity into the sky. “Nikola Tesla. That’s right, now I remember, but why would such a thing be on a comet, on the outside of some alien structure, mirroring what Tesla designed?”

Caleb considered it for a moment before responding. “The bigger question is, whether or not Tesla’s designs were really original or whether he had seen them…the same way the Egyptian priesthood may have seen them. Tesla may have been a remote viewer. He often claimed to go into trances where he received visions, designs he claimed were from extra-terrestrial sources. He saw great airships, free energy powering the world from grid-lines and massive transformers, a whole new world. And even stranger marvels.”

Diana read the captions. “Wireless world-wide energy, a power source generating current across the atmosphere.”

“Or through the land itself,” Caleb said. “Many theories and hypotheticals. A lot of conspiracy theories out there claim that Tesla had his reputation tarnished, his life threatened and his inventions destroyed, not just by his rival Edison, but by the government itself.”

“Why?”

“To control the source of energy? To monetize and profit from it?” Caleb shrugged. “Or maybe it was more than that. There were stories of side effects of all this technology, tales of unexpected earthquakes, seismic shocks destroying whole city blocks. Disruptions in the phases of reality, wormholes to other dimensions, teleportation, telepathy even, and bizarre human mutations.”

Diana scratched at her nose. “Didn’t he also come up with designs to manipulate weather and use electromagnetic waves to alter atmospheric conditions half a world away?”

“Yes, designs that were ultimately incorporated into the HAARP facility in Alaska, which we here at Stargate dealt with first hand.”

Caleb tapped his fingers together absently.

“What are you thinking?”

He licked his lips. “I’m wondering why this is here. What’s so important about it? Obviously the early dynastic priests incorporated this design into their artwork and religious texts, but there’s little evidence, at least so far, that anything resembling this power structure was ever implemented or put to any sort of use back then, if it was even possible.” He took a breath, thinking, blinking fast. “More likely they had these visions, presumed to be direct gifts from the gods, and inscribed them in stone, but that was as far as they got, maybe believing that their successors could determine what to do with this knowledge and implement the gods’ will.”

“Well then they had to wait some two thousand years. Until Tesla, but we all know how that turned out.”

“Yeah. Edison’s ideas won out, and Tesla’s name, at least for a time, became associated with a fanatic, an overly talented crackpot.”

“So, again…” Diana leaned forward, staring at the scene on a comet millions of miles away. “Why is this so important to leave it on a desolate hunk of rock that they knew only psychics could ever see — or our satellites thousands of years from whenever this was left there? Why this comet in particular?”

“That’s the bigger question,” Caleb responded, shaking his head. “And to answer that, we have to understand Tesla further. I am going to suggest another group objective. We need to focus our questions, probe this issue and his work, and figure out what he was trying to accomplish, really. Why this was so important, because now I’m thinking he wasn’t just silenced for the sake of competitive economic rivalry, but something far more important.”

As they sat in silence, thinking about the implications, the door buzzed, then flew open.

“We’ve got a problem!” Phoebe shouted, breathless. Her eyes locked on the screen and went wide with awe, but her words kept coming. “Actually, more than one.”

“What’s going on?”

“Where to start?” Phoebe said, almost doubled over from a run through the halls. “But the main crisis? We’re all needed in the conference room. Xavier’s on the line, from Geneva, where shit has seriously hit the fan.”

“With the Al-Hansi operation?” Caleb rose fast. He had been expecting to celebrate that win with the team in a few hours. “Impossible!”

“Yeah,” said Phoebe, “that’s what I said. But there’s more.”

With difficulty, Caleb pulled his attention away from the comet — and what was likely the greatest discovery in the history of mankind. No easy feat, and the conspiracy paranoid in him gave in to a fleeting notion, that the timing of whatever setback just occurred couldn’t be more suspect. Something to throw them off of this new discovery, divert his attention from where it was needed most.

A dozen threats circled in his mind: from a rising of the Keepers to the Custodians, to other government agencies and rogue psychics…

“Several threats,” Phoebe said as they followed her out into the hall, moving at a fast clip to the main conference room at the end of the hall. “Including something new, one of our recruits…”

Caleb’s mind, sharp and on high focus, asked the question instantaneously — and was rewarded with a glimpse, a peek into the past, or the present or future, he wasn’t sure, but it was crystal clear.

A fleet of vehicles, black SUVs and sedans several blocks from the Stargate entrance. A flash, and inside the second car… a hooded figure gazing back, calmly expecting this intrusion, perhaps even welcoming it.

9

Boris Zeller waited patiently behind the driver. Thinking that soon he could be back where he belonged, at the Black Lodge, donning different vestments, a more elegant robe and a hood like those worn by the elder masters for millennia.

He belonged among them, and yet he feared he would never ascend to the levels the others enjoyed. Boris was different. Young and untested, and yet…he had what they didn’t: powers they couldn’t employ. He served a more valuable role than many of the other leaders, as far as he was concerned. They were impotent to act directly, and instead moved within and behind the shadows, luring others to do their will. It was a strategy that worked throughout the ages, causing strife, misery, disease and death; laying waste to entire civilizations while birthing others; guiding humanity down promising paths only to pull out the rug and send them spiraling back down into fear and lawlessness, hopelessness and ruin.

Boris admired every step of the way, every element of this hidden history he had studied and committed to memory from a young age. As soon as he’d been identified as special, and susceptible, he’d been taken, indoctrinated, enhanced, and given every chance at training and harnessing his skills.

He had no equal, and as far as his masters knew, none had come along with his gifts. He had done so much in their service already, but this was the culmination of his ascendency.

Taking down the enemy in a brilliantly coordinated set of attacks involving misdirection, false visions and now, finally…

Direct force.

“It’s time,” said the familiar deep voice, from under the black hat.

And as one, the vehicles surged forward, converging on entrance and exit points from the Stargate facility.

Enjoy your last few minutes of blissful ignorance, Boris thought, closing his eyes. He shut out the sound of doors opening, boots hitting the pavement, guns clicking, chambers loading and men rushing across the street. Shut out everything but the highly-detailed and preconceived visions he had formulated and committed to memory, placed in mental compartments not unlike different cards in a stacked deck.

Mindlessly, he stepped out of the car, dimly aware of the small army of black-clad, well armed and armored agents rushing into the facility, and he reached out, sending his mind’s eye soaring.

He found the targets inside, noted their location — the conference room, as he’d figured. He tagged each of the major players as he would with a targeting program in a video game.

And then he dealt the first card and flung it out, directing it to split, expand and fly to where it would land, stick and do the most damage.

Smiling, he fixed his hood tighter, readied the next mental image card, and followed the men inside.

This was his operation, and he had no doubt of its success.

For he had already seen it: all their enemies subdued, the building emptied of all its rats, and the program — the only adversary his masters ever feared — destroyed utterly.

10

This time Caleb didn’t feel any of the usual squeamish distaste when he looked upon the face staring back at him on the teleconference screen in the main conference room. Oak walls, mahogany oblong table, plush leather seats and soft afghan rug, he was always fond of this room, having many comfortable and productive meetings here with members across the country and even the world.

From Geneva, Xavier Montross spoke to them gravely through the voice of Mason Calderon, and it was his image that for once Caleb didn’t associate with the his prior enemy, a man that had nearly consigned all of existence to oblivion.

“…not much time,” Montross said, snapping Caleb’s attention back to the moment, to this table and the select members of the Stargate inner circle, which today comprised only of Diana, Orlando and Phoebe. All the others were out getting settled into new assignments or continuing with their previous objectives, taking time relaxing and clearing their minds for new tasks, while others (non psychics) scoured intelligence reports and scouting lists, looking for new targets and new members.

“I’ve bought a few more minutes while the others are scrambling to confirm or deny what I already know to be true.”

“Which is?” Orlando hadn’t taken a seat. Instead he just paced behind Phoebe, wringing his hands. “What happened with Al-Hansi? We all saw it. There was no shield, nothing in the way…”

Montross shook his head. “False vision. That’s all I know. It’s happened before if we’ve asked the wrong questions, or allowed ourselves to be led by imaginative hopes, our minds formulating rich visions that were ultimately incorrect.”

“Yes,” Orlando countered, “but that’s why we have double and triple blinds.”

“Hell,” Caleb said, “for this operation we confirmed the visions through what, a dozen of us? We didn’t all ask the wrong questions or supply consistently similar expectations. That would be impossible.”

“Not,” said Phoebe, “if we were directed to all see the same thing.”

That silenced the room for a moment, until Montross said: “That was my thought as well, as unlikely as it seems.”

“It’s not unlikely,” Phoebe said. “In fact, it all makes sense now.”

Caleb rotated in his chair. “Explain. What’s been going on?”

“A new kind of psychic,” Phoebe said quietly, glancing around as if suddenly concerned about being overheard. “One of our recruits. Earlier I just thought he was a…well, an asshole who screwed over a more promising candidate so he could get the job.”

“Boris Zeller,” Orlando chimed in, reaching over to the keyboard built into the table. On the screen beside the Geneva feed appeared a photo of Boris, sans hood, from their dossier on the young man.

Caleb frowned. “And what did this guy do?”

Phoebe spoke clearly and quickly. “We know there are ‘shields’, people who can block visions. Like our own Aria, and the terrorist we previously dealt with named The Eye, and Nina who can pull out visions from others. So, it stands to reason there are other kinds who may have nuanced abilities around remote viewing.”

“Instead of blocking,” Montross said, “this guy can project visions?”

“Seems that way,” Phoebe said. “I talked to the woman outside, the one he showed false visions to, and she claimed, just as we all did here, that she had no reason to doubt anything she had seen. Other than the fact that the visions were so clear and almost needed none of the usual effort it would have taken her to call them out.”

“So there’s that,” Caleb said. “And I don’t know about the rest of you, but this Al-Hansi operation, I do remember being pleasantly surprised by the ease with which we all saw the same thing. But I took it as confirmation that we had great supporting intel, and formulated the proper questions to rule out other extraneous details or false visions.”

Montross was shaking his head. “Should have known nothing’s that easy. My fault too. This was my baby and I wanted it so air-tight.” His expression twisted into a fierce one that Caleb now recognized and hated as it brought back memories. “Jesus, if this Boris is powerful enough to project these images into so many of us, dupe us all…”

“We have to question everything, have to…damn, not even use our powers?” Orlando backed up as he looked to Phoebe, who reached out for his hand.

“So that’s the cause of our immediate problem,” Montross said, “and now I understand why we failed — why instead of taking out public enemy number one we just blew up a refuge full of kids and women of God. But the larger problem now is that they are going to want heads on a platter.”

“Ours?” Caleb let out a thin gasp. “Do they even know? You’ve kept the truth from them, right? Explained our successes as just excellent intelligence gathering?”

Montross’ eyes fell. “I have, but that veil of secrecy has always been paper thin, and now they’re coming at it with flamethrowers. I can’t hold it back, but I’ll do my best to buy us some more time.”

“Time for what?” Caleb started to ask, but then the door burst open. “Alexander?”

His son and Aria rushed inside, breathless. “We have to run!” she yelled.

Alexander pointed behind him. “They’re coming!”

Montross suddenly flinched on the screen. “Oh my god. I didn’t have time, didn’t ask or even try to look — they knew about this, had it all set up. A simultaneous assault.”

“What?” Caleb had rocked to his feet with Phoebe.

“Get out!” Montross shouted as the screen went black.

Phoebe grabbed his arm. The lights all went dark.

And gunshots erupted from outside.

11

Caleb staggered out into a crowd of others already running. Alarms were blazing as the auxiliary lights kicked on and safety measures were released — extra mag locks on the main doors, but by the sounds in the lobby it was too little too late.

They’d gotten in before any warning — something normally impossible at a facility with an exceptional early warning system.

“The twins!” Phoebe yelled, running out into the hall.

Orlando let go of her hand. “You go! I’m going to…”

The doors burst open and four men in black burst in, guns drawn.

They wouldn’t, Caleb thought in horror as the men took aim and fired. Except these weren’t regular rounds.

“Tranqs!” Orlando yelled, seeing four administrators and two security guards fall in place.

At least that’s something. Caleb pushed Phoebe free of Orlando, regretting it at once, but knowing what he had to do, even as he reached for Alexander. “Elevator!” he yelled, “Get the twins, then run for it. Your thumbprints are coded for the emergency access level. Go!”

“What?” Alexander looked up pleadingly, with scared eyes Caleb hadn’t seen since he had to leave the boy in the ruins of the Alexandrian library five years ago.

“We have a thumb scanner, and a secret level?” Orlando ducked as a tranq dart whizzed by his head, then followed the others, running around a corner, where Caleb pushed his son and Phoebe toward a set of double doors.

“Need-to-know basis.”

“And I didn’t need to know?”

“Go!”

Orlando hesitated, meeting Phoebe’s look, then Caleb’s.

“Trust me,” Caleb said to Orlando. “They’ll make it, but only if we buy some time.”

“What’s down there?” Phoebe shouted back, as she ran, leading Aria and the reluctant Alexander.

“You’ll recognize it!”

“Dad—?”

Caleb yelled over his shoulder as he led Orlando in the other direction. “Find your brother! Find Nina!”

Then they were gone and he and Orlando paused at the opposite set of doors until the sound of boots neared the corner of the hall they had just rounded, then he dashed inside with Orlando. The darts flew, thudding into the closing door.

Locking it behind him, Caleb lowered his head and focused.

“What are you doing?”

He raised his hand. “Scouting a way out of this.”

“Ah…” Orlando fidgeted, hearing the boots on the other side, approaching. They were in the training room, a large arena-like space, with dozens of stations for automatic writing and drawing, cubes with multi-lighting options and headphones, gaming stations, a fitness area with treadmills, bikes and other weights all to exhaust the body and free the mind.

“Umm only one door out of here, boss, so I’m thinking we take that and run for it?”

“Hang on, I see it.”

“What?”

“Their patterns. Stormed the lobby, fanned out as expected to administration, taking us down with tranqs.”

“Like we’re dogs.”

“Or mutants, so we don’t use our powers.”

“We’re not X-Men! What, are they worried that we’d pick out the color of their wives’ underwear?”

“Shut up, and go.”

“Yeah, back door, like I said.”

“No. Vent, right there…”

Gunshots behind them, this time real ones. Shooting at the lock, Caleb thought. “They’ll be in soon, move it.”

Orlando didn’t have to be told twice. He raced across the room, moving aside a desk. Knelt by the square vent, his Swiss Army Knife out. Forgoing the screwdriver, he went right for the larger blade. Drove it between the wall and yanked backwards until the vent casing popped from the wall, then he tore it away.

“After you, boss.”

Caleb dove inside, twisting his body around the first bend, just as he heard the door burst open at the back of the room. But Orlando was in, scampering behind him. Another turn and a short drop, and while Orlando waited in the darkness above, Caleb kicked out at the lower vent.

It popped free and he was out — swinging over a ledge and dropping into a maintenance and boiler room. A generator, hot water tank, a wall of storage sheds, and a set of stairs going up.

Orlando landed beside him. “Good call, now…stairs to the lobby?”

“Wait…” Caleb put a hand to his forehead, clenching his eyes.

A glimpse of a trio of SWAT-looking men, guns drawn, waiting beside the door overlooking the lobby entrance. Another flash and another hallway and a dozen soldiers rounding up the unconscious Stargate members.

“Damn. No, there’s a guard contingent outside the door to the first level, and the second. But…”

He opened his eyes, running for the stairs. “The roof! Move quietly up the stairs.”

They ran up and around, again and again, out of breath but still pushing. With every step, Caleb prayed that Alex, Aria and Phoebe and the twins made it to the escape channel, prayed that their enemies didn’t know what they couldn’t know — what only Caleb and Montross had planned in the eventuality of just such an extreme situation.

“Wait,” Orlando said, gripping his arm as they rounded the last bend.

“What? We’re almost there. Get topside on the roof, then with any luck, we can shimmy down the east side where we’re flanked by other buildings and out of sight, and…”

“I don’t know about shimmying, but have you stopped to think that whatever you’re seeing…may be what this Boris guy wants you to see?”

Caleb paused, his hand on the doorknob, after removing the latch to the roof access. He looked back to Orlando. “Damn. You’re right.” He looked back at the door, which he had started to open. “Although I don’t really see as we have a choice.”

“Well we could go back down, hide in the storage units until they’re gone. That, we could scry with some success. I know it’s not the most heroic of escapes, but hell, we escape. Who knows what these a-holes want with us, but I for one don’t want to wind up in a CIA lab, or—”

The door suddenly wrenched open, two guns aimed into their faces. And stepping between the two masked soldiers came the man from the screen in the briefing room.

“Hello again, Mr. Natch! And Mr. Caleb Crowe himself.” Boris Zeller pulled back his hood, grinning at them while eclipsing the sun emerging behind him, over the rooftop edge and through the thick clouds.

“So good of you to follow my directions.” He nodded and stepped back. The soldiers took aim and the tranqs found their targets.

“Ohhh,” Phoebe said when she rushed out of the elevator, pushing the baby carriage and the two gratefully-still-sleeping toddlers. She found herself on a shiny platform like a subway tunnel, except instead of a waiting train, this one had a familiar, if far more special, mode of transport.

“Wow,” said Alexander and Aria at the same time.

“Yeah.” Phoebe approached the spherical, transparent globe they had commandeered from the Shasta facility, and her heart skipped. “I thought we trashed this thing.”

“Guess someone fixed it,” Aria noted, eyes wide.

Alexander scanned the tunnel ahead. “Wonder where this winds up?”

“Away from here,” Phoebe said. “That’s all that matters. Get in.”

“But Dad, and uncle Orlando…”

“Nothing we can do now except take the time they bought us.”

“Live to fight another day,” Aria said, dragging Alexander in.

“Wait,” Phoebe said. “Aria, you might want to…”

“Shield us?” She smiled to Phoebe as she got in the craft and took a seat. “Raised it as soon as we got the alert. If they’re looking, they won’t see the three of us.”

“Which should make them crazy. Maybe buy us even more time as they scour the facility for us.”

“Good,” Alexander said through clenched teeth.

Phoebe got in, started the controls, all responding to her touch as if from memory. “Then we will have to see who’s left, find the others who weren’t there today.”

“They probably went after everyone,” Alexander said, taking a seat behind Phoebe and next to Aria. “This was all planned for a long time. Had to be.”

“You’re right,” Phoebe said. “But we will fight back. We’ll get your father, and Orlando, and everyone else.”

“How, just the three of us?” Aria asked. “And I’m no good at remote viewing, only protecting…”

“There are others,” Phoebe said. “Not many, but I know of one at least who more than proved her worth to join us.” Victoria…

“Wait,” Alexander said just as the craft began to hum and vibrate, preparing to take off. “I saw Mom earlier, in the park. She told me a name…”

“What name?”

“Namodal? I don’t know what it means.”

Phoebe whistled. “Nice and cryptic. Let’s talk later, after…”

“After we get our team back to strength,” Alexander said. “Dad also told us…”

Find your brother.

Find Nina.