The Enclave

  Later, after dinner and the Thursday evening musical enrichment series, she begged off an invite to join the Lab 500 workers in the resort cantina and returned to her room. This time she put the black cube in one of her drawers right away, then sat at the desk, powered up her laptop, and reluctantly slipped Reinhardt’s disk of articles into its drive.

  The most recent of the articles was on Andrea Stopping, who had wandered into the mountains last January never to be seen again. Given the rough terrain and the many ravines into which a person could fall and never be found, she was thought to have died of natural causes, though the Citizen article did note she had suffered from depression.

  One other girl had likewise vanished while hiking in the mountains; she was believed to have been swept away by a summer flash flood, though her body had not been found, either. Of the other four, one died in a fiery car crash on Highway 77; another committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning in her own vehicle in K-J’s parking garage; a third ran off with her married supervisor; and the fourth left without forwarding notice only three weeks after arriving. . . .

  In addition to the articles, Reinhardt had included a list of Swain’s international research facilities—in Asia, the Middle East, South America, and Micronesia—along with the two hundred young women associated with them who’d also died or gone missing over the last ten years. Most of these had not been actively employed by Swain, had merely lived and/or disappeared in the vicinity.

  When she had finished reading all the disk’s contents, she returned it to its cardboard sleeve, then sat for a time, reflecting.

  It all made her terribly uncomfortable, and Swain’s accusations of Reinhardt’s problem with paranoia and conspiracies kept coming back. She hadn’t seen Manny’s body, after all. But neither had she seen Manny alive. And she had seen Swain’s telescope. And Frogeater. And been accused of paranoia and hallucinations herself.

  Then there was the whole two-week vacation thing with the U of A Genetics department and the resultant absence of official confirmation of Swain’s arrangements for her there—a wrinkle that wouldn’t stop nagging at her.

  Maybe it was time to see if she could prove any of this stuff on her own. With that in mind, took her laptop to the bed and sat with her back against the wall. It didn’t take long to confirm that Swain was involved with the research facilities cited in Reinhardt’s report, but there wasn’t much online about any of the disappearances. She couldn’t even access the Citizen articles without signing up and paying, something she wasn’t in a position to do.

  Frustrated and perplexed, she was about to abandon the effort when she recalled the special security code and password Gen had given her last week to access classified K-J files. Might they also access personnel records? To her pleased surprise, they did.

  She called up the archived files of each of the six women mentioned. They were all attractive, young, athletic, bright, and well recommended. Four of them had dark hair like she did. The other two were redheads.

  One had served as a personal assistant to Swain, two as lab assistants, and the other three had come from universities across the country, two with master’s degrees, one with a doctorate. That was Andrea Stopping. Except for the dead girls, all were still considered missing persons, though their cases had long grown cold, and only the personal assistant had been remotely close to Swain.

  Would Lacey’s code get her into any of his personal files? She spent about twenty minutes trying various search words and file names, but in the end was not surprised when her access was denied. She was also denied access to the personnel files of all eleven of K-J’s highest-level personnel; but she wasn’t denied access to Cameron Reinhardt’s record. She hesitated before opening it, knowing it was a breach of conduct. But he’ d read her file, so she figured turnabout was fair play. Besides, she wanted to see for herself how many of those checkered-past rumors were true, and—more importantly—if there was any official diagnosis of paranoia. Or PTSD.

  She was surprised to learn he’ d grown up in Tucson, graduated from Rincon High School with straight A’s, and had gotten the second highest score in the city the year he took the SATs. His PSAT scores were good enough to win him a National Merit Scholarship and full-ride scholarships to all the in-state schools. He was also offered partials at Stanford, UCLA, and Johns Hopkins.

  Instead he joined the Army, Special Forces. In fact, he didn’t even enter as an officer but as an enlisted man. He also married shortly before that, not even nineteen years old.

  She sighed and shook her head, relating far too well.

  His first deployment was a year in Kuwait, during which his daughter was born. After Kuwait came Afghanistan, about which little was said, which she found odd in light of the scary thoroughness of the rest of his dossier. It did note that his daughter died of Leigh’s Syndrome during his tour there and that he came home right before her death, staying stateside for a couple of months afterward.

  By the end of his four years in Afghanistan, he was discharged for medical reasons stemming from his service. The file gave no official details regarding symptoms, treatment, or duration of his condition, nor was anything said of the incident which caused it. The K-J investigator suspected PTSD, despite the fact Reinhardt’s military assignments were characterized as primarily administrative, and speculated that it could have been a strong contributing factor—along with the death of his daughter—to Reinhardt’s divorce shortly after his return to the States.

  A year later he finally capitalized on his stellar test scores, entered the U of A on the GI bill, and did spectacularly. Graduating in three years, he went on to postgraduate work and earned his PhD from Stanford at the age of thirty-three. Following prestigious postdoc positions—first at Cold Spring Harbor, then Johns Hopkins—he secured a fellowship at Stanford, where he was about to be discharged for insubordination when he quit and came to Kendall-Jakes. In all this there was no further mention of any kind of mental problems, including paranoia.

  The K-J evaluator noted that Reinhardt was highly intelligent, though a bit absentminded, perfectionistic, athletic, and was most likely to have engaged in covert/intelligence-type activities during his military service. He continued to practice regularly with handgun and rifle and had supplemented his running regimen with weight training and tae kwon do. The file also documented his sports history, his artistic tendencies—he dabbled in acrylic painting and pen-and-ink—all major medical procedures he’ d undergone, allergies, and health risks, including his possible post-traumatic stress disorder. It even noted his current vision prescription.

  His conversion to Christianity occurred sometime during his military service, languished following his discharge, then rebounded with “the sort of fanaticism one sees in those who have been most desperately injured, physically or emotionally,” said the evaluator. “Reinhardt claims affiliation with the Seaview Bible Church in Seaview, Virginia, which encourages almost daily worship, a practice he has been faithful to for over ten years. It will likely not be easy to sway him from his beliefs.”

  She frowned, her uneasiness edged with indignation. Reinhardt’s religious practices might be a bit odd, but was this the sort of thing that belonged in a company profile? Were not one’s religious beliefs out of bounds as an area an employer might seek to alter?

  In addition to his church’s street address, the file listed its Web site, which also seemed not right, even as she recalled that a similar designation must be in her own files. Reinhardt had read there that she had her own local assembly and apparently knew where it was.

  She typed in the Web address for Seaview Bible Church, and the Web site appeared, listing what turned out to be hundreds of lessons. Nor were they your usual readily accessible titles: The Shekinah Glory. The Circumcision Made Without Hands. The Angelic Conflict. Positional Truth and the Resurrection.

  Heavy theological studies. But then, Reinhardt was known for his intellectual ability, so why be surprised he would pursue his spiritual lif
e in the same sort of vein?

  She was just about to click on The Shekinah Glory when the lights flickered and the Web site vanished behind a screen of solid blue. She frowned, wondering first how the battery could have died in the brief time she’ d used it, and next if someone at K-J had deliberately jammed her wireless connection. That would have left her screen intact, though, not crashed the entire computer. Then again, with computers, who knew what might happen? It probably was the battery.

  She set the machine aside and was unfolding her legs when a soft knock sounded at her door. She froze. Who would be knocking on her door at—she glanced at the clock—one in the morning? Dr. Reinhardt? Jade would have her keycard, of course. . . .

  Another soft knock.

  She sat forward slowly. When the locking mechanism clicked and the latch turned slightly, she exploded upward in alarm and flung herself at the door, slamming the security dead-bolt lever into place. “Hello?”

  Silence followed her words. She’ d hoped to hear the staccato thump of running footfalls, but there was nothing. Whoever it was, he stood on the other side of the door, waiting for her.

  Maybe it was Reinhardt, coming at a time when he thought he’ d not be spotted by the walls that had eyes and ears. She grimaced at the creepy mental image that thought produced and realized his coming to her room now would be more suspicious than ever. No, it wouldn’t be Reinhardt.

  She swallowed and peered through the peephole, her fingers trembling as she pressed them against the wood. Outside, the narrow, dimly lit hallway stood empty. She peered for a long time, moving this way and that, wondering if maybe he had stealthily withdrawn out of the peephole’s range. There was a dark shape that could be either a man or a door. . . . Though the more she stared at it, the more she thought it was a door.

  Finally she pushed back and glanced around at the bed, where her laptop still sat with the blue screen. Surely she hadn’t imagined it all. . . . Her eyes strayed to her desk, where lay her bound proposal, the envelope of research abstracts and sleeved disk, and the pill bottle of Valium.

  “I didn’t imagine it,” she said firmly, looking again through the peephole. Nothing had changed. Whoever had been out there was gone. Still, it was some time before she could make herself open the door and confirm her suspicions. . . .

  The hall did, indeed, stand silent and empty.

  There was, however, a small royal blue tree frog positioned on the tile floor directly in front of her door’s threshold, looking up at her with bright black eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  New Eden

  Shortly after Zowan collapsed in the physical plant sector sometime Tuesday afternoon, he had been found by two workers who’d revived him and brought him to the infirmary. Certain the clinicians would bring out their toxin sensors to see if he’ d been contaminated in his wanderings, Zowan was surprised when they did not, and was further surprised when he was diagnosed as suffering only from dehydration, given fluids and a few crackers, and handed over to the Enforcers who’d shown up shortly after he’ d arrived.

  Surprised that Gaias wasn’t one of them but not about to complain, Zowan had freely admitted that Neos had grabbed him in the Star Garden when the lights went out and told them pretty much everything as it had happened, leaving out only the parts relative to the hidden crawl tube and his solitary trip to the surface. Since he’d been in the dark the whole time, it was no lie to claim he’ d had no idea where he was or how long he’d waited for Neos after being abandoned.

  His interrogators had given no sign they thought he might not be telling them everything, and when done had sent him back to the goat barn, where his youthful assistants had made a muddle of things during his absence. He’ d spent the next two days putting things to rights in the barn and continuing to train the eldest as his replacement, since in spite of everything—or maybe because of it—he was still being reassigned at week’s end. Rumor suggested it might be kitchen duty, janitorial services, or even the furnace room again.

  Now, Friday morning, a week since he’ d been exposed to the toxic wind surge in the goat ravine, and three days after his unshielded venture to the surface alone, he lay on his back atop the third tier of the three-man bunk he shared with Parthos and Erebos, and stared at the cement ceiling of their narrow sleeping cell arcing less than a foot above him. To his right, a sliver of access space separated him from the opposite wall, where cubbies for each occupant’s belongings burrowed into the stone. There were no windows, only a doorless entry beyond the head of the bunk bed, where a metal ladder dropped straight to the cell block’s central walkway—along with eleven other ladders from the block’s eleven other cells. Arranged six on a side in offset rows of three, the cells could accommodate thirty-six residents, though currently only held thirty.

  Zowan had awakened at the alarm with the other twenty-nine young men who shared the cell block with him, but had stayed in his bed as the others went down to the sanitation facility without him. He could hear their boisterous voices now amidst the rhythmic flush of the toilets, the sounds muted by distance and location, so that he lay in a well of relative silence. His cell’s one lamp, set flush in the center of the ceiling curve and governed by motion detectors, had dimmed after the departure of his cell mates, leaving him in a semidarkness that encouraged reflection.

  His not going down with the group began on Wednesday morning when he’d held back for fear of what he’ d find in the mirror—the bloodshot eyes, fiery red face, and bleeding gums that were early signs of toxin exposure. Only after they’d all gone off to breakfast did he go down to look at himself, amazed and relieved to find nothing amiss. He’d done the same on Thursday, and though he’d held back this morning for the same reason, his fear of toxin poisoning was fading.

  He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, not one of which had yet come loose. He fingered his hair, growing back in a fine stubble after being shaved off in the decontamination process, when it should have been falling out. His fingernails had not turned black, nor was he coughing up blood, and his appetite was fine.

  Though he’ d said nothing of his true concerns, the others had applied their own perceptions to his situation and were treating him gently, mindful of all the things that had been dumped on him this last week—the public condemnation, punishment, and death of his best friend; his exposure to the toxic wind surge in the goat grotto from which he was still recovering; and finally, Monday night’s blackout, the stress of which had allegedly triggered the delusion that he’ d been abducted by his dead brother, Neos, which in turn had sent him wandering through the darkness and chaos all the way to the physical plant before collapsing from dehydration.

  When he’ d first heard this official viewpoint of his blackout escapades he’ d understood immediately why the Enforcers had so easily accepted his story—they’d believed he’ d been hallucinating. The unnerving part was that Zowan couldn’t be sure he hadn’t been. Yes, everything about his time with Neos had seemed solid and real—except maybe for the parts where he’d heard Andros’s voice and followed the light of I Am—and he still mostly believed it had happened as he’ d experienced it. But he’ d also been assured by Enclave authorities that there was no moveable panel, nor any behind-the-scenes network of spy passages in and around the Star Garden. No one else had seen Neos, who was still supposed to be dead. Moreover, the fact that Zowan had shown no ill effects from his alleged trip to the surface could itself be the proof he had hallucinated it all, never having been contaminated in the first place. Perhaps restoration of the Enclave’s power and lights— so shocking after hours of darkness—had been translated by his then drug-tainted mind into a blast of light from the surface. . . .

  Perhaps.

  He could rationalize it both ways. The only way he’ d know for sure was to go back to the physical plant. If he couldn’t find the crawl tube in the pump room, he’ d know he had imagined it. But if he did find it and the upward passage it emptied into, then he could return t
o the surface to see if it was really as bad as he’ d first thought.

  He knew he’ d been bowled over by the brightness, the heat, the space, and the endless folds of barren land rolling into a blue haze of mountains. But over the last couple of days, bubbles of recall had floated in his awareness: there had been plants—not just the prickly tree he’d had to push through, but shrubs growing on the slope at his feet; if he’d seen mountains in the distance, the air couldn’t have been choked with dust; and yes, it had been hot, but not enough to sear his lungs or blister his face as he’ d been warned.

  He was pretty sure he could find his way to the hole in the pump room once he got to the physical plant. The problem was getting to the physical plant. He couldn’t just walk up there without a good reason, and waiting until after curfew would only make him look more suspicious. There was no way he could re-create Neos’s trek through the ductwork, and with no means of contacting his brother, he’ d run out of options.

  Frustrated, he gave up thinking about it, turned on his small reading lamp, and pulled his red hardback Edenite Catechism from the crack between his bunk and the wall. Opening it to the partial chapters of the Key Study he’ d glued into it, he read again about the one called the Lord God who had called the light out of darkness, formed the waters and the land and made a garden called Eden, where he’d placed the first man and woman. How He’ d given them the freedom to eat from all the trees save one, and how the talking serpent had deceived the woman into doing so with his subtle lies. “You really won’t die,” he’d told her. “God’s just afraid if you eat the fruit you’ll become like Him.” Despite the fact it made no sense for God to have put such a tree in the garden were that truly His fear, the woman had believed the deception, persuaded the man to follow her lead, and both had eaten. But instead of becoming like God, they’d only become aware of their nakedness and guilt.