Harmonics: Rise of the Magician
By Collin Earl & Chris Snelgrove
Copyright 2010 SilverStone Books
Table of Contents
Explanatory Note
Prologue: Desert Warfare
Chapter 1: The Good Doctor
Chapter 2: Treasure Time
Chapter 3: Cold as Ice
Chapter 4: The Project
Chapter 5: Lady in the Lake
Chapter 6: The Lion and the Lamb
Chapter 7: Houdini’s Failed Escape
Chapter 8: Everyone in the Pool
Chapter 9: Boom Goes the Methanol
Chapter 10: Pomp and Circumstance
Chapter 11: Black Magic
Chapter 12: Have Credits, Wills Shop
Chapter 13: Adam and Evening
Chapter 14: Pink Pj’s
Chapter 15:MESA Labs
Chapter 16: Big Sister
Chapter 17: Boxed In
Chapter 18: An Indecent Proposal
Chapter 19: Doughboy
Epilogue: Twinkle, Twinkle Lonely Star
Sneak Peak of Harmonics: Revelations
Harmonics: Rise of the Magician is the first book in a series told in a style that moves from character to character, story to story. This style of writing intertwines many different plot lines, character interactions, and perspectives to give the reader a broad view of this incredible tale.
Each of the characters and plots are an important part of the story, even though, in this first book, you may only catch a glimpse of the role they play.
Time and Scene markers have been placed at the beginning of each chapter to give the reader reference to the multiple plot and time lines woven into this story.
Desert Warfare
Time: Five years ago
Scene: Unmarked Desert Base
"'Gone'? What do you mean 'gone'?"
Two nondescript Lab Coats stood in front of a Suit wearing expensive black glasses. This Suit was the sort of man who answered to no one about no thing. He looked very angry.
"Just what I said. Both projects are gone. It's as if neither ever existed," the Lab Coat's voice lamented. "So many years of research. And just after we get the Alpha 1 prototype up and running and Beta 1 finally showed signs of the phenomena, this happens. Up in smoke. Both projects gone, just like that."
"Control yourself, doctor. I'm not interested in your emotional turmoil. What I'm not understanding is, how does a multi-part research project worth billions just disappear from one of the most secure facilities in the world?"
"We're not really sure. I checked the weapon last --"
The Suit stepped forward and struck the Lab Coat in the jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor.
"We don't use that word around here, Doctor. This isn't that sort of facility. I assumed you were aware of that."
The doctor spat blood as tears ran down his face. "I apologize, sir. What I meant was that I checked the data feed from the project just last night and everything seemed to be in order."
The Suit sneered. "This is getting us nowhere. Get me security; let's see what they have to say about all of this."
"Security is dead, sir." The doctor fidgeted, still on the floor. "That's why we called you. Everyone else is dead."
The Suit flinched. "They're dead? All of them? I handpicked those men myself from the United Delta Force. There is no way that all of them are dead. Not unless they were up against a small army."
The second doctor reached into his pocket and held a shaking hand out to the Suit. "No army, sir. We didn't even hear anything. I think you need to see this."
The Suit removed his sunglasses and took the small security drive from the doctor's hand. He gave the Lab Coat a withering look, then walked over to a large display screen, touched a number of on-screen commands, and the system began interfacing with the drive. A security reel started to show a slideshow that none of them would soon forget.
The Suit's eyes widened. "Oh my--"
Death scenes, one after another, flipped across the screen as if the display were nothing more than a family picture album. The Suit examined the time stamp of each still image. The images were taken less than an hour ago. "This...this is impossible."
The scenes depicted stalagmite-like protrusions jutting from random places in the room, most running cleanly through bloody, fatigue-wearing men. The next slide loaded. More images of what the Suit could only assume were the security force, completely wasted. Several lightweight Series 7 Vector machine guns were strewn across the floor in each image, but the guns were the only things easily distinguishable; the rest was a charred, smoking mess. The scene flipped again. Yet more destruction. Doors torn off hinges, terminals and other equipment destroyed, and many more dead in gruesome and deliberate ways.
The Suit spoke, his voice very quiet. "You're telling me that the entire research facility's security force is dead and no one saw anything? What about the rest of the staff? The scientists in charge of the project? Are they dead as well?"
The Lab Coat shook his head. "I have no idea, and I don't intend to find out. We are leaving right now --"
"Who gave you permission to leave? We still have work to do, Doctor, like figuring out what happened to the projects. Luckily all the research should be backed up to the remote data drives. So really we just need to contain this incident."
"Sir," the second Lab Coat interrupted, "I don't think you get it. There is no containing this incident."
The Lab Coat pointed as the last of the reel loaded. The three men stared up at the screen. The Lab Coat's face beaded up with sweat, fear shining through as the Suit's face darkened.
The screen depicted a cave of a room. Large servers, huge fans, and suspended steel-framed walkways connected a variety of different exits and stairways sprouting off in all directions. Easily recognizable, this room was situated deep underground. It was the brain of the entire desert facility. The room was designed to withstand anything a military could throw at it, from Bunker-Buster bombs to nuclear warheads. It was ironic really. The company had designed this place to be impenetrable from the outside, but no one could anticipate every threat.
"What the hell...?" The Suit's words faded away. He barely comprehended what he saw. In the middle of the picture, resting directly between two of the largest cloud-frames, sat a huge multi-layered crate. Affixed to the crate was a banner with two words on it.
"Good-Bye?" The first Lab Coat's eyes squinted at the chicken scratch painted in huge red letters.
The Suit started swearing. He turned and opened a comm channel. "MESA One this is Outpost Whiskey. We have a security breach. The Farm is compromised. We need full tactical support. Send in Containment and S&D teams, priority one!"
The Lab Coats stumbled over their words. "Sir, do you really think both Containment and S&D are needed? The threat seems to be gone; all the departments are sealed."
"Fools," said the Suit, walking over to a weapons cache, unlocking it, and pulling out a Tiger 35 Assault Rifle. The Suit loaded a clip and slid the action back. "Look at the bottom of the picture. Do you know what that crate is?"
The Lab Coats looked again at the final picture of the morbid slideshow. The crate was mostly covered by the banner, but there at the bottom two more letters could be made out. Two more characters that read clearly,
"X9," mouthed one of the Lab Coats. "That crate is a palette of thermobaric explosives? Oh Lord. How could they have--no this isn't happening!"
"That isn't the half of it," whispered the other Lab Coat, still staring at the image. "Is that a clock?"
All three of the men stepped closer to the massive screen. The Suit touched the screen zooming in on the
corner of the image. The second Lab Coat was correct. There was a small clock and its numbers were moving.
The three men stared, reaching out as if to touch the clock through the screen. They watched the numbers count down. 10, 9, 8, 7...
"Isn't this a compilation of security feed stills?" questioned the Suit. "How--how are the numbers moving?"
The question went unanswered as the countdown hit zero.
The Good Doctor
Time: Late at night, five years after the desert facility was destroyed
Scene: Private Apartments of the UON
Hans Bloomquist took his job very seriously. Years of military training and special ops had honed him into the disciplined soldier that he was today. Throughout the years he had guarded military attachés, council members, heads of corporations, and had even been on the chancellor's detail once. He had been assigned to the UON for almost a year now. Despite the lack of prestige, Hans treated each assignment as if it were his only assignment, and guarding Dr. Shu was no different.
Sure, the little scientist had his faults. Hans was loyal to the Collective, and the fact that Dr. Shu had defected from the Jade Empire didn't sit right with Hans, a Northern-born man. But he had always put his personal feelings and politics aside when on duty. Even Dr. Shu's constant nagging and whining about being protected had not shifted Hans's focus. There were times, when Hans was off duty of course, that he would have liked to wring the little man's neck, but those thoughts were always kept outside of the job.
It wasn't like Hans didn't have skeletons in his closet as well. Mostly just one big ugly skeleton stuffed into a very small closet. It was this skeleton that had almost seen him court-martialed and subsequently had forced him into the private sector. He just needed a few more years of babysitting UON officials to pay off his debt. He wasn't sure what he would do after his coerced tour of duty was up, but he'd think of something.
Hans felt for his sidearm through his jacket, a habit he had established early on in his career. Next he checked his timepiece, smiled inwardly at his stunningly accurate sense of time, and radioed in to the main guard post. A series of beeps and tones relayed down to the post, and a shorter sequence replied moments later.
Hans settled back into his mental patrol of the empty hallway. He recalled the briefing on Dr. Shu earlier that week. The man was not necessarily a high profile target, but chatter on the nets had indicated an increase in threats against him. Mostly it was from naturalist groups, and of those only a handful had ever been linked to violence, but you never could tell with those wack-a-doos. Hans never understood people's aversion to using computer/human interfaces to improve the standard of living. CHI's, as they were called, had greatly helped many of his former comrades in arms that had lost limbs during various conflicts. He had never thought of it before, but Dr. Shu probably had a hand in helping his buddies get those interfaces. Maybe the little man wasn't so annoying after all.
Hans's feet started to tingle a bit, a sure sign that he had been standing in the same position too long. Unfortunately, per his duty instructions, he could not leave the inside of the doorframe. He flexed and relaxed his leg muscles and shifted his weight more evenly on his feet before settling back into the silent sentinel routine. A few minutes later, his feet were still tingling. He stood on one foot, shook the other and then switched. Even more tingling. He must not have realized how asleep his feet had become. He could feel the pins attacking the sole of his foot as it tried to regain its normal blood flow.
He picked up his foot again and heard a faint creaking noise. Reflexively his hand found the grip of his sidearm. He really hoped no one could see him leaning to one side, one foot off the ground with his other hand gripped to his sidearm; he imagined it looked comical. But he stayed stock still, listening for the sound again. After a few moments, he set his foot back down softly and slowly. His other foot felt like it was on fire, like a thousand tiny needles were flowing across it. He lifted his foot one more time and gave it a good shake and heard the noise again. This time the gun came out of its holster as Hans replanted his foot squarely back on the floor.
The noise had echoed from a distance. Hans could not quite get a bead on where it was coming from. His training kicked in and he slowly swept his weapon from side to side. Nothing. Hans reluctantly stepped out from the doorway and stood still. He listened for the slightest of sounds, ticking off the seconds in his mind. One second turned to 10, then 20. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Nothing. Hans counted off another thirty seconds before returning to the doorframe and holstering his sidearm. The two or three step reprieve from his statuesque pose, however, did not seem to do anything for his tingling feet.
Just as he resumed his visual patrol, the floor suddenly jerked upwards, catching the sentinel off guard and driving his head into the top of the doorframe, crushing his skull, and snapping his neck. Hans toppled forward, unresponsive arms unable to break his fall. His mind screamed to grab the sidearm even as blackness overtook him.