“Actually, in laboratory tests you get the second. Interference Pattern B.”
Lisa thought about this. “The wave pattern. So then the electrons must be shooting out of the gun—not like bullets—but like light out of a flashlight, traveling in waves and creating Pattern B.”
“Correct.”
“So electrons move like waves.”
“Yes. But only when no one actually witnesses the electrons passing through the slits.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In another experiment, scientists placed a little clicker at one of the slits. It beeped whenever it sensed an electron passing through the slit, measuring or observing the passage of an electron past the detector. What was the pattern on the other side when the device was turned on?”
“It shouldn’t change, should it?”
“In the larger world, you’re correct. But not at the subatomic world. Once the device was switched on, it immediately changed into Diffraction Pattern A.”
“So the simple act of measuring changed the pattern?”
“Just as Heisenberg predicted. Though it may seem impossible, it’s true. Verified over and over again. Electrons exist in a constant state of both wave and particle until something measures the electron. That very act of measuring the electron forces it to collapse into one reality or the other.”
Lisa tried to picture a subatomic world where everything was held in a constant state of potential. It made no sense.
“If subatomic particles make up atoms,” Lisa asked, “and atoms make up the world we know, touch, and feel, where is the line between the phantom world of quantum mechanics and our world of real objects?”
“Again, the only way to collapse potential is to have something measure it. Such measuring tools are constantly present in the environment. It can be one particle bumping into another, a photon of light hitting something. Constantly the environment is measuring the subatomic world, collapsing potential into hard reality. Look at your hands, for example. At the quantum level, the subatomic particles that make up your atoms operate according to fuzzy quantum rules, but expand outward, into the world of billions of atoms that make up your fingernail. Those atoms are bumping, jostling, and interacting—measuring one another—forcing potential into one fixed reality.”
“Okay…”
Anna must have heard the skepticism in her voice.
“I know it’s bizarre, but I’ve barely scratched the surface of the fuzzy world of quantum theory. I’m skipping over such concepts as nonlocality, time tunneling, and multiple universes.”
Painter nodded. “Gets pretty weird out there.”
“But all you need to understand are those three points,” Anna said, ticking them off on her fingers. “Subatomic particles exist in a quantum state of potential. It takes a measuring tool to collapse that potential. And it is the environment that constantly performs those measurements to fix our reality.”
Lisa lifted her hand, acquiescing for the moment. “But what does that have to do with the Bell? Back at the library, you mentioned something called quantum evolution.”
“Exactly,” Anna said. “What is DNA? Nothing but a protein machine, ja? Producing all the basic building blocks of cells, of bodies.”
“At its simplest.”
“Then go even simpler. Is DNA not merely genetic codes locked in chemical bonds? And what breaks these bonds, turning genes on and off?”
Lisa switched back to basic chemistry. “The movement of electrons and protons.”
“And these subatomic particles obey which rules: the classical or the quantum?”
“The quantum.”
“So if a proton could be in two places—A or B—turning a gene on or off—which place would it be found?”
Lisa squinted. “If it has the potential to be in both places, then it is in both places. The gene is both on and off. Until something measures it.”
“And what measures it?”
“The environment.”
“And the environment of a gene is…?”
Lisa’s eyes slowly widened. “The DNA molecule itself.”
A nod and a smile. “At its most fundamental level, the living cell acts as its own quantum-measuring device. And it is this constant cellular measurement that is the true engine of evolution. It explains how mutations are not random. Why evolution occurs at a pace faster than attributable by random chance.”
“Wait,” Lisa said. “You’ll have to back that one up.”
“Consider an example, then. Remember those bacteria that could not digest lactose—how when they were starved, offered only lactose, they mutated at a miraculous pace to develop an enzyme that could digest lactose. Against astronomical odds.” Anna lifted an eyebrow. “Can you explain it now? Using the three quantum principles? Especially if I tell you that the beneficial mutation required only a single proton to move from one place to another.”
Lisa was willing to try. “Okay, if the proton could be in both places, then quantum theory says the proton was in both places. So the gene was both mutated and not mutated. Held in the potential between both.”
Anna nodded. “Go on.”
“Then the cell, acting as a quantum-measuring tool, would force the DNA to collapse on one side of the fence or the other. To mutate or not to mutate. And because the cell is living and influenced by its environment, it tilted the scale, defying randomness to produce the beneficial mutation.”
“What scientists now call adaptive mutation. The environment influenced the cell, the cell influenced the DNA, and the mutation occurred that benefited the cell. All driven by the mechanics of the quantum world.”
Lisa began to conceive an inkling of where this was heading. Anna had used the term “intelligent design” in their previous discussion. The woman had even answered the question of who she thought was behind that intelligence.
Us.
Lisa now understood. It is our own cells that are directing evolution, responding to the environment and collapsing potential in DNA to better fit that environment. Darwinian natural selection then kicked in to preserve these modifications.
“But even more importantly,” Anna said, her voice beginning to catch and rasp a bit, “quantum mechanics explains how life’s first spark started. Remember the improbability of that first replicating protein forming out of the primordial soup? In the quantum world, randomness is taken out of the equation. The first replicating protein formed because it was order out of chaos. Its ability to measure and collapse quantum potential superseded the randomness of merely bumping and jostling that had been going on in the primordial soup. Life started because it was a better quantum-measuring tool.”
“And God had nothing to do with it?” Lisa said, repeating a question Anna had first asked her…what seemed like decades ago.
Anna lifted a palm to her forehead, fingers shaking. Her eyes tweaked. She stared out the window with a pained expression. Her voice was almost too soft to hear. “I didn’t say that either…you’re looking at it the wrong way, in the wrong direction.”
Lisa let that drop. She recognized that Anna was growing too exhausted to continue. They all needed more sleep. But there was one question that had to be asked.
“The Bell?” Lisa asked. “What does it do?”
Anna lowered her hand and stared first at Painter, then at Lisa. “The Bell is the ultimate quantum-measuring device.”
Lisa held her breath, considering what Anna was saying.
Something fiery shone through Anna’s exhaustion. It was difficult to read: pride, justification, faith…but also a fair amount of fear.
“The Bell’s field—if it could be mastered—holds the ability not only to evolve DNA to its more perfect form, but also to take mankind with it.”
“And what about us?” Painter said, stirring. From his expression, he was plainly unmoved by her ardor. “You and me? How is what is happening to us perfection?”
The fire died in Anna’s eyes, quenched by exhaustion a
nd defeat. “Because as much as the Bell holds the potential to evolve, the reverse also lurks within its quantum waves.”
“The reverse?”
“The disease that’s inflicted our cells.” Anna glanced away. “It’s not just degeneration…it’s devolution.”
Painter stared at her, stunned.
Her words dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Our bodies are heading back to the primordial ooze from which we came.”
5:05 A.M.
SOUTH AFRICA
The monkeys woke him.
Monkeys?
The strangeness shocked him, snapping him from a groggy somnolence to an instant alertness. Gray shoved up. Memory crackled up next as he tried to comprehend his surroundings.
He was alive.
In a cell.
He remembered the flow of gas, the Wewelsburg museum, the lie. He had burned the Darwin Bible, claiming it contained a secret only his group knew about. He had hoped caution would outweigh revenge. Apparently it had. He was alive. But where were the others? Monk, Fiona, and Ryan?
Gray searched his cell. It was utilitarian. A cot, a toilet, an open shower stall. No windows. The door was inch-thick bars. It opened into a hallway lit by overhead fluorescent lighting. Gray took a moment to inspect himself. Someone had stripped him naked, but a neat pile of clothes had been folded atop a chair bolted to the foot of the bed.
He tossed aside the blanket and stood up. The world tilted, but a few breaths steadied it. An edge of nausea continued. His lungs felt coarse and heavy. The aftereffects of the poisoning.
Gray also noted a deep ache in his thigh. He fingered a fist-size bruise on his flank. He felt some scabbed needle pricks. There was also a Band-Aid stuck to the back of his left hand. From an IV? Apparently someone had treated him, saving his life.
Distantly he heard another spat of howls and screamed calls.
Wild monkeys.
It wasn’t a caged sound.
More like the natural world awakening.
But what world? The air smelled drier, warmer, scented muskier. He was in a much more temperate climate. Maybe somewhere in Africa. How long had he been out? They had left him no wristwatch to check the time of day, let alone which day it was. But he sensed no more than a day had passed. The thickening of stubble on his chin belied any long nap.
He stepped to the doorway and reached for the piled clothes.
His motion drew someone’s attention.
Directly across the hall, Monk stepped to the barred door on the far cell. Gray felt a surge of relief at finding his partner alive. “Thank God…,” he whispered.
“You okay?”
“Groggy…wearing off though.”
Monk was already dressed, wearing the same white jumpsuit that had been left for him. Gray climbed into his.
Monk lifted up his left arm, baring his stumped wrist and the titanium bio-contact implants that normally linked Monk’s prosthesis to his arm. “Bastards even took my goddamn hand.”
Monk’s missing prosthesis was the least of their worries. In fact, it might be to their advantage. But first things first…
“Fiona and Ryan?”
“No clue. They may be in another cell here…or somewhere else entirely.”
Or dead, Gray added silently.
“What now, boss?” Monk asked.
“Not much choice. We wait for our captors to make the first move. They want the information we have. We’ll see what we can buy with that knowledge.”
Monk nodded. He knew Gray had been bluffing back at the castle, but the ruse had to be maintained. The cellblock was likely under surveillance.
Proving this, a door clanged open at the end of the hall.
Many footsteps approached. A group.
They came into view: a troop of guards dressed in green and black camouflage uniforms, led by the tall, pale blond man, the buyer from the auction. He was dapperly fashioned as usual: in black twill pants and pressed linen shirt, with white leather loafers and a white cashmere cardigan. He looked like he was dressed for a garden party.
Ten guards accompanied him. They split into two groups, crossing to each cell. Gray and Monk were marched out, barefoot, with their arms secured in plastic ties behind their backs.
The leader stepped in front of them.
His blue eyes were ice upon Gray.
“Good morning,” he said stiffly and a bit staged, as if he were sensitive to the cameras in the halls, knew he was being watched. “My grandfather requests an audience with you.”
Despite the civility, a black anger etched each word, an unspoken promise of pain. The man had been denied his kill before and now merely bided his time. Still, what was the real source of his fury? His brother’s death…or the fact that Gray had outfoxed him at the castle? Either way, behind all the cultured dress and mannerisms lurked something feral.
“This way,” he said and turned away.
He again led the group down the hall, Gray and Monk in tow. As they proceeded, Gray searched the cells to either side. Empty. No sign of Fiona or Ryan. Were they still alive?
The hall ended at three steps that led up to a massive steel exterior door.
It stood open, guarded.
Gray stepped out of the sterile cellblock and into a dark and verdant wonderland. A jungle canopy climbed high all around, trailing thorny vines and flowering orchids. The dense leafy foliage hid the sky. Still Gray knew it must be very early in the morning, well before sunrise. Ahead, black Victorian-era iron lampposts marked paths that trailed off into a wild jungle. Birds twittered and squawked. Insects droned. Farther up in the canopy, a single hidden monkey announced them with a staccato, coughing call. His outburst woke a flame-feathered bird and set it to wing through the lower branches.
“Africa,” Monk mumbled under his breath. “Sub-Saharan at least. Maybe equatorial.”
Gray agreed. He estimated that it must be the morning of the next day. He’d lost eighteen to twenty hours. That could put them anywhere in Africa.
But where?
The guards escorted them along a gravel pathway. Gray heard the soft measured step of something large pushing through the undergrowth a few yards off the trail. But even so close, its shape could not be discerned. The forest offered plenty of cover if they could make a run for it.
But the chance never arose. The path ended after only fifty yards. A few more steps and the jungle fell away around them.
The forest opened into a stretch of manicured and lamplit greensward, a garden of dancing waters and flowing springs. Ponds and creeks trickled. Waterfalls burbled. A long-horned antelope lifted its head at their appearance, froze for a heartbeat, then took flight, bounding away into the forest cover.
The sky, clear above, twinkled with stars, but to the east, a pale rosy glow hinted at the approach of morning, maybe an hour off.
Closer at hand, another sight drew Gray’s eye and fully captured his attention.
Across the gardens rose a six-story mansion of stacked fieldstone and exposed exotic woods. It reminded him of The Ahwahnee lodge in Yosemite, but this was much more massive, Wagnerian in scope. A woodland Versailles. It had to cover ten acres, rising in gables and tiers, balconies and balustrades. To the left, a glass-enclosed conservatory protruded, lit from within, blazing in the predawn darkness like a rising sun.
The wealth here was staggering.
They headed toward the manor house, across a stone path that split the water garden and arched over a few of the ponds and creeks. A two-meter-long snake slithered across one of the stone bridges. It was not identifiable until it reared up and fanned open its hood.
King cobra.
The snake guarded the bridge until the white-blond man broke off a long reed from a creekbed and shooed it away like an unruly cat. The snake hissed, fangs bared, but it backed down and sashayed off the planks and slid into the dark waters.
They continued on, unfazed. Gray’s neck slowly craned as they approached the manor house.
He spotted a
nother eccentricity about the construction. Spreading outward from the upper stories were forest-top pathways—wood-slatted suspended bridges—allowing household guests to step out of the upper-story levels and into the very jungle canopy itself. These paths were also strung with lamps. They cast a constellation through the dark jungle. Gray turned in a circle as he walked. They glowed all around.
“Heads up,” Monk mumbled, nodding to the left.
Up on the canopy trail, a guard marched slowly into view, limned against one of the lamps, rifle on his shoulder. Gray glanced to Monk. Where there was one, there must be more. An entire army could be hidden up in the canopy. Escape seemed less and less likely.
At last they reached a set of steps that led up to a wide porch of polished zebra wood. A woman waited, a twin to their escort and as nattily attired. The man stepped forward and kissed each of her cheeks.
He spoke to her in Dutch. While not fluent with the language, Gray was familiar enough to catch the gist.
“Are the others prepared, Ischke?” he asked.
“We just wait word from grootvader.” She nodded to the illuminated conservatory at the far end of the porch. “Then the hunt can begin.”
Gray struggled for any clue to their meaning, but he was too much in the dark.
With a heavy sigh, the blond man turned back to them, fingering a stray lock of hair back in place. “My grandfather will see you in the solarium,” their guide said, biting off each word. He headed down the length of the porch toward it. “You will speak to him civilly and with respect, or I will personally see you suffer for every word of disrespect.”
“Isaak…,” the woman called to him.
He stopped and turned. “Ja, Ischke?”
She spoke in Dutch again. “De jongen en het meisje? Should we bring them out now?”
A nod answered her, followed by a final order in Dutch.
As Gray translated this last bit, he had to be tugged to move. He glanced over a shoulder at the woman. She vanished inside the house.
De jongen en het meisje.
The boy and the girl.
It had to be Ryan and Fiona.
The two were still alive. Gray took some consolation in the revelation—but Isaak’s last words chilled and terrified him.